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shintin · 6 months

Text

Forbidden Flames

↳ Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

One-shot

Summary: Satoru Gojo receives a letter, inviting him to a secluded cottage in the forest. Is it a trap by curse users or a haunting memory trying to scratch his wounds?

Or a story about how You and Satoru Gojo fucked after years.

Word count: +11 k.

Genre: explicit smut, romance, angst (Jujutsu Kaisen au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, reader-insert, no Y/N, post-breakup, soft Satoru Gojo, curse user reader, no death, too much fluff and kissing, cunnilingus, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex (c’mon! we all want this), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, tear licking, emotional trauma, emotional sex, no manga spoilers.

Notes: Hey there! I wrote this because Gege Akutami left an emotional mark on me. So, you know...

You can read the "Disclaimers" at the end.

Song Recommendation: Forbidden Flames Playlist

You can read my fics on AO3. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK.

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As the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the dense foliage, a mysterious man with stark white hair and a black blindfold stepped into the heart of the desolate wilderness. Satoru Gojo. The air hung heavy with the earthy scent of wet soil mingling with the musty aroma of decaying leaves, a reminder of the rainstorm that had visited the night before.

Every step he took got lost between the giggles and hisses of harmless curses hiding behind the trees with fear. The ground beneath his feet was carpeted with a mosaic of fallen leaves, their vibrant red, orange, and gold colors now muted and lifeless, as if drained of all vitality. Some of them, with still a breath to take, crunched beneath his weight, the sound of a heartrending dirge that reverberated through the desolation.

Tall, gnarled trees stood sentinel on either side, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers as if yearning to trap the unwary. Their towering forms were shrouded in darkness, their essence reduced to withered remnants. They whispered mournful laments in the wind, their voices carrying tales of forgotten sorrows.

The forest, once flourishing and thriving, now seemed like a tragic tableau frozen in time. The canopy above formed a suffocating barrier that only got disturbed by the man's ethereal presence. Wild ferns brushed against his legs, leaving behind a trace of dew upon his black trousers. The moist ground yielded beneath his every step as if reluctant to release its grip from his boots' footprints.

As he pressed further into the jungle, the darkness deepened, the path twisting and turning like a labyrinth of despair. The shadows grew longer, stretching out like grasping tendrils as if eager to ensnare his soul. The silence became oppressive, broken only by the occasional painful cry of a distant creature.

The cottage he had received its address stood as a solitary figure amidst the gloomy jungle, a crumbling monument to forgotten dreams. Its dilapidated walls whispered of lost hopes and shattered promises, its windows veiled with white curtains.

With his hands casually tucked into his pockets, he watched the scene before him, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. He thought it was a perfect place, a trap waiting to spring him. But who would be foolhardy enough to challenge the strongest of all times?

But wait!

He couldn't feel any cursed energy! His six eyes were dumb. There was only one who could blind their watchful gaze.

So, when Satoru Gojo approached the house, his heart quickened after a long time, anticipation and anxiety coursing through his veins. The stage was set, the elements conspiring to test his resolve. Would he emerge from this shadowed encounter unscathed, or would the jungle claim yet another victim, lost to the depths of its sorrow-laden clutches?

Satoru's focus fixated on the doorknob, a slight gulp revealing his hesitation. Taking a deep breath, he turned and pushed open the door. The scent of something sweet enveloped his nostrils, a reminiscent embrace that momentarily distracted his senses. However, as his eyes met the sight that awaited him, an unexpected revelation struck him with a force that resurfaced long-forgotten memories.

The inside resembled an aged hideout, with wooden walls and colorful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting warm, dappled patterns on the worn tatami floor. In the center of the room, a round table took its place, adorned with a vase of delicate forget-me-not flowers. Flanking the table were two chairs. And then, in the small kitchen stood the person who had left a void in his heart.

"You're late," your voice rang out in a cheerful tone, beckoning him forward. "Come inside. It's chilly out." With your back facing the door, you stood at the counter, appearing preoccupied with unwrapping something.

Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, Satoru's thoughts fragmented like scattered puzzle pieces, their intended purpose obscured by the inner turmoil. His hand held the doorknob tightly, trapped in a state of ambiguity, unable to release its grip.

Was this a mirage? How could it be that when you seemed precisely the way he had traced the outline of your body in the air while lying in bed, unable to sleep?

Yes, of course, there were nights when the desire to run his fingers through your hair filled his dreams. It was inevitable; your scent permeated everything, even riding on the breeze. There were days fatigue misled him, mistaking weariness for the embrace, he craved, only to discover the hollowness within his very bones. Your body was no longer curled around him, no comfort, and in your absence, each day left him icy, with lips turning blue and hands yearning for the warmth of your touch. He felt adrift in a blizzard, seeking the faint flicker of a fire you had extinguished.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Satoru? Think! Is this a manipulation technique?

And then, as if compelled by an unseen power, you turned your head, causing his heart to skip a beat—countless beats. You were undeniably real.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Seeing you was akin to being hit in the knee with a bullet. Satoru's legs nearly gave way, his heart raced, and his hands turned clammy, almost causing him to collapse. He had never felt this urge to tear off his blindfold before, as your departure had happened so abruptly that he didn't have a chance to see you. Although he had committed every detail of you to memory, but this…this… witnessing it in person was an entirely different experience.

He stepped back, feeling the heaviness of the past, necessitating some distance. The harsh truths loomed, threatening to engulf him as he wrestled with the profound effect of your presence. Yet, he couldn't tear his gaze away from you, his mind struggling to comprehend the unfolding situation. The reality was so surreal, making it difficult for him to grasp that it was really occurring.

"Why are you just standing there?" you asked, holding a pack of his beloved Kikufuku mochis in your hands. A radiant smile graced your face, illuminating the damp room with its brightness.

He couldn't give two fucks about mochis when your face had that effect on him, always causing him to lose track of where he was, who he was, and what he might say or do. And that familiar smile, it killed him a little. His gaze remained there, lingering for too long, his concealed eyes giving away his thoughts. "Why do you have that look on your face?" you asked, tilting your head with curiosity and stepping closer to him.

As you stood before him, the closeness amplified the wave of emotions within him. Joy and disbelief raced through his veins. The fragrance that surrounded you, so hauntingly acquainted, sparked a rush of nostalgia.

Satoru Gojo was born with a specific purpose, a set of perfect eyes, and the weight of his lineage on his shoulders. He was reserved and calculated. When he mastered the Limitless technique, he concluded that infinite solitude was the only way to survive. Because how he could describe the experience of seeing everything, for when you see everything, you see nothing. An excess of color turns into pure black, an infinite void.

Yes, he was born with those six eyes. People never let him forget. But to you, his eyes were simply eyes. He recalled the first time you teased him about them and how his heart caught in his chest because he had never seen someone as vibrant and colorful as you.

It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it was something like that. The first time he saw you, he felt it. An ache. Like a little electric burn. He felt his life changed.

Gradually, his loneliness began to dissipate. He found a place for himself in this chaotic world. With you, he could laugh, cry, joke around, and even be a brat. It was something no one could genuinely grasp—the feeling of finally being alive as a person. Before you, he felt he hadn't truly existed, merely scattered atoms in an indifferent universe following a predetermined path. But you changed everything. You dismantled and rebuilt him anew. You molded him, nurtured him, and despite him being the strongest, you kept him safe.

Without a noble title or material wealth, you were everything that went against the expectations of the Clan Elders. Yet, you stood faithfully by his side, precisely where he believed you belonged. Or at least, that's what he presumed.

Then, on that fateful day, the day he desperately wished was nothing more than a dreadful nightmare, reality unfolded before him. How could it be real? He stood there, confronted by the lifeless bodies of two Higher Ups and their protectors, with you covered in their blood. It was inconceivable. He couldn't accept that you were responsible for such a gruesome scene. Yet, you showed no remorse. You firmly believed it was the only solution, fed up with their destructive actions that brought ruin upon sorcerers deemed insignificant. You had accepted the notion that a problem without a remedy should be eradicated like an unwelcome weed.

On that day, he considered shaking your shoulders and demanding that you deny it all. He even contemplated going against everyone because what was the fucking point of wielding such power if he couldn't safeguard the woman he loved? The thought of quitting and escaping with you crossed his mind, too. He was willing to sacrifice everything: power, wealth, status, even his own life. However, you didn't desire any of those things.

His friend, Suguru Geto, once posed a question: Was he Satoru Gojo because he was the strongest, or was he the strongest because he was Satoru Gojo? At that time, he had no answer. A 17-year-old couldn't possibly find a response to such a profound question. However, when you entered his life, everything changed. Being the strongest lost its significance. He was just Satoru Gojo, and he was who he was because you loved him. His existence held meaning because you touched his life. He saw because he needed to gaze upon you. He spoke because he longed to hear your voice.

And then, similar to his best friend, after causing a bloodbath, you also walked out of his life. Yet, this time, it wasn't solely loneliness that engulfed him. It felt like one of his lungs had been taken away, and he heavied without you by his side through each passing moment. He became nothing once more. There was a hole in his life where you used to fit perfectly, and no matter what he did to try and fill it, nothing worked.

It was a strange anguish, a pain he never anticipated or conceived of. It consumed him from within, setting him ablaze with a profound emptiness. Then, defying the assumption that someone as formidable as him could experience sorrow, he was burdened with the task of erasing you. It was as if you were deemed nothing more than a blemish, a dishonor.

"What... what look?" he struggled to say, his voice tinged with a desperate yearning. Regret lingered in his tone as his words fell short. With a touch of vulnerability, he shut his eyes beneath the comforting confines of his blindfold, seeking refuge in the veil of darkness. Taking a deep breath, he consciously filled his lungs, using them as an anchor amidst the swirling storm of sensations enveloping him.

"That look," you remarked, your voice carrying a mischievous tone that floated in the atmosphere. "It's as if you don't trust me," you added teasingly. A few playful strands of hair escaped their intended position and delicately framed your face, casting a bewitching allure. An irresistible urge welled within him, compelling him to extend his hand and tuck those strands behind your ear—stupid muscle memory. However, he restrained himself, his hand suspended mid-air, resolute in resisting the magnetic pull of his desires.

"Why did you invite me here?" Satoru voiced, his grip on the doorknob loosening as the impact of reality settled upon him. The initial shock transformed into a lucid understanding. He wasn't oblivious. He knew that you were aware of his assignment to eliminate you. So, why? Was it because you recognized your unstoppable nature? Was it because you had realized that the blackhole existed within you, devouring everything you once held dear unless someone intervened?

"You could have refused to come, yet here you are," you whimsically remarked, a devilish glint in your eyes as you punctuated your words with a wink. You strolled over to the weathered table and set the pocket upon its aged surface.

"Cut it out!" Satoru snapped, his frustration mounting. "You know, I had no idea it was you!" His heart thumped in his chest, urging his feet to move forward, even as his mind screamed at him to flee. A sense of unease gripped him, acknowledging the futility of engaging in a battle he felt ill-prepared to win.

You turned towards him, a hint of a smile gracing your lips as your hands stayed concealed behind your back. Leaning against the chair, you arched an eyebrow, your eyes locked on him. "I have a feeling you knew it was me as soon as you arrived at the house," you declared, a jovial tone lacing your words. "After all, I'm the only one capable of concealing my cursed energy from you."

"We both know that I shouldn't be here. I—" Satoru's sentence dissolved, left unfinished, as your hand reached out, bridging the gap between you with a gentle touch. Infinity never worked with you. Even the very essence of the cursed energy recognized that you posed no threat to him. Furthermore, he would gladly provide you with any justification to touch him.

Lost in his reverie, Satoru suddenly became acutely aware of your presence. The magnitude of his longing and the depth of his yearning surged within him. In that instant, he recognized the immense emptiness you had left and how much he had missed you. Emotions swirled together, blending past and present, uncertainty and desire, in a delicate dance that would shape your fates.

"Why are you here, then?" you inquired, and his eyes met yours, reflecting the same yearning that dwelled in his heart. "Tell me, did you come in to kill me?" With a deliberate movement, you folded his fingers, molding them into the shape he would use to unleash his hollow purple. Bringing his hand close to your heart, you held it there. Despite the gravity of the situation, a soft smile adorned your lips.

He couldn't do this.

Taken aback by your unexpected gesture, Satoru swiftly withdrew his hand from your grasp. Anger and heartbreak swirled within him, entwining in a tumultuous storm. The realization hit him like a relentless wave, crashing against the shores of his consciousness. How had you drifted so far apart? When had the divergence between your paths become so profound that he failed to notice? The weight of your choice, to embrace the life of a curse user, to tread a road stained with blood, bore down upon him with a heavy burden. The pain on his face mirrored the fracture within his heart, a sense of loss mingling with a flicker of betrayal.

He wished he could say something. He wished he could start yelling, expressing all the thoughts and desires he had harbored since then—whether shouting, pouring out his heart, or expressing frustration. However, he adhered to the predetermined script you anticipated because he loved you unconditionally, unable to deny you anything.

"I didn't think so," you murmured, closing the gap between you, pressing your lips against his in a way that effortlessly eroded his resistance.

You tilted his face down, your hand caught somewhere behind his neck and the base of his jaw, and you kissed him softly and slowly, heat filling his blood with dangerous speed.

One of his hands naturally found its way to the back of your waist, holding you with a gentle yet possessive grasp, while the other securely clasped your arm, pulling you closer.

He felt incredible against you, your bodies fitting perfectly. Nothing ever came easier than kissing you. Every thought and worry wicked away, replaced by the feel of his mouth against your skin, his hand claiming your body.

In that moment, his eyes, his legacy, his clan's name, and the orders given about you faded away. This was his true purpose.

As your tongues entwined, a surge of electricity coursed through his veins, his body responding to the intoxicating enchantment of your touch. Your fingers traced the outline of his blindfold while others clung to his uniform as if he were your sole fulcrum in a world spinning out of control. Your back arched, and he embraced you tighter, his grip firm yet tender, his long fingers leaving an indelible mark upon your skin.

Breathless, as if you had just completed a marathon, you reluctantly pulled back from the heated exchange. Drawing him nearer, he yielded willingly, allowing you to guide him wherever you desired because wherever you led was where he believed to be his destination.

"Take this off," you beseeched, desperation and sorrow permeating your words as your forefinger lifted his blindfold and let it fall to the floor. His tousled hair cascaded softly over his forehead, unable to hide the azure eyes that had once captivated your heart.

In his eyes, tragedy and beauty could be seen, a stoicism that wouldn't be shaken, and childlike joy that couldn't help but flow.

He swallowed, and you shifted your hand to his ear, lightly grazing his earlobe with your pinkie before tracing down his jawline. There was no rejection, yet no clear confirmation either. Your hand brushed against his undercut as you continued.

"There you are," you whispered, your voice laden with kindness. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, a solitary droplet making its way down your cheek as you gently cradled his face in your hands. He looked down at you, counting each tear on your lovely cheeks.

He clasped your hand, kissing your palm before guiding it to rest upon his heart. It was the same foolish heart, steadfastly beating for you, never having faltered. Through teary eyes, you looked at him, and he remained struck by the sheer beauty that not even your tears could diminish.

As your bottom lip quivered beneath his touch, quickly, with a light sweep of his hand, he wiped away the tears that stained your stunning eyes. You missed him too, didn't you? Was it painful for you, too? Silly girl! You couldn't maintain your carefully constructed facades for more than ten minutes when it came to him.

The realization washed over him, dispelling any remaining doubts.

Without a second thought, he effortlessly lifted you, your legs encircling his waist while your hands secured around his neck. Engrossed in a fervent kiss, both of you surrendered to the moment as he clasped your back firmly, pulling you closer to himself, relishing the flavor of your lips.

Letting go wasn't an option when every fiber of his being had missed you.

Determined and resolute, he carried you out to a room he presumed to be the bedroom, even though it didn't matter whether there was a bed or a simple mattress; what mattered was the way your touch kindled a blazing fire within him, and he had no intention of bearing that flame alone.

Keeping you securely nestled in his arms, he forcefully kicked open the door and lowered you onto the welcoming comfort of the bed. The urgency to discard his black jacket left no room for delay. At the same time, your nimble hands deftly undid the buckle of your pants, but before you could remove them entirely, his hands moved with an instinctual hunger, swiftly stripping you of the garment and casting it aside as if propelled by an untamed fervor. The passion between you burned fiercely, filling the room with an all-encompassing energy that eclipsed any other thoughts or worries.

With a quick movement, he discarded his black t-shirt, revealing the well-defined curves of his chest that shimmered with a touch of sweat. His desire was tangible, his lust unmistakable as he straddled between your parted legs, his hands grasping your nape.

The taste of his lips met yours, initiating a sequence of fervent kisses that persisted without pause, each delving deeper than the last. The world around you lost its significance as your breaths synchronized in rhythm, the heat between your bodies escalating.

In the meantime, your hands moved swiftly, deftly unbuttoning your shirt.

As his lips briefly separated from yours, he uttered a whispered confession. "I hate how bad I want you," he admitted, his voice carrying a raw sincerity. However, before you could reply, his attention shifted to your neck, where his teeth gently grazed your sensitive flesh, leaving behind tracks of tantalizing nibbles and passionate kisses.

You couldn't help but release a gasp as pleasure and a twinge of pain electrified your senses, sending delightful shivers coursing down your spine. In the throes of passion, your hand curled into a fistful of his hair, a silent request for more. Call it masochist, but he loved it when you did this. He tenderly pulled at your hair in response, tilting your head back ever so slightly, baring more of your vulnerable neck to his hungry mouth.

Then, you did what came naturally to you. With a voice brimming with longing and ecstasy, you spoke his name, "Satoru," the sound slipping from your lips like a hushed prayer.

His actions came to an abrupt pause. His lips separated from your skin, and his grasp on your hair loosened as if a sudden realization had hit him like a splash of icy water. It was ironic how you still possessed this power over him, a power that could both thrill and unsettle him.

The sound of his name on your lips had become something he treasured, and damn it, he had missed hearing it again. Just like every fucking tiny thing he had missed about you.

With a sudden movement, he withdrew his head from the crook of your neck and brought his forehead close to yours. His hands found solace in brushing back strands of your hair with comforting strokes.

He shut his eyes, and in a whisper, his voice carried a hint of fragility, a rawness that tugged at your heartstrings. "Say it again," he pleaded, his voice breaking under the pressure of unexpressed sentiments. It was as if that simple word held immense significance, a lifeline to his heart that he desperately craved.

Without hesitation, you took a steadying breath, the name forming on your lips.

"Satoru."

"S-Say it kinder."

"Satoru."

"Say it slower."

"Satoru."

"Say it gentler."

"Satoru."

"Say it louder."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you wanna tell me you miss me."

"Satoru…"

"Say it as if you're annoyed that I eat so many sweets."

"Satoru!"

"Is this why you made the trip to Sendai just to get me those mochis?"

…

"Say it."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you ever cared, spared a single thought for me."

"SATORU."

"Say it as if when you lied in bed, you remembered something I once said."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if it hurt you too when someone said my name with yours."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if every time a door opened, you too expected me to walk out of it, that every time you cooked, you hummed my favorite songs."

"S-Satoru…"

"Say it as if you need me."

"Satoru."

"Say it again."

"Satoru."

"Again."

"…Satoru."

"Say it as if you want to tell me something important."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you won't stay."

"Toru."

"No. Not like this."

"Satoru?"

"Please."

"Satoru."

"Say it as if you want me to know you're gonna run away again."

"Satoru…"

"Huh. Better. Now say it as if you wanna tell that you slept badly without me, that you only dreamed of me, and in the morning, you woke up exhausted without having any desire to live."

"Satoru."

"You don't have a line, do you? No remorse. No regret. Not even a single thought for the man you left behind like a walking ghost. And you won't ever stop."

"Satoru."

"Once you were gone, they gathered all your belongings as evidence. See this hair tie on my wrist?" He lifted his hand. "This and your sweatshirt, which no longer carries your scent, are the only things I have left. Say it as if you still have that shirt of mine."

…

"Say it!"

"Sa-to-ru."

"Did you know that I actually thought if I messed myself up, went all self-destructive, and threw a massive tantrum, you'd come back? I mean, why should I bother taking care of myself? That was supposed to be your job, right?"

"Sa…toru."

"Oh, by the way, I completely wrecked that bench on the hill where you used to sit. And then I went ahead and destroyed the whole damn place, then just sat right there amidst the wreckage. I mean, why should I even give a damn when you stopped caring about me? Say it as if you get where I'm coming from."

"Satoru…"

"Yet you know what's funny? Ask me if I still love you like the first day?"

"Satoru?"

"It can't be just me, right? You can't be done with me. Tell me you love me."

…

"Okay. It's—"

"Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru…"

Everything he thought he knew flew right out the window. He had noticed the tremor in your breath and the shake in your voice, but the desperate murmurs of his name caused his eyes to flutter open. Your face was marked with the faint traces of tears, glistening in the light.

You blinked, revealing a spectrum of sadness and beauty unlike anything he'd seen before. The ability to convey so much with just a glance caught him entirely off guard.

Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips against the curve of your cheeks, softly caressing them. Nuzzling his nose against your skin, he lovingly kissed away the salty tears, his tongue delicately brushing your face with a soothing touch. Each tender movement provided a comforting solace during your emotional moment.

As he lovingly attended to your tears, you reached behind your back and unclasped your bra. He paused, eyes widening in surprise. However, before any words could escape, you leaned in and kissed him. In that single gesture, you conveyed your desires, and he, in turn, found his answer within the depths of that passionate kiss.

As soon as his palms glided over your smooth skin, delicately capturing your erect nipple between his fingers, the bra was tossed somewhere amidst the bedding.

"Lie back," Satoru instructed. He then crawled onto you, your bare chests meeting. He supported himself with his arms on either side of your head to ensure he didn't crush you under his weight.

He positioned himself atop you, overwhelmed by the yearning that had built up in your absence. The thirst to have you beneath him had grown insurmountable. He had craved the sight of your body begging him to take you, the undeniable desire radiating from you.

He locked eyes with you, keeping you in his gaze as he absorbed every aspect of your beauty. The polished planes of your face shimmered with fresh tears, adding a new layer to the bliss. Your eyes were rimmed with redness, solely for him, and this sight rendered him speechless.

Because what if he accidentally stumbled upon the wrong words, and the magic vanished, snatching you away once more, leaving him with nothing but a pumpkin carriage and a single pair of shoes?

He didn't want his arms to be deprived of your warmth. Your touch. Your lips. God, your lips. Your mouth on his neck. Your body wrapped around his. He couldn't bear losing you again, and the realization was like a pendulum the size of the moon. It wouldn't stop slamming into him.

Blinking his white lashes, he swallowed back the fear building in his throat.

What an irony!

The strongest wasn't fearless.

With his knee between your thighs and his body pressing closer, he realized he was paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in his lungs.

"When we were together, I became you," he stated. "You became the reflection I saw in the mirror, and I liked it more. So, I stopped being myself. It was fine because I had you. But when you left, I lost myself along with you."

"Satoru," you called, your voice soft, so soft. He wasn't unfamiliar with the touch of women, but yours were gentler, yet deadlier than them all. "I'm sorry for bringing us to this point." You drew his form closer. The resonating beats of your heart were audible, pulsing deeply within your chest. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Your words unleashed a tumult of feelings within him. Goddammit. He wasn't lost before he met you, but he found himself after having you, only to get lost more after losing you.

Satoru's tears stung as they fell backward down his throat, burning as they went. "Kiss me, and I'll forget everything," he uttered.

And you complied. You kissed him as if swimming through rivers of honey, as if being dipped in pure gold, like diving into an ocean of bliss, and he didn't realize you two were drowning because he was too caught up in the current to notice. Nothing held significance anymore—neither rules, nor the room, nor even the entire fucking Jujutsu society.

All that mattered was this.

This.

This very moment. These lips. This delicate body pressed against his, and these warm hands always discovering new ways to hold his heart.

Oh, My!

He wanted so much more of you. He wanted every part of you. And he kissed you back. Like a mild breeze. Like cherry blossoms. Like a blue spring.

Again.

Satoru drew away. It remained a secret, but piecing himself back together hurt just as much as falling apart. It felt like an ache that needed to be soothed.

You were the cure, so his finger lightly grazed the corner of your mouth, tracing its shape, curves, and subtle crevices. As he kissed the corner of your eyebrow, he whispered your name. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear, causing a slight squirm in your body. He planted a kiss on your neck, just beneath your earlobe, and you tilted your head, inviting him in. Perhaps you resisted the urge to plead for more, for a faster pace.

You used to love this, remember?

His lips moved down the expanse of your neck, delicately tracing the sensitive skin of your collarbones. Not content to be passive, your hands ran down his back, roaming over his broad shoulders, pressing into his back dimples, and clutching his hips. With a handful of his hair, you pulled him closer, leaving small kisses on his neck, arms, and chest.

It was incredible. Being with you, touching you, having you like this. The adrenaline rush was so powerful and euphoric that it made everything feel within reach.

He muttered your name, his lips mouthing the letters, barely speaking.

He pressed his lips against your upper lip.

He ran his tongue along your lower lip.

He planted kisses beneath your chin, on the tip of your nose, along your forehead, temples, and cheeks across your jawline. Then he moved to your neck, behind your ears, and the space between your breasts. Delicately, he nibbled on your sensitive nipples, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to your belly button until his entire form moved down your figure, disappearing as he shifted downward, and suddenly, his chest was hovering above your hips.

As his lips descended towards the hem of your underwear, he lifted his head right before crossing that boundary, locking eyes with you. His gaze carried a mix of intense reverence and a silent question.

You met his gaze, the unspoken understanding passing between you. Your nod conveyed an affirmation, a wordless permission to continue. With your approval, he lowered his head once again. Before you knew it, he skillfully used his teeth to remove that small piece of fabric while the captivating scent drove him wild with desire.

Having removed your panties, his lips continued exploring, leaving heated kisses and lingering caresses from your toes to your thighs. Firmly holding your calves, he parted your legs, creating just enough space for his head to fit between them.

Your thighs were lifted, obscuring him from your sight. All you could see was the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Eventually, even that view vanished as his lips closed around your clit, causing your head to fall back and muffled moans to escape your lips.

Satoru's large hands trailed down and up your exposed upper thighs and ribs, tightly gripping your hips to keep you in place. He delighted in how you squirmed each time his hair brushed against your groin, until his tongue slipped into your hole, and the taste of you made fireworks explode in the back of his head.

With his right hand pressed against your stomach, his tongue danced and teased, evoking ecstatic cries from your lips. His mouth explored the known territories you had never witnessed, yet he remembered them intimately.

While fully engrossed in eating you, he suddenly and intentionally slipped his middle finger inside, and his mouth fervently sought to suck the soul out of your essence as if seeking retribution for all the times he had jerked off thinking about you creaming around his shaft. That's why he left you on the precipice of climax, working his way up your body. Satoru was never cruel enough to deny you the release you craved, so his fingers remained ready.

With an eagerness to witness the pleasure etched across your face, he slowly ascended your body, his touch kindling a burning anticipation within you. Continuing his exploration, his adept fingers navigated their way to your most intimate region, gently pressing against the delicate entrance.

"Let me know if it hurts, alright?" he whispered, his nose caressing the skin of your stomach, placing sporadic kisses around your breasts and collarbones to alleviate any tension. His disheveled hair and moist lips were evidence of the indulgence in your sweet taste.

"Take it easy— ahhh!"

He wore a satisfied smile as two of his large fingers effortlessly slid into your slit. Your nails dug into the sheets, whimpers escaping your lips as his hand rhythmically moved up and down within your tight walls.

Your mouth opened in a soundless moan, and he peppered you with kisses all around. Tears glistened in your eyes, and tiny strands of hair clung to your sweaty forehead. When his thumb rubbed, and the fingers hit all the right spots, your throat wailed in frustration.

You firmly grasped his free arm and tugged him towards you, bringing him closer until he was on top of you. You might have turned into a cold-blooded curse user, left dead bodies behind, or broken his heart apart, but you were still the same girl beneath him. The girl who would laugh with joy and steal his treats. The girl who would fiercely fight by his side and protect him. The girl who would easily surrender and moan in his ear.

He pressed his lips against yours, a reminder of the residual sweetness on his tongue. Just like in the old days, a soft moan escaped your lips as soon as you felt your own taste. If this gesture could convince you to stay with him, why not revel in it? He willingly opened his lips, inviting you to delve deeper, your tongues intertwining and brushing against his teeth.

The stinging bitterness of the past was long gone. He had forgotten everything. Although there was something he knew he shouldn't forget, he couldn't recall why or what it was. With his hard length suffering in his boxers and his digits thrusting backward and forward, paying attention to anything else was hard.

Seeing your desperation for his touch proved to be his downfall. He could die from this, he decided. From wanting you, from the pleasure of being with you.

He wore a smile as you locked eyes and reciprocated with your smile. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin flushed with heat. With his other hand, he held your head steady while your hands clutched his neck, your palms gliding over the area just above his neckline, and your fingertips tenaciously pressing against his undercut.

"Sato..." you managed to utter, your voice quivering with pleasure as the orgasm washed over you, consuming your senses. Waves of euphoria rippled across your body, inducing uncontrollable tremors. Amidst your release, a single tear broke free, tracing a glistening path down your cheek, much like the cascade of emotions that flowed within you.

While he remained atop you, his voice reached your ears, his lips near your earlobe. "Can you sit up?" he whispered, burying his face in the curve of your neck, allowing your ragged breaths to brush against his shoulder.

Still struggling to catch your breath, you managed to mumble, "Yeah, but..." However, before you could complete your sentence, the bedding beneath you shifted as Satoru pulled you into his arms, clutching you tight.

He exhaled and looked at you, but this time, there were stories in his eyes, thoughts, whispers, and feelings of things he had never told you. He looked like he was hanging on his sanity by a fraying thread—you.

He touched your flushed cheeks as if uncertain of your tangible presence. His four fingers caressed the side of your face with tenderness before sliding behind your neck, caught in that in-between spot below your ear, and his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, then grazing your bottom lip.

He pondered the countless things your lips had done. They had touched, kissed, and pressed against sensitive areas of his skin. They had spoken lies and made promises, and the words they had formed, the shapes and sounds they had shaped, he yearned for them all.

Satoru inched closer, cradling you like you were made of precious crystals. Holding you and looking at his own hands as if he couldn't believe you were real and truly there.

"I'm right here, baby. Look at me," you whispered, grasping his hands and kissing them.

All six of his eyes obeyed and stared at you. Gone was the curse user targeting Higher Ups. This woman before him had never done anything wrong. You were perfect and kind, untouched by the horrors of death.

He took hold of your hands and pressed your palms against his face, reclaiming the tears you had bestowed upon him. With an eternity of love, he whispered your name in the softest of whispers.

What if this was a dream?

He shook, shuddered, splintered into teardrops, and you embraced him like no one had before. Overwhelmed by the intensity, he struggled to contain himself, but seeing you cling to him as you might never let go stirred something within him. It was a heady sensation, knowing that you were there, caring for him, desiring him, needing him in this way. It made him believe that this was indeed real.

Gently, you stroked his silvery locks of hair and placed a kiss on his forehead. Gradually, your arms became the arms around his neck; your lips became the lips pressed against his, your body the warmth he felt. Funny how the moment he felt your touch, it burned a hole right through his head and pulled all his thoughts out.

He wasn't even breathing, but he was alive, and he was kissing you. Deeply, desperately. His hands fervently caressed the small of your back as he lifted you onto his lap, and instinctively, your legs wrapped around his hips.

Then, it was your turn to reciprocate. You planted kisses all over him—his cheeks, eyelids, chin, the tip of his nose, and the space between his eyebrows. You trailed along his forehead and traced his jawline, covering every inch of his face. These kisses conveyed more than words ever could.

And you took your time.

As your mouth moved down his neck, he let out a gasp. It was a moment to relish. Your tongue continued to worship the hills and valleys of his well-defined arms, tracing the graceful curves of his collarbones. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin, you savored his taste. Your hands explored his abs, tracing along his navel and the delicate trails of hair beneath.

He broke apart with your small licks here and there, breathing hard, and stared at you dumbfounded. His mind remained hazy, unable to fully comprehend how your fingers toyed with the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Tilting your head to a side, you pressed your lips against his again, seeking him with a burning need, a new kind of desperation. Your other hand threaded in his hair, your lips so soft, so urgent against his, like fire and cinnamon exploding in his mouth.

Satoru nibbled your bottom lip in a flash before pulling back slightly. You were flooding his body with so much heat and desire. You parted your lips to sigh in his mouth, and that slight sound of pleasure drove him to the edge of madness.

Just as he was about to bring his mouth to your nipples, your hand suddenly slipped into his underwear and encircled his erectness pressing against your groin.

Oh.

Well.

He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan. Oh God! He had fucking missed you holding his member in your palm. But you didn't stop at that. He gasped as you began to rub the tip with your thumb. His body ached everywhere as he tasted the colors and sounds that existed nowhere else. Your forehead rested against his chin as you continued to stroke his hardness up and down beneath his boxers. You were untamed, cruel, yet remarkably gentle.

"Take it off, Satoru," you whispered in his ear, your breath ragged. "I want you in me. Deep. Right. Now. Please."

He was beyond the reach of rational thoughts. Beyond words, beyond comprehension. The world was beyond understanding because nothing could ever compare with this. Nothing could ever capture the way he was feeling right now. He was left with only this very moment: You on his lap, your warmth against his hands, and your lustful eyes fixed upon him, making him absolutely insane.

Satoru held onto your waist with a firm grip, lifting you slightly, and in the blink of an eye, his briefs glided down his long legs until their whereabouts became irrelevant in the heat of the moment.

The wetness between your thighs was no longer a hidden secret, just as his hardness was revealed when you surrounded each other everywhere.

He watched as you reached down and guided his erection against your slippery entrance, making a few strokes to ensure the perfect alignment. His racing pulse could probably be felt in your palm and soon inside you.

Using both hands, he gripped your hips and pulled you downward, drawing you closer to him. A gasp escaped your lips as he entered you, always surprised about his size. He intended to allow you time to adjust, but you fervently clung to his neck, hitching your legs around his waist, urging him to penetrate you completely. A scream escaped your lips as you bit into his shoulder blade, but he remained composed, relishing the sensation of stretching you. He cherished the feeling of your inner walls squeezing him and the weight of your body against his balls. To be honest, he would stay like this forever.

Feeling your readiness, his hold tightened, and he started moving your body up and down. You cried out as you nestled your cheek into the curve of his neck, and he felt like dying and somehow being brought back to life in the exact moment, in the same breath.

Fuck! You were full of him.

He raised your thighs, stifling a groan that threatened to rip his throat as your lips met his. It left him bewildered, pondering why he hadn't perished, burst into flames, or snapped in half.

The room was consumed by silence, punctuated only by the sound of your heavy breaths. Your chests pressed against each other, colliding with the rhythm of your pulses.

As he sensed your arms tightening around him, he reciprocated with heightened strength, lifting and thrusting you with an intensity that transcended the bounds of restraint. Each movement struck the place he knew too well.

His teeth captured your bottom lip, eliciting a momentary jolt of pleasure. Your nails pressed into his shoulder as his fingers ran through your hair, pulling you nearer, immersing you in the fervent abyss of his mouth. The taste of you was a captivating fusion of sweetness and passion, an intoxicating blend that left both of you craving for more.

He kept trying to say your name, but he found himself unable even to catch his breath, let alone speak a single word.

The pace increased slightly; each thrust was hard, deliberate, wringing gasps, whimpers, and long, rolling moans from you.

Your eyes tingled with tears, falling fast down and traveling quietly down your cheeks. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses in your mouth, touching your tongue and the saliva within. It was as if he had discovered an oasis in the vast expanse of a desert, gazing at you with eyes ablaze like fire reflected in water.

"I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice fragile and uneven. His lips covered yours in a tender kiss. He kissed you and tasted your tears, the lasting essence of pleasure in your mouth. He kissed you and kissed you until time toppled over, and your heads spun into a blissful oblivion.

Your head rested against his, and as you delicately nipped at his earlobe, he felt stripped down to his very core, just as he had unraveled you from within. Your sweet little tongue was frantic when you whispered, "I'm yours to love."

Something inside him melted. Hearing your words, he held still for moments, sucking in the air because he felt almost dizzy with satisfaction, running his hands over your thighs.

You. You belonged to him. You didn't erase the pain you had caused. You didn't fix everything you'd broken, but that wasn't what he needed anyway. All he needed was you, and with you, everything would be alright.

He firmly grasped your buttocks, burying his face against your shoulder as he sped up. He was shattered to pieces, but with you, he got put back together differently, better, and more himself than he ever could have been. Gritting his teeth, he succumbed to the impending climax. His hands glided along your back as you shuddered, your inner walls pulsating around him so hard that he couldn't hold back his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice, until everything around you both turned to a world of vibrant colors and radiant light, where the sun shone, oceans sparkled, and Sakura trees bloomed.

Both of you were lying on a pillow, breathless and sweaty. Satoru's face was buried in the crook of your neck.

Your hand had delicately weaved its way into his hair, fingers stroking the silky strands as you both sought to ground yourself in the aftermath of your orgasms.

You rested your cheek against his head, your voice carrying a hint of breathlessness as you began to speak. "How is Shoko doing?

"She's probably smoking even more now," he murmured, his lips grazing against your shoulder as he pulled you closer. Despite the physical closeness, a deep ache echoed within him, yearning for an even deeper connection that felt just beyond his grasp. The desire to merge both body and soul, to be completely intertwined with you, was tangible in his touch.

His arms tightened around you as if attempting to bridge an unseen gap that couldn't be seen, but he could feel it. Each hug and touch was an attempt to mend the distance that pained him. The depth of his need reverberated through his being. It was visible in the depths of his eyes. It sucked to be this close yet feel so far from someone. But he didn't want to worry. As long as you were together, he believed nothing terrible could happen.

"Why probably so?" you asked, your curiosity piqued as you turned your head towards him. Your lips touched his soft, silky white hair. "Is it because of the numerous missions you're taking?"

"You seem to know every detail of my life," he remarked, turning his head towards you, the closeness so intimate that your noses nearly touched. His hand found its way to your arm, his finger tracing a path down its length, lost in contemplation.

"I've always kept tabs on you. I'm not even ashamed of it," you declared, your attention fixed on his ocean-blue eyes.

He let out a shaky sigh. "There's no longer a reason for me to stay in Tokyo like I used to," he whispered, his voice hinting at wistfulness. The words floated in the air, pregnant with unspoken meanings. As he locked eyes with you, his gaze transformed into a sea of emotions, reflecting a profound depth of feelings that transcended mere words.

"What about your students?"

"They're doing well even without me," Satoru said, his voice filled with fondness and melancholy. As his hand gracefully slid into your hair, he tucked back the strands that obscured your face, revealing the beauty of your features.

His thumb stroked your cheek in a soothing gesture. "Megumi came close to expanding his domain," Satoru continued, his voice filled with a hint of excitement. "Yuji would be thrilled to—"

"No, Satoru!" you interjected, your voice resolute. Your firm interruption halted his sentence as your face displayed a frown, your eyebrows furrowing with determination. "The answer is no!"

Satoru's hand dropped weakly onto the sheets, his fingers losing their previous touch. When his gaze met yours, a deep sadness flooded his eyes, turning the serene ocean within them into a turbulent storm.

He struggled to find the right words to make his case but couldn't resist trying to reason with you. "Come back with me. I have enough power and privilege to protect you—"

"I don't want your protection!" you exclaimed, your voice carrying a sharp edge that cut through his being. The words resounded with a harshness reminiscent of the day you decided to leave, which had left an indelible mark on both of you. It was a day that Satoru had always blamed himself for, haunted by the belief that he had failed to notice you drifting away.

His eyes, filled with sorrow, locked onto yours, silently begging for understanding as he summoned the bravery to express his deepest desires. "Don't you want a life with me?" he questioned, his voice brimming with the dreams and aspirations he had envisioned for both of you. "What about living in a house with blue shutters, windows overlooking the ocean, and—"

"How are you still such a wide-eyed, dreamy little boy, Satoru?" you remarked, your voice tinged with tenderness and sadness. As you spoke, your hand extended, interlocking your fingers with his. "Stop living in a fantasy world," you urged. The words pleaded for him to accept reality and let go of dreams no longer aligned with his chosen path. "Even if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn't want to," you continued. "The Jujutsu society is a broken bone that won't set right, and no matter how much you try to mend it, it won't work. I started hunting Higher Ups because I have a purpose. I can't be by your side."

As you raised your head, a glimmer of compassion and understanding shimmered in your eyes. The pain etched on Satoru's face was evident to you. In a gentle tone, you encouraged him, saying, "We've made different choices. Don't judge me because I never questioned why you didn't follow me. Our approaches may differ, but we share the same dream of creating a better world. So, I don't regret leaving, but if there's anything I regret, it's not cherishing every moment I had with you. But I'm doing it right this time. I'm memorizing every detail, so I have something to hold onto."

Your words bounced around in the fog of his head, blurring his senses, misting his eyes, and muddling his logic. In his bones, there was just ice. His entire being wanted to vomit. Reality slapped him in the face, punched him in the jaw, and dumped him into the ocean.

Until today, he thought he had fully come to terms with everything. He believed he had adapted to living with your absence, like a disabled person learning to avoid putting weight on his injured leg. However, deep down, he knew he was living on eggshells, always wondering when something would break, when everything would crumble.

But with your answer, stacks of sorrow grew inside him, settling on his bones as if a cable had twisted around his neck, a worm crawling across his stomach. It was the night, midnight, and the twilight of indecision. Too many pains to bear.

He realized how foolish he had been to believe he could simply blend in and lead an ordinary life.

Satoru.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo, The Strongest.

The mere thought of it filled him with mortification.

He shook his head, coughing as his lungs were tormented, heaving strange, horrible gasps until his whole body spasmed into submission. His head was spinning, thoughts knocking into one another. With clenched fists, he fought against the misery, forcing it back down. Not again. Not again. Not again.

"Satoru?" you called out to him, and a thousand pieces of feeling stabbed you in the heart. Realizing how deeply he loved you kept hitting him in the face, the skull, and the spine. He ran a hand across his face and through his hair, displaying signs of wanting to scream, to break something, as if he was on the verge of losing his sanity.

You hugged him, bridging the gap between your bodies and leaning your cheek against his rock-hard chest. Your hands caressed his stomach as your lips left random pecks here and there.

"It's not just your shirt that I have," you expressed. "I also have our shared blanket from our room and a collection of photographs I'm too afraid to look at. I fear that if I see them, I'll go right back to you and beg your forgiveness."

You dropped a kiss on his chin. Then, on the curve of his shoulder and his shoulder blades. Five kisses down his throat, each softer than the last. You kissed his cheeks, hands, and eyelids for every moment of loneliness he had ever endured.

You continued, "My body hasn't realized we are no longer together. It calls out for you at night, unaccustomed to not having you tightly enveloping me like a second layer of skin."

He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. "Why are you putting me through this?" he asked, his hand caught in his hair. "Why are you scratching my wounds?"

"Because I want to remake you again, Satoru. You should get broken apart and rebuild in a way that won't cause you pain anymore." You kissed the hand covering his mouth, not holding back. Keeping your head there, you leaned against his heart.

"It's not as straightforward as a simple yes or no," you said, your voice cracking as you spoke. "Let's just enjoy this moment together..."

A sudden searing heat flashed behind his eyes, and his heart leaped at your response. His hand trembled, and his eyes were willing and wanting but filled with sadness.

He shifted his gaze towards you, his eyes open, jaw clenched tightly, and muscles tense. Breathing heavily, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. The ache in his chest had grown more assertive, more painful.

You lifted your head and reached up to stroke his cheek. "Love is the most twisted curse," you murmured as you tilted his chin toward your mouth. He blinked rapidly. Words were whispered upon his lips that no one had ever spelled out for him. "And we are the most cursed of all, aren't we?" you told him, watching the movement in his throat and his effort to keep it together. It didn't take you long to kiss him again. Tenderly.

Unable to find the right words, he relied on the language of touch, pressing his lips against yours. A sigh escaped into your shared kiss, and you responded by kissing him even more passionately, almost desperately, as if trying to pass over your breaths to him. The taste of salt lingered on your tongues. The wet drops falling on your cheeks made his flesh burn. Unsure of whose tears they were, he continued to cling to you, even if it was almost for the final time.

The saddest world in this whole wide world was "almost." You almost came back to him. He almost had you. You two almost made it.

You woke up with a smile, feeling a pleasant warmth enveloping your skin, remnants of the memories from the previous night. The room was filled with a fresh ambiance, hinted at by the open window that welcomed a gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth filled the air, evidence of the rain that had visited during the night.

Letting out a sigh, you brushed your face against the pillow. Your hand instinctively reached out to where Satoru was supposed to be, but a pang of emptiness washed over you. He wasn't there, and your eyes flew open, a sourness clouding their once-serene gaze. Something felt wrong.

Suddenly, sitting up, a sense of panic pulsed through your veins. The realization dawned upon you—Satoru had left the bed, and his absence spoke volumes. Your glance darted around the room, searching for any signs of his presence, but his clothes were nowhere to be seen.

An agonizing grip took hold of your heart. Conflicting emotions wrestled inside you. You had voiced your decision to part ways, to not be by his side, yet the depth of your desire for him remained steadfast. The pain and the desperate desire for his warmth was a stark reminder that not wanting to be with him didn't mean you were prepared to let go of him completely.

The bitter yet undeniable truth surfaced: as much as you and Satoru were meant to be, fate had not deemed you to last.

You could still feel the lasting presence of Satoru's cursed energy, an invisible thread you could identify even blind. Simply by scent, you would recognize it. It was a power that transcends physical senses, one that would recognize it in death, at the end of the world.

You swiftly snatched your robe and hastened out of the room. And there he was, Satoru, fully dressed, his blindfold tightly secured, sitting still in a chair, facing the untouched mochis. The hair tie was also on the table, indicating that he had removed it from his wrist. You couldn't determine whether it hurt you deeply to see him letting go of a part of you or noticing that he had left his beloved treats untouched.

He wasn't looking at you, so you had time to observe things you hadn't noticed yesterday. He had visibly lost weight. His hair showed signs of splitting and thinning, probably due to stress. Nightmares didn't let him sleep. His uniform appeared wrinkled, and his breaths were unsteady. You knew it wasn't your place to worry about him anymore, but you couldn't help it. Taking care of him had become a habit. He appeared weary, displaying the same profound exhaustion you experienced, filling you with fear.

His shoulders quivered up and down, and you could tell he was crying even though he was silent as a corpse. Your heart quickened as you approached him. With trembling hands, you reached for his blindfold, a desperate attempt because, goddammit, you fucking loved his eyes.

"What are you—" you started to inquire, your voice fading as you recognized that your touch couldn't reach him. He had activated his Infinity. Manually. Deliberately. A wave of profound sadness washed over you, tears welling up in your eyes, yet you swallowed them back, resolved to keep your composure. Your hand hung suspended, mere inches away from him, a symbol of the unbridgeable gap that had grown between you.

Then, in a sudden movement, Satoru stood before you, donning a black jacket that draped his figure. His voice emerged raspy, filled with a raw intensity that conveyed the turmoil within his heart.

"I can't handle this anymore. I can't continue being whatever I am to you," he admitted, his words heavy with a sense of resignation. The understanding that the current situation was no longer viable had taken hold of him. "If you want things to remain this way, I can't ignore the fact that we are enemies at the end of the day." He subtly avoided meeting your gaze, averting his eyes from your messy hair and the persistent sadness in your eyes.

"Can you honestly believe that?" you questioned, your voice brimming with incredulity. You took a step forward, narrowing the physical gap between you. It was essential for him to grasp the magnitude of your anguish and directly witness the toll your choice inflicted upon your heart.

Satoru took a step back, his brows furrowing beneath the blindfold that veiled his eyes. "It doesn't matter what I believe," he declared.

Despite the barrier that prevented physical touch, you closed your eyes, driven by the overwhelming desire to bridge the divide. Ignoring the protective shield of his Infinity, you leaned in, your lips seeking his in a desperate act of defiance. Tears streamed down your closed eyes as he relinquished the barrier that kept you apart. You pressed your lush mouth against his. It never took him long to respond, to part his lips. He kissed you back, holding your head steady with his hand while his other embraced you tightly. He had your heart, and you loved him quite horribly, too. This fact always smacked you over the head so hard you felt dizzy.

You held each other tightly, his arms enveloping you as his fingers intertwined with your hair. In that stolen moment, you caught a glimpse of the life you longed for—a life filled with love. Having this every day was within reach, but the harsh reality of the jujutsu world loomed, casting a shadow over your fragile dreams. The awareness that he would be exploited until his final breath burdened you deeply. Unable to witness his suffering, you knew you couldn't change your decisions. You had to reset this Jujutsu World. For him. For his students. For the happiness you owed yourself.

As your lips reluctantly separated, a bittersweet trace of saliva remained between you. Satoru gripped your shoulders, and as you glanced up, you noticed his blindfold was damp, indicating the tears he had shed.

You lowered your head. "I wish you had never crossed paths with me," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground until he reached out and lifted your chin.

"I wouldn't take that chance. Not in a million infinities. Because there was love, even if it didn't change anything, even if it made the pain worse, love was there," he said, staring at your mouth. "I'll love you in this life. I'll love you in death and in whatever lies after. And likely even beyond that," he whispered. The words did something to you. They burned something inside of you. You swallowed hard. A fire consumed your mind. "No matter what, I'll always love you," he declared, and pain filled your veins. You could feel it in your blood.

"Satoru," you whispered. Your eyes fogged up, but you blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears away. You couldn't let a second of this be blurry. You couldn't afford to allow any of this to slip away. His absence felt like a missing limb, and his longing for you was a bullet in the head. How could he still love you? How could he find relief in your touch?

"But if we meet again," he said, his thumb brushing against your earlobe. "Just kill me. Because I'll be forced to kill you, and it's the same thing." As if the longer he held you, the more he would want you, he let go of you.

The enormity of his duty and the unyielding constraints of the jujutsu world, forcing him to make an unbearable choice, hit you like a cold gust of wind, leaving you feeling isolated and abandoned. The chill of that moment seeped into your bones, and you couldn't help but wonder if he had felt this same frigid loneliness when you had left him behind.

Satoru walked towards the door, each step carrying the finality of his decision that settled upon the room. Pausing at the threshold, a silent plea lingered in his words. "So, please, I beg you to stay away from me." With those words, he severed the last thread that had linked you, leaving you with a deep sense of loss.

The door closed behind him, leaving you in an empty and heavy space with unspoken regret. You were alone again, bereft without him, half dead without him. You opened your mouth and screamed. You screamed and screamed until your voice cracked beneath the pressure. Until you feared your throat would shred from the force. You wanted to crawl outside of your body so desperately so that you could escape this feeling.

No one ever warned you how men with such pretty eyes, who smelled like vanilla, tasted like rain, and talked like silver, were the reason behind tear-soaked pillows, half-finished poems, and so many sad dreams.

One last shout ripped out of your throat, this one so full of pain that brought you to your knees. You crumbled. The raw sound tapered off, fading into a hoarse, staccato cry. You sucked in a deep breath, filling your lungs with oxygen you didn't want, but you were too lost in your grief to scream like you wanted to.

It seemed like Satoru Gojo's story had peaked, and anything that followed wouldn't hold the same significance to him. Because for him, there was before you, and there was during you. For some reason, he never thought there would be an after you. But there was, and he was in it. He would be in it forever.

Moving forward, he silently implored his bones to remain firm, to support him for the remainder of the day and beyond. He ventured through the forest, his steps disturbing the mud and leaves as his footprints gradually faded away until there was nothing but the empty silence of a long, lonely dusk.

Tag list: @istanuwow @anime-lover1234 @rentaldarling @enchantedforest-network

Disclaimers:

This creation draws significant inspiration from the incredible artistry of @animaybi (TikTok) and features quotes from the captivating writings of @starlightonthewaves (TikTok). Both of these talented artists deserve immense praise for their remarkable contributions.

Art is created by me.

Are you cursing me for writing this? :D

444 notes · View notes

gghalcyon · 6 months

Text

König gives you precisely what you want. Rough. Crazed. And everything in between. Until you are screaming his name.

Title: Love Me Rough | Relationship: König x F!Reader | Rating: Explicit | Words: Part 1/1 (600 Words)

Hot breath tickles your ear as König's voice gasps, "I crave you." Your entire body melts into his embrace as the heat of his skin sears through you. You can feel every muscle, every tendon, as he holds you against him. There is a hunger in his eyes that mirrors your own. This isn't going to be a gentle union. You won't go slow or romantic. No chivalry here. This will be rough and hard; you both know what you're after.

You gaze into König's eyes; they are smoldering with desire, and your heart races in anticipation as you open your mouth to speak. "Fuck me," you breathe.

He doesn't need to be told twice; his lips are on yours before the words can even escape your throat. His hands move urgently over your body, leaving trails of electricity everywhere that he touches you. His grip is solid and firm, but it sends a thrill through you every time he brushes against your skin.

You tumble backward onto the floor, clothes forgotten on the way, your passion taking you further and further until you finally reach the bed.

Your skin is searing wherever his large, muscled form and rough hands touch you, and you feel yourself shudder with pleasure beneath him.

His breath is hot against your neck as he whispers, "I'll do anything for you." Then his lips crash back down onto yours as if to punctuate his declaration of devotion. His tongue touches yours, only making you wetter for him, yearning for him and wanting him so badly that you feel a craze take over you.

You need him inside of you, and you let him know as you stop his fingers from where they are at your slick and wet folds and over your sensitive bud he caresses with his thumb, making you wild.

"Take me, König. Please, take me now." You beg. Spreading your legs wide for him, grabbing his throbbing cock in your hand and positioning him in your warm entrance.

He does not hesitate. His lips are back on yours as he enters your body with one deep and powerful thrust. He moves inside you with an intensity you've never experienced before – like he wants to consume you completely - murmuring against your mouth amid heated, wet kisses, "I'm going to fuck you so hard until you're screaming my name."

The sensations of pleasure and pain radiate through you as König sets a punishing pace that leaves you breathless and panting for more. Your walls pulse around him, striving to pull him deeper, squeezing him tightly as if you want to keep him within you forever.

König's thrusts are relentless, powerful and passionate. With each one you soar higher until you're screaming his name in ecstasy.

He grabs onto your hips firmly, pushing himself deeper and deeper into you until you feel like a single being, with an unbreakable connection between the two of you.

Your orgasm comes faster than ever before and your breaths become ragged as the pleasure surges through every inch of your body. With one final plunge, König releases too, collapsing on top of you with blissful exhaustion.

You lie still for what feels like forever as you both struggle to catch your breath. When suddenly, König pulls away slightly so that your faces are mere inches apart and whispers against your lips, "I'm most alive when I'm with you."

Read More Stories @ Fanfiction Master List or G.G. Halcyon's AO3.

#gghalcyon #könig #könig cod #könig smut #könig fanfiction #könig x you #könig x f!reader #konig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig mw2 #könig mw3

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olibxr · 11 months

Note

Hello there! I hope you’re having a good day!

I had an idea for a Dom!Steddie x sub!Reader request I’ve had for awhile. Since I mostly see fics where they are punishing Reader for being bad, why not one where they are rewarding them?

I imagine Reader is very submissive, a masochist and not really a brat. When they are, it’s usually a relatively small infraction, like a brief moment of snippiness while overtired or hungry.

One night, after a stretch of several weeks where Reader has been good, Steve and Eddie decide it’s time to reward you by letting you pick what they do to you that night.

Reader chooses impact play, which they are all too happy yo oblige, and it just runs wild from there.

Feel free to go tame or filthy with it!

Ello love! The way I've chosen this is that reader is non binary but it doesn't really have much impact on the story. They are a Subby masochist but hate being bratty and really thrive off praise. Also impact play is fuckin hot and I love it <3 reader will be AFAB but they/them pronouns will be used. Also language describing AFAB anatomy will be used but steddie respect their partner <3

Painful rewards

Dom! Steddie x Sub!nb reader

Not proof read

CW: Dom and sub dynamics, sadism, masochism, spanking, overstimulation, restraints, pet names, degrading names, title names (Daddy and Master, nipple clamps, spanking with a belt, blowjobs, subspace, anal stuff, p in v sex

You were never a brat. You didn't really enjoy it, you loved pleasing Eddie and Steve, and making them happy. Although you were all equals in your relationship, you were also their submissive partner who thrived and yearned for praise. This is how you landed in your current position.

On your knees Infront of your Daddy and Master, hands resting on your lap with your back straight as you stared at the floor. This is how they liked you.

"Me and Daddy have been thinking about how good you've been for us recently," Eddie began, gently locking his fingers through your hair as your eyes fluttered closed. "Dinner has always been ready for when we get home from work, laundry and chores are always finished, and every room is always spotlessly clean. You're such a good Subby for us." Eddie continued gently petting your hair as you began to smile shyly, blushing at the praise.

"Thank you, Master. I always try my best for you both." You mumbled softly as you kept your eyes on the ground. You hadn't been given permission to look at them yet, and you don't like breaking their rules.

"We think that a reward is in order, don't you think?" Steve spoke as he stepped forward towards you and Eddie, gently tilting your chin up to meet your glazed over expression. He smiled genuinely down at you before stroking your cheek with his thumb.

"I'd really like that, thank you Daddy." You spoke softly as you shyly nuzzled your cheek against his hand before looking back up at him.

"Tell us what you want, Baby. Anything you want, you can have." Eddie spoke as he gently tugged on your hair, releasing a flustered moan from your throat. They knew. They knew exactly what you wanted. They knew that you wanted to be tied down, spanked until you're a sobbing mess before they fuck your brains out. They knew their pathetic little masochist.

You let out a whimper before biting your lip, focusing on Steve's gaze. "I want you both to use me, please? Wanna be tied down and be spanked with Daddy's belt. Please?" You begged. You weren't really that shy anymore about begging, because you knew it would get you some praise.

"Aww, look Steve. Our pathetic puppy is already getting excited over the thought of us ruining them." Eddie chuckled as he suddenly pulled you up by your hair, making you help as he dragged you, still by your hair, to the bedroom you three shared. He pulled off your shirt whilst Steve worked your jeans and underwear, and rummaged through the bedside draw to grab the set of leather cuffs, some lube, a butt plug and nipple clamps. Eddie clipped the nipple clamps to you, tightening them until he heard a weak whimper escape your mouth, and then he quickly flipped you over and pulled your ass into the air.

"Hands behind your back, Puppy." Steve commanded as he began to unhook his belt from his jeans. Eddie cuffed your hands behind your back, checking their tightness before leaving a teasing smack on your ass.

"How many strikes do you want with my belt, Baby?" Steve murmured as he gently massaged over your ass. You were soaked already, and you were sure that they could see that.

"20 please Daddy? I promise I can take it, I'm your good Subby!" You begged as you tried to grind against his hand. He gave you a warning spank before looping his belt over his hand.

"You heard the pretty one, Stevie. I think they deserve to have their slutty little ass tanned with your belt." Eddie spoke as he pulled Steve in for a kiss, moaning against his mouth as they fought for dominance. Once they pulled away, Steve raised the belt before landing a sharp strike, causing your body to jolt forward as you let out a whine.

"One, Daddy!"

"Two, Daddy!"

*******

"T-twenty Daddy. Th-Thank you Daddy." You sobbed as the pain of the belt stung so fucking good. You swore you could feel yourself dripping down your thighs.

"Such a good Subby aren't ya? What's your colour, Darlin?" Eddie spoke up as he rubbed your bruising ass. He was clearly very hard at this point, almost uncomfortable in his jeans.

"Green, Master. So fucking green!" You sobbed as you began to grind against thin air.

"Aww look at them! So needy after being whipped. You want our cocks, Baby? That what you want?" Steve almost mocked as he nodded towards Eddie, who lubed the butt plug before slipping it into your ass, much to your surprise. You let out a yelp and a gasp before moaning softly as Eddie kept his thumb pressed against the plug.

"Please fuck my mouth and my hole, please please I need it! Need it so badly!" You whimpered as you ground back against Eddie's hand. Within a matter of seconds, both men had removed their clothing and Steve was on his knees behind you, whilst Eddie was leaning against the headboard with his legs spread.

"Just love being used don't you? Our little cockwhore." Steve growled as he slowly slid his tip between your folds, teasing your clit as you let out a pathetic whimper in response.

"Your Daddy asked you a question, Darlin. We expect an answer." Eddie glanced down at you expectantly.

"Yes! Yes I love being used, I'm so needy for you both please, please fuck me!" You sobbed as you looked up at Eddie, tears of desperation streaming down your face as he gripped your hair, positioning his cock against your lips.

"Aww, I think we should give them what they want, Stevie." Eddie mumbled as he teased your mouth with his cock, before tapping your lips as an indicator to open your mouth. You did as expected, and Eddie easily slid his cock into your mouth. Just as he hit the back of your throat, Steve slid into you with a single jerk of his hips, filling you instantly. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you allowed for the fussiness to take over your brain. You were fully in sub space. This was no longer about your pleasure, you were just there to be used by your owners.

"Fuck! Always so tight, Baby!" Steve groaned as he began to pound into you roughly, digging his nails into your hips roughly, leaving little marks as he slowly dragged his nails down. Eddie was fucking your mouth ruthlessly, spurred on by the vibrations of your moans against his cock.

"C'mon baby, can feel you clenching around me. Cum for us, show us how good we make you feel!" Steve moaned loudly as his thrusts began to become erratic, trying to chase both of your orgasms. As if on command, your body was buzzing hot white as you let out the most pornographic moan, cumming hard around Steve's cock. You opened your eyes and looked up at Eddie with the most fucked out expression as he continued to fuck your mouth.

"Fucking take it! Swallow Masters cum, fuck!" Eddie groaned as he came in your mouth, and you immediately swallowed and showed him your empty mouth as he pulled out.

"Holy fuck! You with us baby?" Eddie spoke gently as he reached behind you to release your hands from the restraints. You nodded blearily, in between normality and sub space as your hands and legs collapsed beneath you.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. We are here Sweetie" Steve spoke gently as he rubbed your back, gently sitting you up and wrapping his arms around you. Eddie began to play with your hair gently as you started to come to your surroundings again.

"Hey there, Baby one. You feeling okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. 'm okay." You mumbled as you nuzzled your head against his bare chest. You felt Eddie's hand slip underneath you to remove the plug before gently releasing your nipples from their restraints.

"Time for a bath and something to eat, hm?"

Everything was just perfect.

*********

______

SBJSJSJDS I was so nervous this is one of my first Smuts 😭 I hope that I did okay!

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie x reader smut #stranger things #stranger things smut #eddie munson smut #steve harrington smut #steddie smut

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protemporescitor · 2 months

Text

"But she ded tho" (a.k.a. the dumbest argument against Clerith) - A rant

To expand on my previous post, in which I posited the crazy, far-fetched theory that in a fantasy setting mayhap death is not the relationship brick wall that it would be in a more grounded, realistic one*, I just want to bring up a few points to further buttress this off-the-wall notion.

"Cloud can't be with Aerith. She's dead!"

We've all heard it a thousand times. It is the argument most commonly levelled against Clerith. It is also the worst (and laziest) one.

It's often delivered in a declamatory and glib fashion, as though it were some sort of obvious conversation ender. Q.E.D. End of debate. The ultimate gotcha. "Checkmate, Clerith fans!" the haters think to themselves, chortling and patting themselves on their backs for this profound insight. (Insert tasteless and juvenile comments about Aerith being "shish kebab-ed" by Sephiroth as desired.)

And all I can think is "That's it? That's your best argument? That's some weak tea, man."

Despite its myriad flaws, this idea continues to radiate throughout the fandom a good quarter century after the original title's release, as though it had never once been challenged. It is a feeble and untenable position, a house built on sand, and one that deserves to be thoroughly demolished. With Rebirth on the horizon, and all the shipping wars nonsense rising from the grave once more as a result, it is high time, if you'll forgive the expression, that we laid this cliché to rest once and for all.

(*Note: Even in a more "realistic" setting lacking any kind of fictional afterlife, this would still be a gross oversimplification of the story's themes of loss, regret, and yearning, as well as entirely ignoring the idea of love transcending death, but we'll set those concerns aside for the time being.)

Lastly, before we begin: This is not an anti-Zerith / CloTi screed. Those pairings both have an undeniable canonical basis. My aim here is simply to demonstrate that the notion that Cloud and Aerith are forever separated by death is rendered invalid by virtue of the type of setting that their story takes place in. (Something that, frankly, one would reasonably assume to be perfectly obvious. Alas, such is not the case. And so I find myself yet again pointing out the glaringly obvious.)

Now, without further ado, let's begin:

Part 1. Before (the Compilation) Crisis

In the beginning, there was the year 1997, and Squaresoft had just released their latest title. And lo, it was good. We spent days and weeks following our favorite polygon people around their embattled little globe. We fought, laughed, cried, and struggled up until the Meteor Crisis reached its crescendo, and the credits rolled. Gosh, what an ending! But what did it all mean? How did things REALLY turn out? Did we get a happy ending at all?

According to some, Cloud lived happily ever after with his childhood sweetheart, Tifa. According to others, he continued to roam the earth in search of his Promised Land to be reunited with his tragic lost love, Aerith. Yuffie swiped everyone's materia (again). Cid finally went to the moon. Red XIII opened a haberdashery in Costa del Sol, or something. No-one really knows for sure.

And so, the fandom began to spread to every corner of the internet in search of answers. Thus began the age of dissension. Opinions clashed across fanzines, blogs, and fanfic country alike. Wild fan theories abounded pertaining to special codes, methods, and blood rituals capable of bringing back our erstwhile flower girl. The fan-made media bubble surrounding the game turned into a lawless land of misinformation and vicious disagreement. None were spared.

A brief digression on why said rumours persisted for as long as they did (CAUTION: Massive spoilers for Chrono Trigger).

One side proposed a simple solution. A way to cut the proverbial Gordian Knot of our fandom. It was quite obvious, really. Just staring everyone in the face. The flower girl was dead, and that was that. Thus, there was only one possible conclusion to our narrative. Cloud's feelings on the matter were, of course, irrelevant. With Aerith out of the picture, the only logical choice left to him was to settle down with Tifa, and that was that. Never mind the themes of doomed, tragic love and the possibility, strongly hinted at throughout the game and outright confirmed during its ending, of existence after death.

Overall, direct evidence for said afterlife was scant, but not entirely absent from the story. As an example, at one point during her childhood, Aerith speaks to Elmyra, trying to comfort her, saying that the spirit of her husband wanted to come visit her, confirming that an afterlife presence did indeed exist. But for some, this simply wasn't evidence enough. And so the war raged on. Which brings us to…

Part 2. Advent Children: The smoking gun

Remember back when a certain portion of the fan base insisted that Gaia erased all the humans at the end of the story, on the flimsy basis that we don't see any during the game's brief post-credit scene? Well, that little theory was neatly undone by subsequent releases in the Compilation, showing regular ol' humans still roaming around Gaia in all their everyday human-ness. Hence, it is rarely brought up these days. Would that the pernicious notion of "but she ded tho" could follow in its footsteps, given that the same film roundly contradicts it in every way possible.

For starters, the film inexplicably bring two characters, Rufus and Tseng, hitherto assumed to be dead, back to life, probably in an effort by Square to shoehorn as many recognizable members of the cast into their animated feature as they could. But that's not all. Next we have three characters that everyone agreed were deader than doornails ALSO making appearances, first in flashbacks, and then directly influencing the world of the living. Zack speaks to and encourages Cloud during his struggle. Aerith reaches out to him (quite literally) from beyond the grave and assists him in defeating Bahamut. And of course Sephiroth pops back into existence just in time for his contractually-obligated boss fight near the end of the film. All three demonstrate quite clearly and definitively that death is not the impenetrable barrier to continuing interactions between the living and the dead in the world of Final Fantasy VII, as a certain segment of the fan base would have everyone believe it is.

To be blunt, I don't know what level of dense you'd have to be to keep up this so-called "argument" in light of this information. Advent Children reiterates what most of us already knew, that our story takes place in a fantasy setting* with a confirmed afterlife existence.

(*You'd think that the name of the series would clue people in.)

The notion that death represents, within the context of said setting, the ultimate end was already softly contradicted by the original game's narrative, and then (because that was apparently too subtle for some people) flat-out annihilated by the existence and events of Advent Children. It should have long since ended this nonsense. But somehow, it didn't. These revelations, obvious though they are, remain ignored for some reason. And so, the cycle of willful ignorance continues.

But we're not done yet. We now move on to more tangential, but still relevant arguments against this line of "reasoning".

Part 3. Stop Hitting Yourself: Why "but she ded tho" is insulting to everyone

And I do mean everyone. Let's examine this, shall we?

It's insulting to Cloud.

To suggest that he loses interest in Aerith the moment she sinks beneath the waters, or that he is obligated to move on simply because she is no longer among the living, with no mourning period, no time to work through his guilt and grief, is to portray him as shallow and uncaring, something that goes against virtually all the characterization that he's been given throughout the story. The line of thinking apparently goes "Well, she's gone. That sucks. She was cute, too. Better move on to the next available piece of meat."

Sounds pretty gross when you write the quiet part out loud, doesn't it?

It's insulting to Aerith.

"Didn't even toss the b@#h a Phoenix Down, just dumped'er in the water LAWL"

I'm sure you've all come across comments like that at some point, usually originating from some errant redditor or blogger. Thinking themselves fine fellows and enlightened, above-it-all gadflies, they provide us at length with this and other prime specimens of 14 year-old internet edgelord "humour" that carries about as much edge as a perfect sphere. Remarks like these serve little purpose beyond confirming my suspicion that our fandom is indeed plagued with illiterates who can't tell the difference between the terms "revive" and "resurrect", and insist on conflating game mechanics with storytelling. And you wonder why some people are confounded by words like "flammable" and "inflammable".

(All right, I'll put the salt down. For now.)

"The party's designated white mage dies, oh no, that's so sad, boo-hoo, life goes on," I hear you say.

But boiling Aerith's role down to one of merely that of a temporary party member who kicks the bucket halfway through the story, never to be heard from again, both cheapens her purpose within the larger narrative and denies the clear effect that she continues to exert, directly and indirectly, on it and the other characters after her passing.

Though Aerith may have departed the world of the living, the story makes it abundantly clear that her influence on it has not ended. There are hints here and there that she still tries to assist her friends from the afterlife. As an example, when the party rediscovers Cloud in Mideel after assuming that he might be lost for good, a villager sums it up best with the following remark: "That boy must have one hell of a guardian angel."

It's only mentioned as a vague hint in the original story, but it is clear that some beneficent force is acting on Cloud and Tifa's behalf, aiding them in their survival and uniting them in the Lifestream in order to help Cloud recover his memories. Later supplemental material confirms that to have been Aerith's doing. If that's not enough to convince you, though, the original game's ending leaves little room for ambiguity as to Aerith's continuing influence. When Holy sputters and fails, she coaxes the Lifestream itself to intervene, burning away the calamitous meteorite, helping her friends put an end to the planetary crisis long after her own demise. I suppose the lesson here for silver-haired godhead wannabe villains is this: Strike her down, and she shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

So the idea that Aerith's participation in the story immediately comes grinding to a halt upon her death is both puerile and easily demonstrated to be false. But even if that were the case, downplaying her lingering influence on Cloud and the other characters in this manner would still be ignoring the creators' intent. Whether one interprets Cloud and Aerith's relationship as romantic or merely platonic, it is clear that her death, the loss of one of his closest allies, is something that wounds him deeply, and scars him forever. Two years on, he still pines for her company and desires her forgiveness for his perceived failures. She clearly occupies a special place in his heart, and her memory and legacy live on within him, spurring him on as he wanders the planet, searching for some way to meet her again, defying the impossible. (Which, as we all know, isn't going to happen. This is, after all, Final Gritty Reality we're talking about here.)

Ah, but all of this is a moot point, you say? Even if he did wish to be with her, preferring the company of the last Cetra over that of his childhood friend… well, too bad. That's no longer an option. We can spout all of this verbiage about "soul pain" this and "star-crossed lovers" that, but at the end of the day, Aerith is still dead, and that's that. At least, that's what ardent CloTi fans will insist, no matter what. So, what is Tifa to Cloud, then, by their own logic?

Which brings us to perhaps our most salient, and most overlooked point, at least as far as CloTi shippers are concerned. If all that wasn't enough for you, you may want to consider that it's deeply insulting to Tifa, as well. Grievously so, in fact. Quite possibly more so than any other character in this whole equation. And the reason why should be plain as day if you stop to think about it for a fraction of a second.

Here's the thing… if you can't articulate why you think Cloud would prefer to be with Tifa in spite of Aerith being alive, then you are essentially declaring her the "winner" by default on no other merits than the fact that she's still sucking down air. Stating "but she ded bro" means relegating Tifa to the role of a consolation prize. I don't think I could ever hurl such a staggering insult towards her as her biggest fans keep doing, without even realizing they're doing it.

Ask yourselves, is that really what you want for your supposed favourite character? To frame her as being doomed to eternally play second fiddle to her fallen friend? Cloud's "plan B"? The "side piece"? Someone who only stands a chance if her rival in love is literally six feet under? I'm sure she'd be thrilled by the high regard in which her own fans seem to hold her. (Hey, you said it, not me. It's not my fault if you don't take the time to actually consider the ramifications of what rolls off your keyboard. But by all means, keep insulting your own favorite character just to put down a ship you don't like.)

In closing, if we unearth the subtext and reframe it to highlight what people are, in essence, saying, it's this: "It's a good thing that she-who-shall-not-be-named bit the dust, because otherwise our beloved Best Girl Tifa (tm) wouldn't stand a chance."

It's a simple enough question: Why do you think that Cloud and Tifa belong together? What, in your mind, makes them a good fit for each other?

"Well, the competish is dead." ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Not exactly a ringing endorsement for your best girl, now is it?

Part 4. "Heads, I Win. Tails, You Lose": A brief word on hypocrisy

In fandom, it's often the loudest and most obnoxious voices who tend to drown out the more reasonable ones, those of fans who are just minding their own business and grooving on the thing that they like. Which, unfortunately, renders this next part a necessary component of the greater argument that I'm trying to make. Multishippers and sane, reasonable CloTi and Zerith fans may consider themselves exempted from the following harangue.

The rest of y'all, buckle up.

The too-oft repeated refrain of "but she ded tho" entails a twofold hypocrisy. The first part is:

Case of Tifa: Fan hypocrisy regarding death.

Strident anti-Clerith fans, with their usual level of maturity, will often bring up Aerith's demise in a gleeful, mocking tone that can best be summed up as "ding dong, the witch is dead!" And if the shoe were on the other foot? If their Best Girl Tifa (tm) were the one pushing up daisies instead of Miz Gainsborough? Would they be quite so cavalier in their attitudes?

Who wants to bet that these fans wouldn't be making this "argument" so loudly if it was their ship that was in question? Consider this scenario: Suppose that the remake trilogy does the unthinkable and has Tifa die in Aerith's place. What then? Would they accept that "but she ded tho" is, at best, a double-edged sword, one that applies equally to their own favourite ship were their fortunes to be reversed?

Something tells me that's not the case.

But if you think that's hypocritical, you ain't seen nothing yet. This first point pales in comparison to…

The Zerith Exemption: Fan hypocrisy regarding the afterlife.

You know what my favourite thing about this whole debacle is? When people inform me that because they are separated by death, Cloud and Aerith have no hope of ever being together again. They will then unironically pivot to shipping Zack and Aerith, two characters who are together in the MOTHERFUCKING AFTERLIFE.

It's wild. How do you even compress that much cognitive dissonance into one skull? We're talking about mind-melting, Olympic medal-worthy levels of mental gymnastics here.

Now, before someone accuses me of being morose, I'm not suggesting that Cloud hop off the nearest cliff just to be with his beloved (Aerith would not approve of him throwing his life away, for one), just that when he reaches the end of his natural life (which may not be too long, given the cells eating away at his body), he can finally be reunited with her in the afterlife.

Many ardent CloTi shippers see themselves as bound by law to uphold Zerith as a shield against the dreaded Clerith plague. But to proclaim, implicitly or explicitly, that the afterlife encompasses one but not the other is not an idea that can be taken seriously. It remains an utterly bizarre blind spot, one that beggars belief.

On a related note, there is the infamous misconception that is…

Part 5. The ZaCloud Fallacy

While this is not directly related to my main point, I nonetheless find myself compelled to address this issue. There is a long-standing confusion that bedevils our fandom, one that has its roots in the Shipping Wars (tm). I am, of course, referring to the ZaCloud Fallacy.

We owe this particular misapprehension to Crisis Core, a prequel/gaiden game that was released ten years after the original FFVII. Already, its existence can mess up the timeline, so to speak, as, strangely, people tend to treat it as a sequel rather than a prequel, and as though it were adding new and vital building blocks to the world of FFVII instead of merely distorting the original story while retreading it with a far less interesting cast of characters. It also retcons major elements of the original story that it shouldn't have (such as the events taking place in Nibelheim five years prior to the main narrative), lazily steals Clerith scenes only to rehash them with Zack and Aerith, and forces players to endure, at length, crimes against literature, courtesy of Genesis.

It's an odd prequel, to say the least, given how heavily it relies on the original story for context. Sequentially, it may take place before FFVII, but it can only be fully appreciated with the original in mind; it cannot be treated as a stand-alone story. The worst thing about Crisis Core existing is that playing it first can outright ruin people's perception of the original narrative by spoiling several major plot elements and even lessening them in the process. Crisis Core's writers are especially guilty of cheapening dramatic moments like Zack's last stand by transforming it from a quiet, tragic, harrowing scene about sacrifice to an utterly over-the-top and emotionally overwrought trainwreck. It all merely serves to add to the confusion, especially for gamers who started with this title instead of the original.

But if that were not enough, Crisis Core's reckless meddling with the story combined with the acrimonious and all-consuming nature of the shipping wars has resulted in one of the most nonsensical misconceptions in the entire fandom. During Crisis Core's ending, Zack implores Cloud to carry on his legacy, thus giving rise to the erroneous assumption that Cloud's behaviour in disc 1 is merely that of him "being Zack". Clerith-hating fans, in particular, pounced on this idea as a way to put a safe distance between him and Aerith, characterizing their interactions, whether platonic or romantic, as merely a case of Cloud utilizing Zack's memories and personality around her (Never mind that Zack and Cloud's personalities are as different as night and day).

It is a fundamental and willful misreading of the story, a gross oversimplification of a more complex and granular truth in service of a fan-originated meta-narrative, one that has been assembled in order to reach the conclusion that Cloud and Aerith's relationship is null and void, and that therefore the romance between him and Tifa remains unchallenged. (Never mind that the story is intended as more than just some playground tug-of-war romance). To maintain this lie is to do violence to the story by destroying Cloud's character arc and reducing him to a virtual non-entity until the very end of the game.

Having already been rebuked in regards to this pervasive delusion, certain fans have tried to hedge their bets by suggesting a second, more advanced version of this idea. ZaCloud Fallacy 2.0, if you will, which states that Cloud is only in Zack Mode (tm) when he's around Aerith. I don't even know what to say about that sort of nonsense. To paraphrase Charles Babbage, I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such an assertion.

I'd go into this in more detail, but YouTube creator LinkOnTheBrink has already covered this topic extensively in their superlative video essay "How Shipping Can Ruin a Narrative".

It may seem like I'm trashing Zack or Zerith here, but I'm really not. That was never my intent. So let me be clear about this: I like Zack. I just hate Crisis Core and what it's done to this fandom. If you prefer CloTi and Zerith to everything else, I don't much mind. Ultimately, this isn't about shipping wars nonsense, but protecting the narrative from such nonsense.

And that leads us to…

Part 6. I Against I: Where the fandom went wrong

We all know that the infamous FFVII Shipping Wars (tm) are as stupid as they are inescapable. Anyone who's spent any time at all within this fandom has inevitably run afoul of them and their detritus at some point, whether they've chosen to participate in them or abstain from the whole debacle. But there's a reason why this acrimonious dispute has raged on for as long as it has. Much like Blade Runner fans would argue until they were blue in the face about whether or not Deckard was a replicant, fans of this story have been squabbling about CloTi versus Clerith for ages for similar reasons. (Zerith got roped in as a "political wedge", I would argue, as much as a pairing in its own right.)

It's more than just a war over shipping, it's a war over canonization, over character motivation and psychology. Of how we ultimately interpret the story and its characters. Given the vagueness of the story's ending, one can't help but wonder and speculate as to how everyone ended up afterwards. (Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus may have offered some answers, but they still largely sidestep these questions in a noncommittal, to-be-continued manner.)

The problem is that, for many fans, it isn't possible to simply say "It's my preference" and be done with the matter. Unlike most rarepairs and bananas pairings like Cait x Jenova, CloTi and Clerith remain hotly contested because they go beyond mere shipping, or even aesthetic preference, or which characters one most identifies with; they lie at the core of how we perceive the story and its inhabitants. In that sense, I don't consider it to be an entirely frivolous debate, just an unsolvable one.

So, what's the answer?

There's this long-standing piece of received wisdom about JRPGs vs. WRPGs, where the latter involves more freedom at the expense of focused storytelling, and vice versa. This idea might hold true to some extent, but it is not some iron law that must be obeyed without question. For a game like FFVII, choices that radically affect the narrative structure would be considered an aberration and not the norm. And yet, it might represent the only way out of this quagmire that doesn't involve throwing half the fandom under the bus in the process.

For me, Mass Effect and similar titles (e.g., Quest for Glory) have already presented an obvious solution: Let the players choose. (There is already some precedent in the form of the Gold Saucer scene, although it ultimately doesn't change the outcome of the story all that much.) It may not be a perfect solution, but I'd argue that it's far better than leaving one side out in the cold. At least this way, everyone gets something.

"Ah, but this is not feasible," I hear you respond. "Not for an Eastern-style RPG, at least. Only one of these pairings can be correct, and one must, above all, respect the creator's vision."

Yeah, look where that got us.

Part 7. As You Like It: Ship whatever you please (just stop this nonsense)

I realize that this little essay of mine has been digressive, rudimentary, rambling, extemporaneous, and scattershot. So let me try to reach some kind of meaningful conclusion here.

Much of this anti-Clerith rhetoric we've seen over the years seems to stem from a place of insecurity, whether it's murmuring "but she ded tho", claiming that Cloud was only ever Zack in disc 1, inventing a fictional sex scene underneath the Highwind from whole cloth, and so on… The thing is, there is no need for it. Clerith and CloTi both exist canonically. Even the game manual says as much, describing Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith's relationship as a love triangle. In other words, the love triangle is what's canon, and the rest is by and large up for interpretation. (Zerith also canonically exists, and we've known this since the OG.)

The true reason why this whole disagreement has gone on for eternity, I suspect, has less to do with any debate over canonicity alone than it does the sheer enmity and pettiness that it has continued to spark for so long. It has metastasized over the years, going from being a mere squabble over which pair is canon to an exercise in holding the other side in contempt. That endless cycle of disrespect and reprisals is undoubtedly where it all went wrong in the first place. (If I had a nickel for every time someone commented "but she ded tho" or "wHy iS zAcK bLoNd iN tHiS pIc?" when someone posts a piece of Clerith fan art, I'd have a pretty nice collection of coins by now.)

Obviously, we should all try to just click off when we encounter content that we dislike, but it's not always easy, especially when something we harbour a strong aversion to is so deeply enmeshed within something that we do enjoy. And so, our fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Before you ask, yes, I'm as guilty of that as anyone else.

Still, I firmly believe that the occasional olive branch can go a long way. So let me simply say that I have the utmost respect for Tifa and Zack. They are worthy characters in their own right. So create and share all the CloTi/Zerith fan works your little hearts desire. Hire a fleet of skywriters to declare Zerith your favourite couple. Throw a giant CloTi parade through the middle of Times Square. We don't mind. Honestly.

As stated above, whether it's CloTi, Clerith, or Zerith, you can stop fretting over which one is canon; they all are. The other three permutations (Zakkura, Zifa, AerTi) don't get much in the way of canon acknowledgement, but they probably should at this point.

In the end, this is about saving the narrative from the shipping wars, as much as anything else. To say that you prefer CloTi or something else to Clerith is fine. To assert that Clerith doesn't exist in any form, however, is where I begin to take exception.

Ultimately, I say ship what you like. All I ask is that you retire this sort of narrative-wasting nonsense. It's time we threw it into the garbage can of gaming history where it belongs. As for questions of motives, character interpretation, canonization, and so forth… if we cannot reach an accord, then let us at least try for a more amicable disagreement.

As for my fellow Clerith supporters, the next time you see the withered old canard that is "but she ded tho" being bandied about in the wild, feel free to laugh and treat it with the derision and contempt that it so richly deserves.

#final fantasy vii #ffvii #ffvii rebirth #final fantasy vii rebirth #final fantasy 7 remake #clerith #cloud x aerith #rant #final gritty reality #but she ded tho #spoilers

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he4rtsforjoao · 9 months

Note

hey i was wondering if you could post more diego lainez content thx🤗🫶

Hiii! Thank you for requesting! Here is a short lil smut story I came up with involving Diego! Hope you like it💗

Mornings w you- D.L

Pairing: Diego lainez x f! Reader

Summary: lazy sex w Diego

Warnings: SMUT!!! Minors (DNI) 18+ mentions of unprotected sex! P in v!

Author note: thank you all so much for the support on my posts, really appreciate it!!!

You gradually fluttered your eyes open, the gentle sound of raindrops and the occasional blare of car horns filling the air. You turned your gaze towards Diego, who you noticed was still deeply immersed in his slumber, emitting soft snores. With a tender touch, you reached out and delicately brushed aside strands of hair that had fallen across his face. Slipping off the bed, you carefully looked for something on the floor that could fully drape your body, aiming to avoid disturbing Diego's peaceful rest. You finally were about to stand up till suddenly, Diego let out a groan and instinctively grasped your wrist, his voice groggily questioning, "Where are you going to this early?" He yawned, his eyes slowly fluttering open.

“Diego, it's already one in the afternoon, and I'm about to make us some breakfast," you call out, glancing back at him as he stretches his body, propping himself up on his forearm. "Stay a little longer in bed with me, please?" You can never resist Diego's charms, your love for him too strong to deny.

"Fine" you playfully groan, sinking back into the cozy bed, assuming the same position as before. However, this time, the man you were so captivated by is wide awake. "How did you sleep?" he randomly asks, his gaze locked with yours. "Pretty good, except you were snoring like a speaker all night, so I didn't get much rest," you tease, making him chuckle at your words. "Sorry mi amor. I promise I won't snore tonight," he assures. "If you say so," you reply, rolling your eyes playfully. In that moment, he leans in slowly, intending to give you a gentle peck, but you hold onto his lips, deepening the kiss loving the way he feels.

After a few passionate moments of locking lips, he confidently positioned himself between your legs, a glimmer of desire in his eyes. Breaking away from the kiss, he gazed into your eyes, his voice dripping with anticipation. "Tell me baby what do you want?" Without hesitation, you nodded, fully aware of your burning desire for him. "I want you to fuck me, Diego” you whispered, your words igniting a smile upon his face.

With no need to undress after the passionate encounter that unfolded the previous night, he wasted no time. He brought his fingers down to your wetness, sliding them inside with a swift motion. The sensation made you arch your back, craving more. "Faster, Diego, please!" you pleaded, knowing that if his fingers were driving you wild, his undeniable length would send you into a frenzy.

He heard your pleas, his fingers delving deeper and faster into your core. Simultaneously, he lowered his head, leaving a trail of soft kisses and gentle bites along your neck. The combination of his skilled fingers and tantalizing touch on your sensitive skin brought you to the edge of ecstasy. Just as you were about to reach your peak, his fingers suddenly stopped their movements, leaving you yearning for more. "Diego!" you groaned in frustration, desperately craving the release only he could provide.

“I need you to cum on my dick princess" he whispered, his words sending a shiver down your spine. You decided not to protest, intrigued by the idea. He brought his fingers to his mouth, sensually tasting your sweetness while gazing deeply into your eyes. This man had a way of driving you wild.

Leaning down again, he gently guided his hardened cock into your wetness. The instant his tip entered you, your hands instinctively tangled in his hair, holding on for dear life. With a swift motion, he buried himself deep inside, causing you to wrap your legs around his waist, urging him for more. "Fuck Diego!" you moaned, unable to contain your pleasure as he intensified his thrusts. The pace was relentless, threatening to leave you weak in the legs for days. Lowering his head, he took your hardened nipples into his mouth, teasing them skillfully while maintaining eye contact. Pulling away momentarily, his thrusts became faster and more forceful. The pressure built within you, and you knew release was imminent. His hand found your pulsating clit, bringing you even closer to the edge, "Diego, I'm gonna cum!" you gasped, the intensity escalating.

In an intimate moment, you let out a moan while he gives a nod of approval, encouraging you to release your desires. As his throbbing dick stirs within you, one final thrust pushes you to the edge, causing you to climax fervently around him. Both of you lay there, catching your breath, in a state bliss. "Fuck that was amazing" he chuckles, separating himself from you and heading to the bathroom to fetch a towel to cleanup you up. He returns to the bed, settling in comfortably. "So, are you ready to go make breakfast?" you ask, glancing at him curiously. He gazes back, a smirk playing on his lips. "Mmm, how about we go for another round of sleep first?" You let out a groan, both exhausted and enticed by the idea.

#diego lainez #Diego lainez smut #Diego lainez x reader #Diego lainez fluff #smut #fluff #angst #Diego lainez x f! reader #football imagines #world cup imagines #soccer player x reader #soccer

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mandowifey · 8 months

Text

Exhume

Miguel O'hara x Reader

This is part of a nonlinear story.

Warnings: This has multiple changing POV's (Im trying here), PwP, dark!Miguel, captive reader, stockholm syndrome, NSFW, dead dove, this has officially become 'dub con' territory. Au events, following along the movie SORTA. Reader is referred to as she/her pronouns.

Lil warning: this was hastily written in different points of the past couple months. I wanted to release it as is and not over edit the work I put in. The next chapter(s) will be more refined. Enjoy the slop LOL

° ° °

The space behind Miguel's eyes throbs as Jessica speaks up. Not that he hadn't found kinship with the woman before everything, but lately, he'd been irritable more than usual. While he tried to conceal it and bury himself away in his work, of course, his infuriatingly perceptive companion would notice.

His patience was wearing thin. He didn't mind the company before, but now that he had you, he wanted time to check the cameras. More than once, he'd caught you attempting to break loose or creatively end your life. Keeping you alive meant being attentive, and right now, Jessica was making that difficult.

"Miguel, are you alright?"

What kind of answer could he really give?

'No, I'm exhausted trying to maintain the multiverse while simultaneously covering the fact I have lost my mind and am holding a young woman hostage in my loft.'

Instead, he sighs and drops his shoulders. "Yes, Jess, I'm fine-"

"You aren't, I know you. I know when you're hangry, or moody or brooding, or when you are in need of your 'medicine'. This isn't fine." The woman folds her arms just below her bossom, against the swell of her belly. Miguel had congratulated her somewhat bitterly when she told their group.

Gritting his teeth, he pawed his face before he looked at her. "What do you want me to say?" Miguel snipped, a flash of red glinting in those onyx orbs. Jess seemed unphased and stood her ground with a frown.

"Just tell me what's going on. You know me, anything that's troubling you, I'll help." Her voice changed, adopting something acute to motherly. Jessica was by no means a soft woman before, but pregnancy had upset the balance of her hormones and now, sometimes, her rough exterior broke to show the gentle soul nestled within.

Miguel watches her, catching her gaze before averting his eyes shamefully. "It's nothing you can help with." He turned the broad canvas of his back to her, staring at the array of holoscreens above the control board. His fingers itched to press the code to the loft, wanting to check on you. He typically watched off and on in five minute intervals, but with Jess standing and practically breathing down his neck, he couldn't.

The woman tilts her head at the vague response, her brows raised behind her yellow glasses. Persistence was one of her strong suits.

"Try me."

Time ticked down like sand through an hourglass. Dragging, unyielding in its slow descent. You struggled to amuse yourself now. Tv, YouTube, baking, none of it worked anymore. You felt compelled to do something with your time but couldn't determine what. Puzzles became boring now that you'd completed each one three times. Sometimes, you cleaned and took things apart just to put it back together.

All this time, locked in a tower.

You started to feel bad for zoo animals.

As your mind began to drift away, so did your resolve. Instead of dreading his return, you looked forward to it. In the morning following your break, you had almost begged Miguel to stay home with you. Your hands ached to feel the weight of his face between them. Your lungs missed the way he compressed you. Miguel left you yearning for more, especially after the evening you had consented his touch.

Instead of sleeping the day away, you turn music loud on the speakers and close your eyes. It wasn't much, but you imagined yourself on a stage, dancing in an empty amphitheater. Shy ministrations became wild as you lost yourself in the fantasy. You were having fun, feeling almost childish in your amusement. Miguel had never confirmed your suspicions, but you knew he had the place rigged with cameras.

Part of you hoped he enjoyed the show - as silly as it was.

You spun and twirled, throwing yourself over the chair and couch, dramatically flinging yourself off the furniture and laughing as it became less of a dance and more of a mosh pit. A sensation of freedom and peace washed over you, taking you off your feet with each lunge and jump. Arms out, you did circles on the coffee table before falling backward off of it and onto the plush couch. As the song faded, your eyes opened at the ceiling, and your smile began to fade.

Nausea hit you like a truck.

Even with the room spinning, you scrambled and found your way to the kitchen trashcan. Knocking it to the ground along with yourself, you shoved your face into it just in time to vomit. Lunch - a sandwhich and chips - mostly digested and not nearly as enjoyable as it was going down, fell from your mouth in violent, painful heaves. Sweat from your wild dance routine now mingled with the sweat of being sick. Beads traced down your forehead and temple as you puked again, your shoulders bunching.

A fever rocked through you, aching to the bone. Coughing, you gasp for air as your eyes water. Lesson learned: Don't mosh pit in the living room. You wait on the cold tile floor until the nausea passes. Drawing upwards, you fix the trash can and groan as you get woozy. Bracing a hand on the island, you wobble towards the bedroom, having to go slow and lean your weight against the nearest surface.

Once you reach the bathroom, you turn the cold water on and keep the lights out. Undressing was impossible now that your limbs felt like cement blocks. As you climb in, you lay on your side as the shower rains down onto you. With your eyes closed and fever addled brain not working, you don't notice the steam rising off your body.

"A... girlfriend?"

Jessica looked skeptical with her hips tilted in the opposite direction of her head. A frowned pinched in her face, and nose slightly crinkled. Miguel was a lot of things, but she had assumed that after all he'd been through, he lost interest in companionship. Though, it would explain why he'd been ducking out of missions and avoiding any talk about it. Her shoulders relaxed as she acted like she made sense of it in her head.

"Well, I- I mean, that's great." Her skepticism was replaced with a genuine smile. "That's pretty big, I won't tell anyone." She laughed and rested a fist on her hip. Before Miguel could begin saying thanks, she cut in; "If you tell me about her. I want details. Is she cute? Is she local? A Gwen?" A grin stretched across her features as she drew in closer, the other spider staring at her with a confused and somewhat uncomfortable expression.

Something beeped rapidly, and Lyla came into view near him. "Miguel, there's something wrong." Her voice chirped in his ear. Jessica looked between the two, her brows raising. "Multiverse? Anomally?" She was ready to spring into action. Miguel shut down the console, and his mask reformed over his face. "No, I'll be back tomorrow." He jumped from the platform and landed noisily on his feet. The man took off into a sprint, tearing past Jess and vanishing out the door.

Once gone, Jessica stood in silence. While the gears churned in her head, she frowned, knowing Miguel was lying.

With the loft situated at the tip of the tower, Miguel typically would ride the elevator up. Lyla had brought it to his attention that something was seriously wrong with you, and his instincts had him ferociously clawing his way up the side of the building. Pieces of cement and glass falling behind him as he tore himself upward, powerful shoulders and biceps flexing as he propelled on. Anything could have happened to you, and his mind went to the darker extremes.

After just a few moments, he crawled onto the balcony and ripped the door hard enough to break the lock. The force he used to tear the sliding glass door open caused an entire panel to shatter on impact as he walked inside. His mask pulled back, exposing wild red eyes and furrowed brows.

"Y/N?"

Miguel's sensitive ears picked up on the sound of the shower, and he cleared the living room in a single jump. A sweet smell tickled his nose, and he recoiled slightly, unsure what he was smelling. More panic pricked at his guts as he felt the desire to nest and protect you grow. "Y/N!" He barked, stepping into the bathroom and looking at your clothed, soaking form in the tub. "Dios- what are you doing?" He withdrew his gloves and felt the ice cold water. Hissing, he turned the shower off and dropped to his knees.

"Hey, hey," his voice softened, his burning red irises fading to brown as he delicately tried to lift and move you. As his bare hands touched you, he was stunned at the sheer amount of heat radiating off your body. "Hey!" He snapped, feeling a familiar dread building in him. Miguel was suddenly back in that alternate universe, watching everything fall apart and his daughter dying in his arms. That helplessness returning, realizing something was seriously wrong with you.

"C'mon, come on. Open your eyes, you're okay. You're okay." He pulled you into his arms and lap, cradling your soaked body against his. "Look at me, please. Please." His voice tightened, and a lump formed in his throat. Seeing you so pale and limp made him uneasy. His fingers press to your throat, feeling for a pulse. When you cough, he startles and stares down at you.

"There you are."

"Miguel.." You croaked, your throat raw from puking.

"Yeah, I'm here."

He was standing slowly, keeping you bridal style in his strong arms. "I missed you." You smiled, eyes still closed as you tucked your face into his chest. He felt his heart pound, heat rising to his cheeks as he took you to the bed and peeled your saturated clothes off. "You did?" He asked, flicking his eyes to your peaceful and tired expression. Miguel watched as you smiled and nodded, your little hands reaching to find him blindly. He leans close, pushing kisses to your palms and rubbing his face into them. A whine builds in his throat, relief hitting him now that you were conscious.

Miguel stood and tucked you naked into the bed. You curled up, still feverish but comfortable in the warmth. He runs back and forth from the kitchen, fetching you water and saltines, along with a small bin from the bathroom in case you need it. When you slumped and your breathing slowed, Miguel climbed into the bed behind you and curled his massive frame around yours, his own eyes feeling heavy. That sweet aroma persisted, making his heart pound and bones itch. There was a lingering desire to tuck you up somewhere high and far away, to build you a nest of webs and keep you from the world-

"Did you like it?"

Your voice pulled his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

Squirming yourself into his chest, you yawn and sag into the pillows. "My dance." You sounded dreamlike. Miguel was confused but pushed his face into your neck as he squeezed around you gently.

"I loved it, kid."

It was only nightmares in your slumber.

Your body, swelling and growing more until you burst. Spiders crawled out of your belly and along your skin, chittering as they began to feast on your skin. You were helpless to watch, sobbing and frozen, suspended in red, vibrant webbing.

"You're doing so well, you'll be ready for the next clutch soon."

His voice came from the dark, peering red eyes and a silhouette against the inky black. You sob and cry for help, but he only watches as your offspring take bite after searing bite.

"Such a good mother, Y/N."

As you sob, he says your name again.

Then again-

"Y/N!"

Blackness becomes light, and light gives way to the familiar face of Miguel. You gawk up at him, aware your heart was pounding. Miguel cupped his hand against your cheek, brown eyes wide and concerned as he leaned over you to check your eyes. "You alright? Bad dream?" He leaned closer, knocking his forehead to yours and sighing. "Thought you were a goner." He mumbled, his breath fanning your lips.

Everything in you felt electric. You recalled getting sick and stumbling into the shower, but you hadn't been sure what followed. It was difficult to discern your memories with him so close. He smelled differently to you now, too. His scent was stronger, comforting in the sense that you had a strong urge to push your face into him and inhale.

So you did.

Miguel jerks with surprise as you sink into his chest, clutching at him and breathing in. The smell was borderline hypnotic. You already had begun the process of crumbling for him, and now you were sinking even further. A large hand touches your back and rubs gently, uncertain. The change of heart confused him. "That fever really cooked your brain, princess." You smile against his shoulder and rub your cheek into his collar bone.

"I had a fever?" You lean back, looking up at him and admiring the strong line of his jaw. Miguel tilts, looking down at you. The eye contact makes your heart throb and heat rocket to your groin. "You were burning up when I found you. You had dragged yourself into the shower and passed out. Lyla picked up on the dip in your vitals." His thick fingers pet through your hair, dragging along your scalp and coming to rest at the base of your neck. The concern in his tone was palpable.

More warmth pooled on your insides, your heart quickening and loins catching fire. Miguel caught your scent, and his nostrils flared. At this distance, you could see when his pupils stretched and blew out. He drew a shaky breath and curled his fingers tighter against your neck. This reaction from him was new. Certainly he got riled up when it came to fucking you, but something was different. Your scent was amplified tenfold, and he could hear the patter of your fast pulse beneath your skin.

Jaw aching, Migule suddenly released your neck and tore himself across the bed. You were left stunned, sitting half obscurred by the think blankets as your captor stumbled out of the bedroom. Slipping out of the bed, you stand and realize how good you felt. It was a strange sensation, like having a really good nights sleep post workout. "Miguel!" You call, hearing him rummaging around. Stepping into the bathroom, you rinse your mouth and brush your teeth before heading out in one of his discarded shirts.

"Shit."

Miguel tossed things from the drawers and looked around. "Miguel?" You ask again, and he swivels to look at you. "Keep back." He warned, his teeth sharp and eyes glowing. One of his hands covered his nose and mouth, trying to keep your scent at bay. Miguel felt it had to be time for another shot. He had no idea you were having the same issue, like a tiger in a cage. All you could see was him, your body tightly coiled, ready to burst. Your skin itched, your bones tightened, and you struggled to form a coherent thought. The both of you stared at each other, wordless and trying to keep composure.

The scent of you was killing him. He could smell your sex and practically taste it with how strong your pheromones wafted over his olfactory sensors. This was different than when he was off his medicine. He wasn't hungry for blood. He was hungry for you. Every part of you calls to him like a lighthouse in the night. He wanted to nestle inside of you and draw your warmth for his own. In the same breath, he felt the powerful urge to breed you, to nest you, and to keep you safe.

His smell was doing almost the same to you. You had woken up with a new set of senses. You could see him better, hear him better, and smell him better. Your skin burned with desire, craving his own against it. An ache grew in your own jaws, the desire to sink your teeth into him and take him as yours, to cover him in your smell and ward off any others. To tell the world he was yours, only yours.

Something broke inside of you both.

Miguel came towards you as you rushed towards him and caught you in his arms. Your limbs wound around him like pythons as your mouths crashed together. The kissing was frantic and sloppy. Teeth against teeth, spit, and blood spilling from burst lips as you both fought tongue to tongue. He moves you backward, knocking you against the fridge and making you grunt into his mouth.

"Baby," you gasp, petting a hand through his thick, dark hair before gripping it like a vice. When you yank his head back, Miguel hisses. His red eyes are wild and teeth bare as he looks at you like an animal in a cage. "Fuck me."

Miguel takes you to the bedroom, bumping into various objects along the way as you devoured one another. He throws you down into the mattress - harder than intended - and you bounce and snarl. Something is different now. You feel alive, you feel *strong.* Baring your own teeth, you shift on all fours, lunging at him with your arms out. The bigger man catches you and throws you down again, and something in the bed cracks.

He descends upon you before you can retaliate. "You're an animal." His voice was breathless, amused as he grabbed your hips and flipped you face down into the mattress. Usually, Miguel controlled his strength to avoid breaking you. But now he grabbed you relentlessly, holding you down as he shoved the shirt up your back. "Gonna act like a wild bitch, I'm gonna fuck you like one." Miguel's voice was heavy with lust, growling out of his chest.

You struggle, but dip your back and widen your knees under you. While your new instincts begged for you to bite and mark him, they also simpered at being put in their place. Cunt leaking, you whine against the blankets. Miguel inhales, savoring your scent as he slaps your ass , claws out. The hit stings, making you lurch forward and shriek. Your own nails dig into the blankets, tearing them as you shove back towards him. Miguel watched the mark bloom on your skin, and he smirked as he cupped your mound and shoved in two fingers.

The heat of your insides is searing, and he gasps, pumping to the knuckle in quick, strong movements. You keen for him, shoving back to meet him as stars burst behind your eyes. "Fuck me, please." You couldn't recognize your own voice. The desire so strong you were certain you'd end up melting into the mattress itself. A chuckle rumbles behind you and you whine at the loss of those thick fingers, though you weren't empty for long. Miguel's cock forces inside, filling every inch of available space within you.

You two groan in tandem, and you shove back to force him to hilt. Miguel grunts, his large, calloused hands grasping your hips to start pumping you on his dick. His dark eyes honed in, watching your tight body swallow his length like it were made for him. The sounds you make are unhinged. Sharp cries mixed with breathless groans as he punches the air out of you. Your mind is white hot, and your cunt sears from the friction of him dragging within you.

"O-oh, o-oh f-f-fuck." You manage to gasp out between thrusts. The sound of your bodies plapping together nearly as loud as your cries.

Miguel grins, teeth flashing as a fist slides up your spine and grips into your hair. Grasping at the root, he curls his digits and yanks. Your face is pulled from the bed and your back in a deep arch as he continues to fuck you. "There's my girl. Look at you." He was panting too, his body wracked with the same heat that ravaged yours.

"I wanna feel you cum, princess." Miguel shifts his weight after a few good thrusts. Forcing your head into the blankets, he leans his weight over you and begins to rock harder. Pummeling your end with each pump, his hips colliding noisily with your ass. You are certain he might break you. Shrieking in response to the new angle, you drool and babble for him, his cock stoking the swelling bubble inside you.

You were babbling to him, pleading for him to stop - possibly from a force of habit - but also begging him to cum inside you. Miguel can't make it, and neither can you. As he collides his dick against the spongey, puckered hole of your cervix, you feel fireworks. Your cunt clenches down around him in a wave of convulsions so hard it nearly forces him out. Miguel holds your hips, no longer thrusting but pushing against you to keep himself nestled deep. The milking of your pussy tugs him over the edge shortly after you.

The hero bucks once more for good measure as he empties inside you. His cum hot and thick, painting your insides and saturating you with his essence. As you both catch your breath, you feel Miguel slip out of you and whine from his absence. Large hands flip you over, and he scoops you up. Settling back and leaning against the headboard, Miguel rests you in his lap. For just a moment you look at one another. Sweaty and flushed from sex.

You lean forward, hands on his shoulders as you steal one kiss, then another. Miguel chases your mouth with his own, his hands smoothing over your hips and squeezing before repeating the motion on your ass. "What has gotten into you?" He mutters into your starving mouth. You pause, a hand moving behind his head to grip his hair and yank his head back. Miguel flinches, looking up at you through lidded eyes.

"Aside from you? Nothing." You hum, admiring his jaw and the grooves in his cheeks. "That's funny." His voice was flat, but he did smirk. "Think you can go again, old man?" You release his hair to focus on sitting up on him. Miguel blinks, then nods, his hands back on your hips.

"Good boy."

When you both were fully spent, you laid in his arms. Miguel was watching the ceiling, listening to you as you rambled about trips you took outside the city. It all felt strange to him now. Your scent, your cooperation, the way you touched and looked at him. He couldn't place what happened - assuming maybe you had finally snapped. But that wouldn't account for your smell.

Breathing in through his mouth, he tasted your pheremones and felt his chest twinge again. He could feel those urges from before growing; to nest you, feed you, and protect you. Then, the pieces started to fall in place.

You getting sick.

The change in your smell.

The change in your behavior.

How you ached for him.

Miguel's mouth pressed to a thin line as he ran over all the facts again. Then again, and again. No matter how he tried to explain it, there was only one answer. His dark eyes flicked down to you, watching as you rubbed your face into his chest and sniffed at him. He watched your mouth open and the glint of your newly growing fangs as you nip at him. Miguel feels his heart begin to race, recognizing now that you were changing too.

There was no other explanation.

"Miguel? Did you hear me?"

The pound of his heart drowned your voice out. This had been what he wanted, hadn't it? To fill the void his daughter left? To find new happiness and move on, to have another chance?

Panic was building now. Everything was uncharted territory. You were changing, pregnant with his child(ren?) and he was going to be a father again. Miguel didn't register your little hands on his cheeks or the way you continued to say his name. All he could hear was the screams of people around him as their universe caved in. He could feel his daughter's weight fading from his arms, leaving him empty. Now you were pregnant and everything could go wrong.

How did he take care of a pregnant woman without getting caught?

Where would you go for check ups? It wasn't like an OBGYN worked in the tower. There were too many holes in his plan now, he would be risking keeping you to himself. He hadn't thought this part through. Now he could potentially lose you both - not to mention the complications of carrying mutant spider spawn.

"Miguel." Your mouth presses to his.

Eyes widening, he saw you. You sat on top of him, eyes big and face concerned. Miguel clasped your hips and held you close. "Where'd you go?" You ask, rubbing his chest. He stares up, watching for a moment before he sighs and takes your wrist. Pulling your hand to his mouth, he kisses your palm before pressing it to his cheek. "Long day at work, is all."

He knew lying to you wouldn't work for long. No doubt you'd realize sooner rather than later that your body was no longer just your own.

Miguel could cross that bridge when you got to it.

"I'm sorry." You mumble, shifting off of him. "Let's get some rest then. We can shower in the morning." Nestling yourself into his side, you stretch an arm over the expanse of his stomach and squeeze him gently. Miguel wrapped an arm around you and squeezed gently, his eyes still fixated on the ceiling.

It was going to work out.

It had to.

#miguel o'hara #spiderman across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara headcanons #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara headcanon #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #spider man 2099 #spiderman x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x reader

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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Broken Glass Chapter 5 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

TW: Allusions/emotional flashbacks to previous sexual assault/abuse. AGNSTY TENSION. Affection 'rehearsals' hehehe.The Colonel. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers. Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: PG-13? (but this story will eventually be Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: Oh, my darlin's, I'm sorry this took so long, but the next installment is FINALLY HERE! And it's hefty! Hopefully the ridiculous amount of angsty, yearning, slow-burny tension makes up for the delay. 😏 I think (hope) you're really gonna like this one cuz things start to get a tad steamier between our little Dolores and our handsome Elvis. Teehee 🤭 I honestly can't wait to see what y'all think of this chapter!

And thank you SO MUCH for the encouraging comments and asks coming in about this work. I was really afraid no one was interested in this one because it's such a slow burn, but y'all are giving it some love and that makes my heart sing! ❤️ Thank you for continuing to reblog, like, comment, and ask!

(BTW, I'm still working on fixing my masterlists and hope to have that done soon! Until then, you might want to visit my Wattpad or AO3, to catch up or reread...)

The physical pressure of hundreds of screaming and crying fans coupled with reporters shouting garbled questions has you feeling as though your head might burst. You don’t know how anyone could ever get used to this or find any semblance of safety in what seems like a riot waiting to happen, but even in his weakened state, Elvis smiles charmingly at the crowd. He seems unfazed by the way these girls reach for him with wild eyes, with a fervor unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Even more, the way he hesitates tells you he wants to stop in the throng to speak to them and sign autographs. You have to squeeze his hand and pull him towards the waiting train to remind him it’s not possible, not today anyway.

For the first time, you are grateful for the way his long, slender fingers wrap around yours, his hand tight around you. You fear if he lets go you will be lost and trampled by the crowd, unable to get on the train that will take you away from the hell that awaits if you stay. You try not to think too hard about the looks the fans give you, ranging between abject curiosity to outright jealousy from the way their idol grips you.

Finally, you all make it up into the large coach, and you let out the breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. You assume that Elvis will release you the moment you step into the relative quiet of the passenger carriage, but instead he wraps his arm around your waist in an intimate way that almost shocks you. It’s then, when you turn to shoot him a warning look, that you realize how pale he looks, sweat beading at his temples. He is using you to stay upright, to save face in front of everyone. Concern rolls through you. Looking over at him, your heart skips with anxiety of how to get him alone to check him out. But subterfuge is not your specialty and you falter.

Somehow, even in his illness, Elvis picks up on your dilemma. “Hey, we’re both tuckered out and are gonna get some rest,” he slurs out with a chuckle, emphasizing tuckered out and rest as though implying something completely unrelated to sleep. Normally, you would be appalled at the suggestive nature of the statement, but by the way he grips your waist as if his life depends on it, you know this has nothing at all to do with sex. He’s covering, giving you both an excuse to be alone.

Lamar gives Elvis what he thinks is a knowing grin, while the Colonel and Vernon try to hide the worry in their eyes.

Elvis clings close to you, leaning on you as he guides you towards the next train car. You suppose to anyone looking, his weakness is confused with affection for the way he places his head on yours and holds you tight. And all this might make you uncomfortable if not for the fact that you know he’s in distress of some kind. Your mind is already whirring with what you need to do, which takes away from the fact that you’ve allowed more physical contact from Elvis in the last few days than you would have liked.

But such is the job, you think. This incredibly bizarre and unbelievable job.

In the next car, you both stumble into the narrow hallway on one side as Elvis looks through the little windows and into the private compartments until he sees his things, along with yours, on the floor. You are a little surprised at the size of the room as you both lurch through the doorway, it being equipped with everything from two larger-sized beds, a sink, and what you assume is a small toilet behind another door. You’ve never seen anything like it, considering your experience of train travel is limited to the subway and the Long Island Railroad. If you weren’t so preoccupied with helping Elvis, you might stop to admire how the other half lives.

Thankfully, someone had already retrieved your luggage, along with your medical bag, from the car and hauled it onto the train. You are suddenly mortified at the assumption that you are staying in the same quarters as Elvis. And, worse, by the looks of it, it’s true. A sick feeling churns in your stomach when you realize this won’t likely be the only time people jump to that conclusion; in fact, it’s what the Colonel and Elvis want people to think. In your haste to get out of New York, you didn’t have time to think about how such things might tarnish your reputation.

What reputation? I’m already damaged goods.

You think you might vomit at that.

Elvis plops down on the edge of one of the beds, with a sigh of what you think might be relief. “You look a little green in the gills there, honey…you all right?” he gasps out.

His words yank you from your dismal thoughts. “I’m fine,” you snap, pulling the curtains closed. Covering your embarrassment with ire, you know he shouldn’t be worrying about you anyway, not in his condition. Then you rifle through your bag for your thermometer, stethoscope, and blood pressure cuff, placing them on the bed next to him.

“Sorry I asked.” He holds his hands up in surrender.

“How are you feeling?” you ask quietly, changing the subject. “How’s your breathing?”

“I feel pretty damn awful, but I ain’t breathin’ too bad,” he responds, breathless, looking up at you with glassy, innocent eyes. Going through your mental checklist, you feel his forehead and his cheeks with your wrist. He’s cold and clammy, and a little too pale for your liking.

“You’ve got to be honest with me, Elvis, or else I can’t help you. I can hear you wheezing,” you say, popping the thermometer in his mouth before he can rebut. He shrugs instead, batting those infuriatingly long lashes at you.

You place your fingers at his pulse point and watch the second hand on your watch. Doing the math in your head, you realize his pulse is faster and more thready than you’d like.

“Can you…?” you motion towards his necktie and shirt. He nods, gleaning your meaning, and shrugs out of his heavy coat and uniform jacket, throwing them off to the side. In the meantime, you remove your own winter coat. Luckily, the coach is warm enough that you feel comfortable but not stifled by the heat.

You pluck the thermometer from his mouth. “No fever, though your temperature is slightly elevated,” you tick off, shaking the mercury in the glass out of habit.

Elvis unties his tie, pulling it off unceremoniously. “That’s good, right?” he asks, while undoing the buttons on his shirt. You notice his hands are shaking slightly and his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

“Well, based on the state of you, I’m thinking you had a fever at the base,” you say with concern, “but, yes, it’s better that you don’t have one now.”

He pauses, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his white undershirt.

“All the way off, please,” you command, and he raises a perfect eyebrow at you suggestively.

“Usually, girls are a little more excited when asking me to undress,” he says coyly, his lip raising in that smirk of his.

You roll your eyes, trying not to think about that, and hold up the blood pressure cuff instead.

“Ooh, one of those kinky types, huh?” he winks with a chuckle, which quickly turns into a hacking cough.

“Is it possible for you to be serious for more than two seconds?” you scoff, annoyed at the heat that’s risen to your cheeks despite yourself.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with faux seriousness, saluting you. He bites his lips together to hide his smile as you wrap the cuff around his bicep.

You try to temper your annoyance with the fact that he’s going through a lot and managed to put on a performance of a lifetime in front of all those reporters and fans, considering how awful he must be feeling physically.

It’s actually rather remarkable, you think, that he has that kind of commitment and fortitude. The man could barely stand a day ago and has somehow managed, through sheer willpower, to get himself out of the hospital. The hospital he should still be in.

A wave of unease washes over you when you realize you are the only one managing his care for the time being. If something happens to him on my watch…The pressure of that responsibility feels almost untenable after seeing the hordes of fans outside. Your stomach rolls again.

Distracted, you are reaching for the stethoscope when you hear the sliding door begin to move. Your heart skips a beat with panic because no one is supposed to know what you are actually here for and with your medical supplies out, it will be quite obvious to anyone looking in. Frozen and wide-eyed, there is only a second to look at Elvis before he is springing into action.

A little yelp escapes you as he yanks you down sideways into his lap and wastes no time in pulling your head towards him. When you realize he fully intends to kiss you, your entire body tenses because Gianni suddenly flashes in your mind. Fear courses through you—not again, please, not again—and you cannot seem to grasp what and why this is currently happening. Gasping, you turn your head just in time for Elvis’ pillowy lips to meet your cheek.

His large hands grip your waist tight to him, not allowing you to jump away as you attempt to flee his lap. But when his soft lips travel down your cheek and continue downward, your body suddenly lights up as though he’s set you on fire, and not at all in a way you expect. Tingles alight under your skin, circumventing your fear as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, lips pressed into your sensitive skin. Your pulse throttles ahead, a welp escaping your lips, and you freeze.

“Hey, EP, do ya want me to—” Lamar says opening the door all the way. Upon seeing the scene in front of him, he exclaims, “Oh, shit, sorry, sorry!”

“Jesus, Lamar! What have I told you ‘bout knockin’ before enterin’?!” Elvis growls, ceasing his barrage on your neck and lifting his head to glare at his friend.

You are flushing with embarrassment and confusion. But it only takes a moment for your addled brain to finally catch up to what is happening, and as to why Elvis deemed it appropriate to start necking you with no warning in front of his friend.

“I’m sorry, man, it won’t happen again! Go ahead and go back to…whatever y’all are doin’,” Lamar fumbles with a chuckle, then makes a hasty exit, the door sliding shut behind him.

The moment the latch clicks, you launch yourself out of Elvis’ lap, pushing him back as you do so. You have no doubt that not even your olive skin tone can hide the furious blush blotching your cheeks.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?!” you hiss at him indignantly, straightening your dress.

His voice comes out low and rumbling in a way you’ve not heard before. “Little bird, you cannot go tensing up like that every time I gotta kiss on ya. Makes it look like I was forcin’ myself on ya, and I can’t have that,” he says firmly, chastising you, his accent thick.

“Wh-what?” you sputter in disbelief. “You—you, there was no warning! How was I supposed to know what you were thinking as you…” you wave your arm at him, as though that is enough to express your jumbled thoughts, “…did whatever that was?”

Elvis rises from the edge of the bed, his eyes darkening with what you think is frustration. Your breath catches in your throat when he crosses the small space towards you, and you desperately want to counter by stepping backwards, but you force yourself to hold steady.

“I did what was necessary to hide that you are in fact my nurse and not my girlfriend.” He holds his arm, the blood pressure cuff dangling from it. “I didn’t have many options.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, your mind putting all the pieces together. It was clever, really, how he managed to conceal the cuff and all your medical supplies by the way he’d pulled you into his lap. You’re not so sure the kissing and the necking was entirely required, though he was trying to sell the ruse in the best way he knew how. No one was likely to question Elvis Presley kissing on a girl in his lap.

“I know I surprised you but being my girl in front of others is part of the job. And if you can’t do the job you were hired to do, there’s still time to get off this train,” he says, deadly serious, pointing to the door, those seemingly endless eyes never leaving yours.

“No!” you squeak. The fear pouring through your veins reminds you of the fact that Elvis holds your fate in his hands. You clear your throat before quickly following up, “No, I can…I can do it.” You force yourself to hold his gaze, to show him you are serious, too, because you cannot go back. You’ll do anything not to go back.

Elvis’ eyes search yours for a moment, and he nods. Then he looks over you almost quizzically, eyes softening.

That is when you realize you are shaking, badly. Frantically, you clasp your hands together behind your back, hiding as much as much as you can, willing your body to stop showing such weakness. You close your eyes, mortified at your behavior in front of the man you now work for. Because, as he made perfectly clear, this is your job.

Heart still pounding against your ribcage, you know the forced encounter on Elvis’ lap triggered a cascade of terror bottled up from your sickening experience with Gianni only a few days ago. Feelings you are usually able to compartmentalize are running rampant inside you and you feel upside down with fear that Elvis will unknowingly send you back into the viper’s nest you are desperate to escape.

A gentle finger under your chin lifts it, compelling your eyes up and open. Elvis’ oceanic eyes churn with concern and lock onto yours.

“I will never hurt you, Dolores,” he says, voice calm but firm.

The intuition behind his words startles you and flays you open. Your wounds are still far too fresh for this, which can be the only reason, you think, that your usual carefully walled-off exterior begins to crack.

Men have always hurt you. This one should be no different. The man is a consummate performer, a master of manipulating the masses. You have no reason to trust him, not yet.

Other than the fact that I hold his life and reputation in my hands, a quiet inner voice whispers.

But for the first time, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, it could be true.

It’s hard to look into his soulful eyes and not believe that he is good.

He holds you there a moment longer, then releases you. Your breath shudders out and you turn away quickly, swiping away the tears welling in your eyes with your still shaking hands. You force a deep breath, then another, composing yourself before you straighten and turn back to him.

Walls back up, you nod and point to the bed. “Settle, so I can take your blood pressure,” you order.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles.

The more miles that are put between you and New York, the less constricted you start to feel, and that tension that Gianni or your father will magically appear and drag you back home starts to dissipate slightly. Watching the wintery landscapes race by out the window, you still can’t completely shake the feeling that danger is lurking around every corner though.

In this, you are incredibly grateful for the private coaches reserved for Elvis. It’s relieving that you don’t have to worry about Lamar or Vernon, or even the Colonel, a man you still don’t trust but you feel will not undermine you when he has nothing to gain by doing so.

Now that there is time to think, the hectic frenzy surrounding Elvis on pause for the moment, jumbled feelings about last couple of days creep up on you. After you’d quickly read and signed the Colonel’s contract, Lamar had driven you home mid-morning when you knew no one would be there to stop you from packing up your meager belongings.

You can’t help but wonder at your father’s reaction when you never came home from work, what he must have done when he found the letter you left on your dressing table, along with Gianni’s ridiculous engagement ring. The letter stated that you’d found a good job elsewhere and couldn’t in good conscience marry a man you didn’t love. There were no specifics—nothing about Elvis or even mentioning Tennessee. You figure it’s only a matter of time before someone gets wind through the press of where you’ve gone off to, but until then, you hope to put as much distance between you and your old life as possible.

Something tells you your room had probably been destroyed in a fit of rage.

You’d left notes and a little bit of money for your brothers in their rooms. There is an ache twisting in your heart that you didn’t get to tell them goodbye in person. You try not to be worried about them, as the twins are all but grown men and will protect Paul, if need be, though your father has never shown them the violence he’d aimed at you and your mother.

It’s unlikely anything will change for them anyway. After all, they’ve been groomed to serve in the famiglia since they were children. Tony is the only one who’d expressed a desire, other than you, to get out. But as much as it pains you to leave them, your little consolation is that the money might help if they wanted to go themselves. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, but the need to survive pushes you forward regardless.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, little Lo’?” Elvis plops down next to you, throwing his arm over your shoulders to pull you close into his side. He surprises you out of your thoughts and you jump a little in your seat. You are grateful to see that he seems better now, his color returned and his breathing normal. Your immediate instinct is to shrink away from his touch, but Lamar is sitting across from you both, watching closely enough that Elvis pulls you back towards him and grips you in the way that reminds you of the façade your job entails.

You let him hold you close, forcing a tight-lipped smile in lieu of the grimace that attempts to grace your features. “Oh, just thinking about how I’ve never been this far away from New York before,” you say, thinking on your feet. “I suppose I’m a little nervous about it.” It’s not a lie, you think, and it might explain your anxious behavior to Lamar. But after “catching” you and Elvis earlier, you don’t think Lamar even considers another option for your presence.

As the day and a half train ride to Memphis drags on, Elvis’ restlessness is concerning. You’ve told him he needs to sleep, or at least lie down away from the others, but he brushes you off at every turn. It’s not as though you haven’t worked your share of 24-hour shifts, but you don’t feel like you can truly rest until Elvis does—and he seems to interrupt you with conversation or bursting into song any moment your eyes begin to drift closed—that and his insistence to make an appearance at every train stop and his bouncing nerves have you irritable.

You are more than a little curious at the fact that he seemed to rebound so quickly after getting on the train and somewhat concerned that perhaps there is something more at play than you are aware of. Something behavioral? Pharmaceutical? you wonder. Or maybe he’s just excited to be going home. But you don’t know Elvis well enough yet to go throwing accusations and assumptions around. It doesn’t stop your analytical mind from trying to solve the puzzle, however.

This, coupled with your worry of what you’ve gotten yourself into and the need to keep your exhaustion at bay, has you distracted, to say the least.

So, when the Colonel corners you in the hallway of the sleeper car, your guard is down and you are not quite as prepared as you might usually be.

“Young lady, you are gonna need to improve your attitude towards our boy or else no one is gonna be convinced as to why you are travelling home with him! You think we don’t notice that every time speaks to you, you roll your eyes and when he touches you, you jump away like a startled cat?” the Colonel hisses at you. Gone is the silver-tongued man sympathetic to the plight of you completely changing your life in an instant.

Your heart catches in your throat. You didn’t think you were being that obvious. “I-I’m sorry. I am working on it, sir. I’m just not used to his-his type of affections,” you say, hating that a sliver of your fear shows in your voice because you know a man like the Colonel will use your weakness to his advantage at some point or another.

“Well, I suggest you get used to it and quick, or else we’re all gonna be in a world of trouble.” The way he looks at you suggests it is you who will bear the brunt of that trouble and your eyes go wide. “Do you understand me?”

“Oh, I’m sure she understands ya just fine, Colonel,” Elvis’ drawling voice comes from behind. You both whip around to look at him. “Don’t ya worry about a thing. I’ll get her situated before Memphis.” He seems so calm and sure of himself that you almost believe it.

The Colonel looks from Elvis to you and back again before he nods. “I’m sure you will, my boy,” he says with a warm smile, his demeanor changing on a dime. Elvis just looks at him expectantly. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He shoots you a warning glance before heading back down the tiny corridor.

Once he’s gone, you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, praying silently, Please, God, give me the patience and ability to do what needs to be done.

“Now, Little Bird, you need to come with me,” Elvis says, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the private compartment you share.

You jerk your hand out of his. “Elvis, you really need to get some rest before we reach Memphis, and so do I. You’ve been up for more than a day, and you can’t do that anymore, not in your condition. We can talk about everything else later,” you say, worn. You point to his bed as though that will be enough to mollify him while you try desperately not to think about the fact that your bed is in the same room as his.

He looks at you as though you’ve grown horns. “I ain’t sleepin’ right now, and no, this can’t wait till later cuz unfortunately, the Colonel is right. You’re as skittish as a cat and look like you want nothin’ to do with me, and everyone’s gonna get savvy to that real quick if we don’t fix it,” he says pointedly.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, your fatigue and insecurity gets the better of you. “And how exactly do you think we can fix this, Elvis? I’ve known you all of, what, three days? I’m not—I haven’t been the kind of girl who…” you trail off, stopping before you reveal too much of yourself.

He’s right, and you know it. You need to be better at this. You need to do better, for everyone’s sake. And you hate that you are the weakest link when you need to be strong. Elvis just looks at you expectantly.

Something finally snaps inside you. “I don’t know how to do this! I’m not an actress—I’m just a nurse! And I’m completely exhausted, a-and you—you! You’re like a little child who won’t go down for a nap, running yourself ragged, and you’re not making my job any easier!” you ramble into a shout, heart pounding and stomping your foot.

Silent, Elvis cocks his head at you, taking you in from head to toe. “Okay, then, you do this with me, and then I’ll try to sleep, no arguments.”

At this point, you’ll do almost anything to get the both of you some much needed rest. “Fine. But not just 30 minutes, Elvis. You need real sleep, and so do I, at least a couple of hours—no trying to get out of it to—to wave at fans.”

He huffs. He knows you’ve caught him out, but finally, he relents. “Alright.”

“Good. Now what exactly do you want me to do to fix this?” you ask, trepidatious but relieved that sleep is in your near future. You cross your arms over your chest.

“Alright, so, I remembered something an experienced actor helped me with when my costar and I got real nervous about sharing our first on-screen kiss. We was all stiff and awkward cuz we didn’t really know each other and were both a little shy and had never done anything like that before, and I kinda liked her a little…anyways, it was real weird,” he bumbles out excitedly.

You have no idea where he’s going with this, but you’re already feeling heady with the exhaustion and nerves, your patience thin.

“I was thinkin’, well, this is like a brand-new acting job for you, right? You ain’t never done this before and you’re not comfortable with me yet, but we gotta get you there cuz we’re shooting the scene real soon, ya know what I mean?” His blue eyes are bright and excited, and you think that, yes, maybe what he’s saying is starting to make sense.

You nod slowly.

“See, all we need is some rehearsal. A way to get to know each other without everyone watchin’,” he says. His body does that thing you’ve noticed—the one where energy seems to pulse through him and he has to move. His leg is going a mile a minute. Part of you wonders if he, too, is nervous about whatever this plan of his is, and you’re not sure if that is comforting or not. For a man as worldly as you assume him to be, he shouldn’t be nervous with you, of all people. Not when he’s been with movie starlets and models.

“Little Lo’, you’re gonna have to trust me on this…can you do that for me?” he says, stepping in close to you.

You can’t help the way you counter his proximity by stepping back, your eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. What are we doing?”

Elvis looks at you with a raised brow, waiting.

“Fine. I-I guess I’ll try my best,” you finally relent.

“Okay, good,” he says softly, stepping into your space. “Now you’re gonna touch me, nice and slow.”

“Excuse me?” you yelp nearly falling backwards in your haste to move away from him.

“No! No, not like that! Maybe I didn’t phrase that so good,” he says a little bashfully, and the pink on his cheeks tells you he didn’t mean it quite the way you took it.

“What exactly did you mean, then?” You hold your breath waiting for his answer.

“Well, you do have to get used to me being in your space, honey, but I realize it’s always me pushing in on you. So, I want you to get used to being in my space, to get used to touching me before I try to touch you. But not like what you was thinkin’ before, just affectionate like,” he scrambles to explain.

You aren’t used to affectionate touches. Touch of any kind, unless it’s related to your work, is usually uninvited and without good intentions. But he’s right, this is your job now, and maybe thinking of it as such will help you. And he’s being kind and thoughtful enough to try and give you a modicum of control over this strange situation.

Your heart begins to race. “How—I mean, what should I do?” you ask hesitantly, not at all sure where to begin.

“Well, maybe start with my hands, since you’ve held them before?” he says, quietly, as though he doesn’t want to spook you. His eyes are open and honest, and nothing about him conveys aggressiveness.

I’m safe. He won’t hurt me, you chant in your head. This is just part of my job.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, stepping towards him.

“Okay.” It comes out of your mouth as a whisper. Reaching out for him, you start to take both of his larger hands in yours but stop abruptly.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” you blurt out self-consciously, “or even been on many dates. That’s part of the reason why I’m not used to being touched by, or—or touching, a man.” You don’t know why you say it, only that maybe it’ll be enough of an explanation of why you are just so bad at this.

Elvis’ eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Really? A pretty girl like you hasn’t had one boyfriend?”

A flash of heat blazes your face at his compliment, which you push away. You scoff instead, “No boyfriends, and I-I can count the number of dates on one hand.”

“Your family religious? Or you just have strict parents or somethin’?” he asks, nodding, as if he knows all about girls and their strict, religious parents. But you are quite sure he knows nothing about la famiglia or the kinds of fathers who make men disappear for a living.

“Or something…and I didn’t really have time to date in nursing school. But the one man I went out with a couple of times, the one my father approves of, well…he’s not a good man,” you say quietly. Wringing your hands, you look away.

It’s all the truth you are willing to provide for now, and only because you think if you are going to try and trust Elvis, he needs to have some idea of why this is hard for you.

You look back to find his azure eyes narrowed, processing through what you’ve said, maybe putting some pieces together of why you act the way you do. There’s something almost protective in them, which shocks you, and then his eyes fill with concern.

“O-okay, then. I-I-I’m glad you told me. I-It, uh, makes more sense w-why you’re not used to this kind of thing,” he stutters. “Just take it slow. Get comfortable w-with me. I-I w-w-won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He seems more nervous than you now, and somehow that makes you feel better approaching him. You reach for his hands again, and they feel warm against your perpetually cold ones. Taking a deep breath, you settle into the feeling of his skin against yours.

This is fine. I can do this. This is easier than cleaning bed pans, you encourage yourself, your heart still pounding in your ears.

But now you don’t know what to do next and you look at him with panicked eyes.

His response is to bring his hands up, gently lacing his fingers in between yours.

Oh. Oh. This is feels more intimate than it should, but your logical mind tells you this is precisely the point of this exercise, for you to get used to it now and then outwardly show that you like it later. It doesn’t stop the other part of you from wanting to bolt from the room, however.

I’m okay. He’s not going to hurt me. Every woman I know would be clamoring at this chance to touch Elvis Presley. I can do this. I will do this, your inner voice chants at you.

After a moment, in this awkward position, Elvis clears his throat. “Um, maybe up the arms now?” he suggests softly. “Almost like you’re blind, sort of, like you’re trying to map out what I look like.”

Nodding because this actually makes sense to you, you begin trailing your fingers and hands up his long arms over his shirt. As you reach his shoulders, you realize you’ve done something similar when you helped him dress at the hospital. A moment where you had control and felt it part of your job. That gives you some confidence, knowing that you’ve done this before and it was fine, so normal you’d barely even thought of it at the time.

But now, hands on his shoulders, you’re not sure where to go. Down his chest feels very intimate and up around his neck feels even worse. You are breathing too fast, and then you feel it near your wrist—a steady thrumming. His heartbeat.

You are trained to feel and listen to heartbeats, and this focuses you, ripping you from all the terrible ‘what if’s’ of the situation: what if he hurts me? what if I can’t do this? what if he sends me back? You drag your palms from his broad shoulders and down his clavicle, seeking that solid touchstone of life. Thump, thump, thump.

It’s beating slower than your own anxious heart but a little faster than you’d like it to be from a clinical perspective. But the moment you look up into his eyes, you remember, this is not for clinical purposes. And you realize it’s not likely that the blush on his cheeks and the racing of his heart is related to his illness, but more so the fact that a woman is touching him in such a way.

Blinking rapidly, you look away from his openly dreamy eyes, forcing yourself to home in on that pounding beneath your palm. You take a deep breath, then another, trying to sync your heart to his. It staves off that brewing panic, enough to keep pushing forward past your comfort zone.

You remind yourself that when you started nursing, it was similar. You had to push through the fear of potentially hurting someone, despite your good intentions, especially in the beginning when you hadn’t known what you were doing. You’d had to push yourself to clean up disgusting messes without gagging. There were so many things you’d had to get used to that at the start felt insurmountable. This was the same, you reason, you just had to push through your fears.

Really? You’re going to compare cleaning up blood and vomit to touching Elvis Presley? your inner voice chides you.

It seems awfully silly when you think of it like that.

And perhaps that is what forges you ahead and makes you bolder. You guide your hands down his chest, feeling the heat of him under your palms, the slight ridges of his ribs on his decidedly lean frame. Without looking in his eyes, you circle your arms around to his back and step in as close as you can. The embrace is tentative at first, and you feel the way his breath hitches in surprise. It is only a second of hesitation before he wraps his arms around you in turn.

It’s foreign, this feeling of being held. You suddenly realize that it has been since your mother died that anyone has hugged you, truly hugged you, for more than a moment at most. Breathing in a shaky breath, you are enveloped by Elvis’ unique scent—a masculine but subtle, warm smell that is a far cry from the heavy, suffocating colognes of the Italian men in your life.

You close your eyes, pressing your ear to his chest, that thump, thump, thump a comforting lull to your overactive nerves.

Elvis is achingly gentle, barely touching you at first, until he realizes you are not scurrying away in your usual manner. Then he holds you a little tighter, a little closer, if only to steady you in this unforeseen moment of vulnerability.

He just feels so solid and steadfast in a time when you are feeling completely unmoored. An unlikely anchor in the hurricane of the past few days. For a moment, you allow yourself this small comfort. You are not sure how long you stay like that, timing your breaths to the beat of his heart. Probably longer than what is proper. But you are quickly coming to accept that this situation is far from proper.

You finally bring yourself to pull back from the embrace, knowing there is more work to do here, more ways in which you must launch yourself into the uncomfortable.

Seems like you were quite comfortable holding him, and with him holding you, your inner voice coos.

This is part of the job. It’s not like that.

Mhmm.

Ignoring that, you’re not quite sure what to do next, only that you feel a strange mixture of relaxation weaving its way through your anxiety. Elvis’ hands rest lightly at your waist, making no moves one way or another, as if knowing it could frighten you away.

I won’t be frightened. He will not hurt me.

It feels truer now, though it doesn’t stop the flutter in your chest when you loop your hands back around and up his regally long neck. Oh, it feels too intimate, the way your trembling hands trace up his chiseled jaw, his stubble rough under your fingertips. You can’t look at him, you just can’t face those handsome bedroom eyes while touching him like this, opting for examining him blind like he’d suggested. Your fingers flit over his impossibly high cheekbones, up the perfectly straight edge of his nose, mapping him in your mind.

He's safe. He’s safe. I’m safe. The mantra repeats in your head.

Of their own accord, your fingers cart gently into his wonderfully thick, soft hair, up and through, and it’s then that you hear the sigh escape his lips, the one you now suspect was held back this whole time. It ratchets up your heart rate, not because of your fear of what he could do to you, but because the sound sends a tendril of warmth down your spine.

The instinctive part of you wants to yank your hands away, but you don’t. Instead, you lean into the fear. While your fingers run through his hair, your thumbs fall down his cheeks until you are cupping his long face in your hands.

This is the moment you decide to open your eyes and look up at him. His eyes are closed, the look on his beautiful face serene. You are in awe of how gentle and trusting he is, and maybe that’s why you impulsively move a thumb up and over the soft bow of his upper lip.

His sapphire eyes flutter open in surprise at that, sending a shockwave of heat through you. As he catches you in his otherworldly gaze, your thumb snags on the fullness of his lower lip, dragging it down and opening his mouth.

You don’t know what’s come over you, but the feel of his hot breath on your fingertip has butterflies brewing in your belly in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s like a terrifying freefall and you pull back, almost ashamed, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t.

Your first instinct is to run, but Elvis catches your wrist, his grip firm but gentle.

“It’s good,” he breathes. “You’re doing great, honey.”

The praise is genuine, and a shaky wave of pride rolls through you at being able to face your fears about this.

“Now it’s my turn, darlin’. We gotta get you used to the other way around,” he says quietly, as if knowing this part will be even harder for you. As if knowing that your heart begins to race even faster than before.

All you can do is nod. Keep going forward.

“Okay. I’m a very affectionate guy, Little Bird, and I’m gonna be real clear for you what I’m gonna do here,” he says, looking into your eyes in a seriously. “I’m fixin’ to act like I would with a girlfriend, but I ain’t out to molest you.”

You’re not exactly sure what he means to do, but you forge onward, trying to relax. “A-Alright.”

He’s still holding you by the wrist. “I’m gonna kiss your hand now.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach at the drawled words, and not from fear.

Then he is pressing those soft lips in an innocent gesture, first kissing the top of your hand, then the palm, then the inside of your wrist. It’s sweet, the way he does it, the way he checks in with you with his eyes after each peck.

You forget to breathe. You expected fear, the need to escape that which feels foreign or threatening, but you did not expect any part of you to enjoy this.

Running his hands up your arms, he reminds you of the obvious. “Breathe, honey,” he whispers.

You do. In. Out. In. Out. It gives you something to focus on as your mind goes blank.

“Gonna move down now,” he narrates. His hands move one of your arms, then the other, up over his shoulders and around his neck, as if you might start dancing. As if you might lean up to kiss him. Your heart knocks against your ribcage and you just know he can feel it as his hands splay slowly down your sides, fingers around your back, tracing your curves. Thankfully, he doesn’t touch your breasts, just brushes past them on the way down, but it sends shivers down to your toes regardless.

You feel utterly exposed, that familiar panic blooming amongst the unfamiliar feeling in your belly. Elvis seems to sense your tension and steps into you, embracing you once more. You feel that anchor again as his tall frame engulfs you. It should make you more uncomfortable, pressed up against him like this, but it doesn’t. Then, his left hand brings your right over his shoulder and holds it there, directly over his heart.

Thump, thump, thump.

Somehow he knows that steady rhythm calms you. He holds you there for as long as it takes for your breathing to level off, which is a while because you feel dizzy with the scent of him, the warmth of him, with the feeling of being touched in a way that doesn’t make you want to run for the hills.

You don’t understand these feelings. You should be afraid. Your history has taught you to be afraid of men. But for some strange reason, this near stranger, this idol to the masses, makes you feel safe and that scares you on a whole different level.

“Doing so well, Little Bird,” he says, pressing his forehead against your own. The pet name you loathed a few days ago sits differently with you now since you’ve come to understand that he has nicknames for everyone in his life, some that make sense only to him. It sits differently now that he’s holding you like this.

Oh, Madone, he is so close now. You force yourself to keep your eyes open, to remind you this is not the man who hurt you. That Elvis is nothing like Gianni.

It’s alright, I’m alright.

You do not expect this battle between fear and arousal in your body and your mind when Elvis whispers he’s going to kiss your face and then he does, carefully pressing into your forehead like you might break under his touch.

You do not expect to feel angry at the fact he’s showing you how men can be so unlike what you’ve experienced, that not every one of their gender is filled with hatred and violence.

And you certainly don’t expect the sigh that escapes your lips when he kisses your cheek, or when he then follows with light kisses down your jaw.

He freezes at that. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Y-yes. I’m fine. It’s, uh, fine,” you stammer out breathlessly, feeling the way his lips turn up slightly into a smile.

It’s an act. You are both playing a role. This is a rehearsal, you recite desperately in your head as your body flames with a nearly unbearable heat. And as his almost-too-gentle lips light little fires on your neck, you know that you shouldn’t like anything about this, and not just because it’s part of your new job. But your body bends to his will of its own accord.

Elvis pulls back slightly, his face hovering close to yours, and pauses. Your hands are fisted in his shirt and the only thing that cuts through the pregnant silence of the room is the near-panting of your collective breaths.

“I am going to kiss you now, Little Bird,” he says quietly, so close to you that you can feel the puffs of warm air from his mouth. His voice rumbles down deep into your belly, coiling there.

You can’t even begin to respond, because the way his words send shooting warmth blooming out from your chest seems to clamp off any ability to speak.

Then his warm hand cups your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek. He hardly has to move to reach your lips, and when he finally does, it is so chaste and tender you barely feel it.

You expect to freeze or flee, for your heart to be filled with icy, dark fear.

And yet…

And yet you don’t and it isn’t because it’s nothing like what you’ve experienced before. It’s not the clumsy teenage kiss on prom night. And it certainly isn’t anything like the harsh, horrible kisses Gianni subjected you to. No, this is soft and something else entirely, something you can’t piece through in this strange little moment.

You let him kiss you, giving in easily, and while you don’t know if you truly kiss him back, you don’t push him away.

Then it’s over. Elvis pulls away slowly. You look up at him, dazed, topsy-turvy from the multitude of feelings washing over you, all at once. For a second, you see what you think is a similar look stirring in his eyes.

But then it is gone, replaced with the neutral surety and confidence of a performer after the director yells cut.

“You’re a natural, baby! Didn’t even run away from me once!” he ribs you with a stunning, wide smile, then he turns more serious. “Did it help? Do you feel better, like you can do that in front of everyone else without jumpin’ out your skin?”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s saying. “I, uh, I’m not sure? I-I think so, maybe?” you finally manage to get out. You are honestly not sure about anything right now, the ghost of his lips still haunting on yours.

Elvis furrows his brow a little, unsure of your reaction. “Well, it’ll get better with practice, don’tcha worry, lil’ Lo’,” he says encouragingly.

Practice? This is going to happen again?

Of course. Because this is a rehearsal. This is part of your job. The part of your job that now involves kissing Elvis Presley and pretending to be his girlfriend.

Coming back into yourself, you try sliding your walls back into place, willing yourself to be professional and unphased. “I’m sure it will,” you nod, stepping back and smoothing your skirt. “Now, time to rest. You promised,” you say, changing the subject and gesturing to his bed, praying your hand won’t shake.

He looks like he might try to fight you on it, but then seems to think better of it. “Fine. A deal’s a deal,” he shrugs, casually throwing himself onto his bed.

With a silent sigh of relief, you slip off your shoes and climb into your bed and under the covers on the other side of the room. There is no way you are undressing into your nightgown, not with Elvis just feet away, so this will have to do.

“At least a couple of hours,” you remind him before turning your back to him.

“Yes, ma’am, I hear you,” he grumbles.

Taking a deep breath, then another, you keep yourself from looking back over at Elvis. Despite your overwhelming fatigue, your body is buzzing like you’ve had one too many cups of coffee. You force your eyes closed, but you are hyperaware of the man being so close.

You’ve never slept in the same room as a man before.

It’s a day of all kinds of firsts, now isn’t it? you think sardonically.

You try to even out your breathing, the memory of Elvis’ steady heartbeat thundering in your ears. The spicy scent of him lingers on your skin. You can feel the way his solid warmth pressed against you in a comforting embrace. And all you can see behind your closed eyes is the how he looked right before he kissed you.

You think you may have liked it, liked all of it.

But it’s not real, you silly girl.

Praying for much needed rest, you bury your head in your pillow.

A sudden, stabbing guilt then slices its way into your heart as a hideous thought threatens to drown you:

What kind of woman am I if liked that so soon after Gianni hurt me?

It’s your father’s voice that answers…

Puttana. Whore.

Tears pour down your cheeks until sleep finally takes you.

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nanaosaki3940 · 9 months

Text

Then Kill Me... [Tokyo Revengers]

(Almost follows the canon storyline of TR & is up-to-date with the manga.)

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slight smut.

Pairings: Keisuke Baji X OC.

Status: Completed.

Note: A small snippet from my original Tokyo Revengers fanfic "A Condition Called Love". I know this is an xOC fic but you can read it as self-insert if you want.

TR masterlist

Intimate moments with Keisuke were always very passionate, romantic, wild, and fun; exactly just like how he was as a romantic partner. Moments with him were intense and vibrant, they were fiery hot. Keisuke always gave the best passionate kisses ever, with a lot of biting and grabbing. I remember during our first time together, he tried to be subtle and even delicate, but his aggressive nature eventually came out when he was desperate to consume the act. He wasn’t violent, nor a savage, but he would act mildly desperate and needy. I sometimes felt his eagerness but he always respected my limitations.

On the winter of my 17th birthday, when I slept with Keisuke for the first time and we lost our virginity to each other, I was so happy that I thought I was in a dream. It didn't seem real at all. The person I loved also loved me back with the same amount of intensity and passion. This was a miracle to me. It was destiny that brought us together.

While in the relationship, our love for each other was like a strawberry fruit – it was pure, innocent, and sweet; the one that anyone would kill to experience in their lives, the perfect blend, always had me craving for more. It was a flavor that danced on my heart like sunlight and left me intoxicated with its simplicity. Each glance, each touch, a ripened offering that whispered promises of forever. A taste that left me feeling alive and invited. A flavor that was as enchanting as a field of blossoms. An exquisite blend of passion and tenderness.

But at the same time, our love also tasted like the enigmatic allure of the Black Stone cherry-flavored cigarettes – it was dark, addictive, bitter but also sweet at the same time; the one that was insatiable and just couldn't shake away the craving, the toxic mix that could asphyxiate the life out of me. It was a sensation that I knew was both my escape and my downfall, a whirlwind of emotions that consumed me entirely. A paradox of pleasure and pain. A tantalizing mixture of craving and caution, of fire and fragility. A complexity that drew us deeper into the abyss. A taste that left scars as much as it left memories. An intertwining of hearts that defied understanding. A sultry dance with danger, where each inhale was a forbidden indulgence, and every exhale released a cloud of complex emotions that hung heavy in the air.

Like the fruit, our love was ripe with dreams and innocence, a delicate sweetness that wrapped around us like a warm embrace. And like the cigarettes, our love carried both darkness and light, a blend of cravings and regrets that defined our journey. In the tapestry of our time together, our love's essence was a strawberry's purity and a cherry's complexity. Each taste held a story, a chapter of us, written in the language of flavors. We were the architects of our own flavors, crafting a story that alternated between the tender embrace of sweetness and the intense collision of contrasting tastes. The contrast of these sensations painted the portrait of our connection – a masterpiece of contradictions, just as love itself often is and our souls became the canvas. In those moments of tenderness, we felt the innocence of a first taste, while in the depth of our passions, the darkness of the cherry flavor lingered, a reminder that love's journey wasn't always linear. And just as life's tastes are multifaceted, so too was our love – a composition of moments that evoked passion, nostalgia, and a hint of bittersweet yearning.

It was no secret to mankind how excessive saccharine and obsessive addiction were both hazardous to one's health. But we were addicted. We were in love. That’s how I described our connection to one another.

It was late at night when we finally reached our home after coming back from a dinner we were having with Chifuyu and Kazutora that evening. With the door closed behind us, everything fell apart as soon as Keisuke pinned me to the walls and slammed his lips on mine. Every kiss had a raw intensity - breathing fast, heart rated faster. Then before I knew how it happened we were completely naked and our skin was moving softly together, like the finest of silk.

His fingers danced all over my bare body while he continued kissing me from my inner thighs upward, slowly, his hands on my hips, always just a little higher than the kisses. My back arched in anticipation, knowing where his fingers would soon reach. My head rocked back against the pillow as he did, the first moan escaping my lips.

“Mine...” Keisuke growled out in a possessive tone, rough and sweet, placing kisses on my neck before traveling up my jaw and then kissing the edge of my lips.

The air around us was tantalizingly warm. It caused my head to spin and my body to grow limp but yet it felt good in its own way.

In that split second before his touch, every nerve in my body and brain was electrified. It was the anticipation of being together in a way that was more than words, in a way that was so completely tangible.

One touch from Keisuke was all over for me; it had always been that way with me. I felt electricity in my skin, hormones shutting down my higher brain, and the rise of my animal self. From there on in it was all passion, intense, intoxicating. It was my release, my escape, my drug. Not that I was easy. I knew well enough to avoid letting a man lay his hands on me. But Keisuke wasn’t just any other man; he was Keisuke Baji, my lover, my soulmate. With chemistry and real love, too many of my switches were flicked for a reverse gear to be possible. If I was smitten, then all I could do was go along for the ride and pray my instincts were right.

I had always been a one-man woman, always united in soul and body and so for me, sex was an expression of love, of the bond, an intimacy that stretched gracefully into the thoughts, dreams, and wishes. Once we were in love, everything we wanted to do is fun, it was the right kind of play and my imagination was wild.

Keisuke was my personal drug, my own brand of heroin. One touch and the intoxication were instant. Whatever he wanted to do was what we would do and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop him; not that I wanted him to. Just his scent was enough to send me into a heady trance, one that didn't end until our bodies were still once more, just warm and snuggled in as close as two souls could be.

In the quiet embrace of a moonlit chamber, our souls danced to a rhythm only we could hear. Our fingers brushed like whispered secrets, tracing constellations of longing across each other's skin. In his eyes, I was the embodiment of grace, my eyes a universe of unspoken desires, while to me, he stood as a pillar of strength, his touch a symphony of tenderness.

The room was adorned with the fragrance of vanilla and roses, an aromatic tapestry that mingled with our breaths as we drew even closer than before. The flickering candlelight cast a warm, golden glow, playing with shadows that painted our silhouettes on the walls. The air was charged with anticipation, an unspoken promise of vulnerability and shared passion.

Once again our lips met in a slow, tantalizing dance, a delicate exploration of the depths of affection we held for one another. Every kiss was a chapter in a story written by our hearts, a journey that unveiled our souls layer by layer. We undressed our souls, baring our vulnerabilities as we shed layers of doubt and inhibition. Our bodies moved with an intuitive rhythm, a dance of intimacy guided by the symphony of our heartbeats.

He traced the contours of my collarbone with feather-light touches, igniting a cascade of sensations that traveled through my body like a gentle tide. I responded with a subtle arch of my back, inviting him to explore the landscape of my skin, a canvas that held the traces of our shared history. His hands wandered, gentle yet confident, as if they were composing an ode to the beauty that lay before him.

As I felt his hands parting my legs for him to enter, our tongues entwined in a kiss, and then he was inside, changing my breathing with every movement, hearing my moans timed to his body. Then all at once he stopped moving and began to kiss from my lips to my stomach, his hands light like a feather; then he was licking and using his fingers all at once, watching my reaction, feeling how my legs moved, watching my body writhe away. He told me he was going to make me beg for it and I just let out a moan, unable to articulate a response. I couldn't move even if I tried like his fingers had short-circuited my mind in the best possible way. In seconds he was on me again, moving harder inward, just long enough to intoxicate my mind once again.

Our skin was amber in the streetlight. The orange glow flooded through the unguarded window, yet without a light on in here, we were quite safe from prying eyes. Keisuke always made our sex so much deeper and sensual like how his hands gently alighted on my face, moving down past my collarbones and my brain was already on fire; he was my devil with fingertips of hell flame.

In these moments, Keisuke loved me with his eyes as much as he did with his body, our souls mingling in the quiet moments between action and stillness. The cool room already felt warm. It was hard to hold back, to make the moment last. Wasn't it always the way, so caught between the intoxication of the climax and extending a moment we never want to end?

As our bodies intertwined, a symphony of sighs and whispers filled the air, harmonizing with the melody of our love. Time seemed to stand still, the world outside fading into insignificance as our souls merged in a delicate ballet of affection. Each caress was a sonnet, every touch a verse, and our union an exquisite masterpiece of connection.

Keisuke’s fingertips were electric, they must be, for wherever they touched my skin tingled in a frenzy of static. As his hands moved over my skin, my body had a transitory paralysis, my mind unable to process the pleasure so fast. His head moved around to my left ear and he whispered what was coming next. Suddenly my body was off pause mode and I pulled back for a kiss that was both soft and hard. Hungry and passionate; his tongue pushed into my mouth as he kissed me back, desperate and needy. Both of us were moving in an intoxicated dance of limbs, never making the exact same moves twice. He was my cat nip while I was his whiskey on ice.

Our fingers caressed each other's skin as if afraid a heavier touch would break the heady magic. We became one, one mind with one goal and purpose, each utterly drunk with love for the other. There was something about him that lit me up from the inside. There was something about me that melted his confidence to nothing at all. Touching him was like being handed the holy grail like my heart was mended even though I never knew it was broken.

Keisuke Baji was the only man on earth for me, the only one who could breathe fire into me even when I was cold.

As the night deepened, our bodies found solace in each other's embrace, a symphony of sighs and gasps resonating in the hushed darkness. Our movements were now unhurried in comparison to before, a seamless ebb and flow of energy that built and receded like the gentle waves of an ocean. In this intimate choreography, time became an abstract concept, no longer tethered to the ticking of a clock. We were lost in a world of sensation, of heightened awareness, where every touch ignited a fire that blazed and flickered, casting shadows that danced upon the walls, a celestial ballet of hearts and souls, culminating in a crescendo of emotion that left us breathless and complete.

In the aftermath, as we lay tangled in each other's arms, the world outside seemed distant and insignificant. Our gaze held a depth of understanding that surpassed any words that could be spoken. And in that quiet moment, we knew that they had experienced a love that transcended the physical once again, a love that had painted our souls with the colors of eternity.

Our souls intertwined, they surrendered to the tender passion that enveloped us, a fusion of hearts and bodies that transcended mere physicality. It was a symphony of love written in the language of touch, a harmonious blend of yearning and fulfillment that left us breathless, sated, and forever bound by an unspoken bond that would forever grace the corridors of our souls.

In the room that was twilight and shadow, Keisuke’s bare body hovering over my own one was close enough for me to breathe in his scent and sweat. His arms were wrapped around me and in one gentle pull, our skin touched. I felt his hand in my hair, how he loved the softness, before pulling me into another searing kiss. Then his hand gently moved down my cheekbones to my jaw and that was when the kissing started to get even more intense. Our movements were like the partners in a dance that was written in our DNA. Our bodies fit together as if we were made just for this, to fall into one another, to feel this natural rhythm. With a small chuckle, he pulled away from the kiss and we locked eyes for just a moment, just enough for us to feel safe with one another.

“What do you say, Nana? Wanna do it?” Keisuke asked, kissing down my neck, biting softly in between the pecks.

Pulling away, his bronze-colored eyes stared down at me with love and lust while his long, wavy raven locks dangled on my face, tickling my skin. At that moment, Keisuke smelled like sandalwood, sweat, and sex and yet managed to look like a Greek God. I reached out and pushed away his hair from his face, giving him an amused look.

“Again? Are you some kind of pervert? This is problematic.” I replied with a small sigh.

“I am not talking about that.” He snapped with a small frown. “I'm talking about us getting married.”

Hearing that my eyes widened in surprise. For some reason, Keisuke had been asking me to marry him soon after we graduated from high school but I brushed it away to the side, not giving too much of an intention. Keisuke had always been an impulsive and reckless man and this whole marriage idea of his was just proof of that.

“Impossible.” I scoffed, looking away with sass and he scoffed back at me before softly grabbing my face with his right hand, giving my cheeks a light squeeze.

“If you don't marry me, I'm gonna die!” he fired out.

“If you wanna die, then die and go to hell!” I shot back.

In response, he moved his right hand from my face and wrapped it around my throat. Leaning down to my face, his lips hovered over mine, barely touching as his eyes sharpened at my sight.

“If I die, then I'll bring you along with me to hell.” He growled out, feeling his male part pressed against my sore lady part.

He moved his left hand and intertwined it with my right one, his love-lust-blown pupils gazing down into my own ones, challenging me, teasing me, testing me. At that moment, my heart stopped and my mind went blank. Keisuke always had this effect on me and I hated him for that. I was so in love with him that I didn’t know how to say no to him, ever.

“Then kill me...” I whispered back into his lips.

Keisuke Baji was the only one who knew how to take my breath away. And he always took it away roughly yet lovingly. I hated him for that but I couldn’t stop myself from falling for him even more than before.

Pleased with my response, Keisuke wasted no time and shoved himself inside me once again, moving hard and swallowing my whimpers and whines of pleasure with his kisses, his plush lips sucking and licking my own ones. Our body chemistry was off the charts and somehow we had both lit TNT and a fine bottle of wine to savor.

Both of us were almost about to die from suffocation and about to reach heaven together. Maybe I was also a pervert myself after all.

Read the entire fanfic on Quotev and Wattpad -

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alexihawleys · 2 months

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Hey!! There's been a lack of Chenford promo/sneak peaks for this ep?! Thoughts/expectations...

listen...tv being this accessible is so wild. it makes me feel soooo old. like, tv has never been this accessible prior to an episode airing in the history of the format. the idea that we see press photos and releases and 10000 sneak peeks and spoilers is just so...bleh. i'm not into that. it can be fun to follow but idc about anyone's speculation but my own, other people's thoughts/expectations stress me out and i honestly very rarely share my own bc they just get me hate mail ✉️

i miss when the only thing i knew about an episode of upcoming tv was what i read in like, tv guide. i realize this is such an old lady take but as a person who loves the art of tv writing, i just feel like all this shit does the story such a disservice. think about the fact that until like, 10 years ago, honestly a little less, we didn't really see hoards of press photos for every single episode. we didn't see a bunch of sneak peeks so we knew what was to come. sure, there were spoilers, but idk - i yearn for tv to be able to operate in that oblivious space again, i hate knowing what's coming for an episode and forming expectations bc i'd rather just...enjoy television. it's honestly sad to me bc all this shit has changed the way tv works, the way it's written, etc.

anyway all of this is to say: there's been a lack of promo/sneak peeks in general for this ep. that's not abnormal, it just feels weird coming off 2 weeks in a row of a season premiere/100th episode level of hype. the chenford element of it is also not weird to me. they're 2/8 main cast members. other people are going to get the sneak peeks sometimes, just gotta roll with it. if you like the show, it shouldn't matter. ngl, i hate seeing chenford in sneak peeks bc then not all of the content is new for me. i'd so much rather be surprised.

i'm sure there will be some chenford content since there are press photos of them together and we know lucy will wind up riding with celina/tim from spoilers when they were shooting this ep. i'm personally hype not to have to go into this ep assuming i know anything. having all these preconceived notions, imo, is not a healthy relationship with tv so i just try to avoid doing it at all.

tl;dr: i have no expectations of this ep, i'm sure i'll like it bc i like most episodes of this show. i don't think it's weird there's been a smaller amount of promo bc we're coming off two major episodes and i enjoy the rookie without solely caring about chenford.

#anonymous #ask #chenford #the rookie #i'm tagging this bc this is a chenford ask but honestly watch me just wax poetic about living in the dark for a while #sorry if this sounds mean i am just really tired of having Thoughts And Expectations about everything lately lol #i just wanna watch my stories and take a nap

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starshine-wagner · 11 months

Text

Kodak Moment

Pairing: Danny Wagner x Reader

Summary: You decide to document a special moment during drum practice with Danny.

Word Count: 1,200

Warnings: swearing, slightly suggestive content

A/N: This is a re-upload to move it from my old blog to my current blog.

"Dammit," Danny huffed. He slammed one of the drumsticks down onto the snare and took a deep breath, stretching his fingers. He'd been trying a new bit on his Age of Machine line, but just couldn't seem to get the beat right. The two of you had been there for the better part of an hour.

"If I'm being honest, I didn't notice that it was o-" you started, but Danny cut you off.

"I did," he bit back, "And Jake did last night. And Josh will be up my ass about it soon enough."

You knew enough not to be too hurt by Danny's reply. It wasn't that he was frustrated with you. He was just a bit too hard on himself, sometimes. With a sigh, you sat up from your spot on the ground next to Danny and wandered around the stage while he continued practicing.

You paid a visit to Sammy's little Plato statue. You thought it was endearing that he kept a little buddy to keep him company on stage. He told you the story of how he got the figurine sometime last year, but, if you were being honest, you hadn't totally been listening.

It was before Danny and you had been dating and, with Danny sitting across the room, you had no chance at really hearing what Sammy had to say. Between stealing yearning glances at his best friend and feeling the butterflies flutter in your stomach, it truly was a lost cause.

You dragged your fingers across the keys, noticing that the stagehands had already set Sammy's his incense for the night. He'd been trying different scents lately, but, after a sniff, you determined that you weren't too fond of the one he'd picked for tonight. It was too musky for your taste.

Being on the stage was like taking a little peek into Danny's mind. You enjoyed watching him in his element, especially up close. Of course, during a show, you'd never be able to really see what it was like. But, during these little pre-show sessions, you could at least get a taste. Looking out into the empty seats, you felt a pit in your stomach and were immediately brought back to your 3rd grade piano recital. With a shudder, you turned back to Danny.

Just then, he let out an animalistic yell and, at first, you couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

"Let's fucking GO!" he shouted. You raised your eyebrows to him in silent questioning. "That one was damn near perfect," he nodded. Running up behind him, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. That's when your eye caught it. One of the disposable cameras the fans so oddly loved.

The guys had really gotten into the whole disposable camera trend this tour. You thought it was a little silly, considering they all had cameras with 10x better quality in their pockets at (almost) all times. But, they enjoyed messing around with them. They'd always be sure to have one on stage on the off chance that Josh decided to fool around during one of Danny's drum solos. And, of course, the fans went wild anytime he'd take pictures on stage.

You quickly released Danny from your hold and skipped to the front of his drum stage to reach down and grab the camera.

"Think Josh will mind?" you asked, lifting the camera into his view.

"It's fine. But what for, baby?"

You spun the gear on top of the camera until it was locked and loaded, and then aimed the lens at Danny, just as he was checking to see a notification on his phone. Probably Jake checking in. The flash went off and he whipped his head back up to you.

"You didn't tell me to pose!"

"I didn't want to! It's to commemorate you getting that part just now. That way, the next time you doubt yourself I can make you remember," you said with an all-knowing smile.

"Gimme that," he said, reaching his arm out to you from across the kit. He was glistening with sweat, but you don't think the camera captured it well. It couldn't ever really capture his beauty.

He turned the knob and aimed the lens at your face just as you went to pull a stupid grin.

"Absolutely perfect," he murmured. Once more, you came around to his side and tapped his thigh, letting him know that you wanted a seat. He spread his legs open just enough so that you could sit and face him.

"You know, they really should make these stools bigger," you thought.

"Well I don't think the manufacturers are typically envisioning more than one person on the seat, Y/N."

"Touché" you responded, kissing his breastbone. When you pulled your head back up, his thumb caressed your cheekbone while his other hand held you securely on his lap.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he frowned. "I shouldn't be short with you when you're just trying to love me."

"Thank you, Danny. You know I understand, but you're forgiven." Now it was your turn to admire his cheekbones. You had already helped him paint a pair of small triangles under his eyes in preparation for tonight's show. Though you admired your work, you admired his natural beauty even more. "You're a pretty boy, you know..." you reminded him.

"Yeah?" he smirked. "Pretty?"

"Very pretty," you murmured just before you moved to take his lips in yours. His hand moved down from your face and wrapped around your neck, applying only the slightest bit of pressure. He went to move it down further when you let out the smallest, barely-noticeable moan at his gesture. He rethought his decision and decided he liked holding your neck best. Your hand made its way onto his for just a moment before you had a bright idea.

Not breaking the kiss, you reached behind your back to grab the disposable Danny had placed on the snare. Silently winding it up, you stretched your arm out. Before he recognized what was happening, you'd snapped a photo of your little heated moment. Danny, once again surprised by your photography, pulled back.

"I don't think this is quite what they were envisioning when they coined the phrase 'Kodak moment', babe," he said, chuckling.

"Well," you started, running your hands down his chest, "I was thinking earlier. Sammy has his little tokens on his stage. Josh has his props. And Jake... well, Jake is too busy playing with his eyes closed to see anything else. But, you don't have anything personal with you on stage. Nothing to keep you, like, grounded."

He listened intently, his eyes still glancing at your lips, clearly wanting to get back to business. "So, once we get this developed, maybe you can keep it with you. You know, I can tape it to one of your stands or something..." you trailed off. The more you spoke, the more self-conscious you became.

Danny was silent for a few beats before his gaze met yours through his eyelashes.

"I mean..." you braced yourself for a pang of rejection. Maybe he didn't want to have that kind of thing with him at work. The right side of his mouth twitched up as he continued, "I mean, I think we can do a little better than that, yeah?"

Oh. Oh. The self-conscious knot in your stomach turned into something... else.

And so, back to business you went. The two of you made very good use of the next few minutes and the last few exposures on that roll of film.

Josh didn't need that camera anyway.

#Danny wagner #Danny gvf #kiszka #gvf fanfic #gvf fic #fanfic #fanfiction #Daniel wagner #fluff #Danny fic #Danny wagner fanfic #Greta Van Fleet fic #Greta Van Fleet fanfic #Greta Van Fleet fanfiction

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a-bold-departure · 2 years

Text

New Photos from ‘Beetlejuice: The Musical’ Show The Ghost With The Most Is Back and Better Than Ever [Exclusive]

“This is a great example of how we took some of the source material from the cartoon series of Beetlejuice. The story point here is that BJ is psyched that the Maitlands are about to die. But how could we show that in a totally blown out kind of way? The animated series was full of visual gags (mostly pun based) and so this was certainly an homage to the wild and zany cartoon side of our musical. Also…here’s a fun fact…the popcorn and soda are flown in daily from a small boutique snack shop just outside of Budapest. It’s the only way I can authentically play this moment. Sure, the audience would never know that…but I would. And I think it just really makes the moment work. I’m picky like that. I’m also kidding.”

–Alex Brightman, Beetlejuice

“My favorite scenes from the animated “Beetlejuice” television series were the ones where Beetlejuice and Lydia tried to one up each other. And, in this picture, Beetlejuice is similarly trying to con Lydia and using every persuasive method he can think of to get her to say his name three times, but Lydia continually out-smarts him.”

– Alex Timbers, Director

“The iconic shot and line from the show. There was just no way we were going to leave “it’s showtime” out of the show. We’re not that crazy. Originally the line came right at the beginning of the show, but where it is now is so much more of a climactic moment. And it really hits with audiences…they go crazy for it. I love this part because it’s the moment BJ gets exactly what he wants. And there’s just something emotional for me about someone (or something) getting the thing they’ve yearned for. However, in this case, it’s used to a villainous end. Also…here’s a fun fact…I am inside that table for the entirety of the scene. No trap doors. No secret entrances. I’m wedged into that table for a solid 9 minutes.”

-Alex Brightman, Beetlejuice

‘Let’s go home.’ “This line has a great significance in the show as Lydia is constantly questioning where she belongs and what home truly means. She is grieving the loss of her mother and in that grief feels incredibly isolated and alone. However, on her journey, she finds that there is love all around her and that family/home can be “a little unconventional.” This moment is her emotional release and as an actor I look forward to it each night. Lydia experiences a lot of pain throughout the show, and to let go of that huge weight is a beautiful thing. It makes me emotional each night—knowing that many can relate in some way. And to show that it is possible to come through the other side.”

–Elizabeth Teeter, Lydia

#beetlejuice #betelgeuse #lydia deetz #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice broadway #alex timbers #alex brightman #elizabeth teeter

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emotionallyattachednerd · 5 months

Text

𓆩 Progress + Life Update 𓆪

Evening beautiful goblins!

Hope everyone is doing well nearing the end of this year, which by the way is completely inase just how quick it's gone by. Seriously, it feels like it was only April last week. 😲

Giving a small update where I am with my requests and writing. Again, I'm sorry for the delay, its taking me much longer to finish requests than I had anticipated. Lately I've been staring at the screen thinking hard over scenarios for each one, before realising I have been staring for like a hour and I haven't writen any of that wicked shit down, like I just thought magic fairies were going to come along to write them all out from my head. 🧚

It all comes to that I'm unmotivaed to write, I'm too tired, or I'm distracted doing other things in my life. There's never enough time for everything sadly. Just have to plot along as the days pass. 👍

On top of all that, I'm currently looking after a orphan joey ( wallaby ) which I use to do years before, than this chance came to me again, and it's been a wild ride with the little girl, very active and never likes being alone, something I'm working on so I can release her when she's old enough. 🦘

Below is where I am with requests. 📝

⬇️ Writing Requests Queue ⬇️

Progeny | TP Soundwave x f!human reader ✔️

Firefly | RotB Bumblebee x f!human reader ✔️

Stress Release | IDW Rodimus x f!robot reader ✔️

Only Human | TP Ratchet x f!human reader ✔️

The Beasts Rabbit | TP Predaking x f!robot reader ✔️

Pet Play | TP Predaking x f!human reader ✔️

Speed of Light | TP Smokescreen x f!human reader ✔️

Hot Delight | IDW Rodimus x m!robot reader ✔️

Seeker Allure Part 2 | Starscream x Skywarp x Nova Storm x f!robot reader ✔️

Eternal Soul | IDW Rodimus x f!human reader ✔️

Darkness Lust | IDW Helex x f!robot reader ✔️

Zesty | TP Bumblebee x f!robot reader ✍️

Yearning | RotB Mirage x f!robot reader ✍️

On Break | IDW Starscream x f!robot reader ✍️

Nutrients | IDW Megatron x f!robot reader ✍️

Sweet Honey | G1 Bumblebee x f!robot reader ✍️

I'm hoping to get them finished before Christmas/New Year. After that I plan to keep requests closed for a short time so I can focus on some of my own wips that have been sitting around for months, and finally update another story on Ao3 which is well over due for that.

That's all for now. Fingers crossed I can do more progress this week. A million times over again, thank you all for oyur beautiful support and kind feedback. I love this community! ❤️

#transformers #writers on tumblr #life update #slowly getting there #smutty writing #wheels are in motion #GROUP HUG

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thefandangos · 5 months

Text

I've been mulling over the thought of a new legacy style challenge to do now that For Rent has released (in addition to my premades gameplay). So I jotted down a few notes and before I knew it, a legacy was born.

I wanted something with a bit of randomness in it and so this wheel when spun, will decide which generation will be played in which order.

Spin once before creating your founder, then spin again when your legacy heirs are pregnant with their firstborns or deciding to start a family. You may wish to use the generation colours as name inspiration or names inspired by the generation theme. Reroll any previously played generations, or copy and edit the wheel to remove them as you progress.

Only one mandatory trait per generation, the others can be randomised or chosen. But all children of that generation must have the mandatory trait, not just the heir. I mean, you never know when you might lose an heir, right?

Your founder sim may start with the full 20,000 simoleons and buy or rent their first home. Outside of the mandatory trait and allowed aspirations for the rolled generation, they can be entirely of your own creation. The legacy family are not confined to one lot, they may move to any neighbourhood that makes sense for the story you are playing. You can keep other family members on the lot, or not, as you wish.

RED - Generation Love

Romantically minded since your teen years, you feel incomplete without another sim on your arm, whether that is your Mr/Ms Right or your Mr/Ms Right Now!

Aspirations - Serial Romantic, Soulmate, Villainous Valentine

Trait - Romantic

Career - Either one of the GTW careers or the WFM careers. No rabbit holes for you.

Goals

Follow your sim to work every day or work from home

Attend every Romance Festival from when your sim is a teen and onwards

Leave at least one sim at the altar

Complete the message in a bottle collection

Woohoo in all possible locations (animal shed, boardwalk ride, photo booth, observatory, sauna, hot tub, bed, tent, shower, waterfall, closet, pile of leaves, sleeping pod, coffin, party bush, Brindleton Bay Lighthouse, Rocketship, Money Vault, Dumpster, hot spring, ice cave, treehouse)

Either lose your soulmate early in life (to death or affair) which turns you into a Serial Romantic or Villainous Valentine, or sow your wild oats in your teen and young adult days before finding your soulmate as an adult/elder.

Have at least one unplanned child via risky woohoo (MCCC) and fight for primary custody if the baby is not born within your household.

Create a paternity test situation if using the paternity module from lumpinou’s RPO mod

Incur Agnes Crumplebottom’s wrath at least once

VERMILLION - Generation Create

You yearn to create something extraordinary and live the kind of bohemian lifestyle you've always dreamt of.

Aspirations - Painter Extraordinaire, Musical Genius, Bestselling Author, Master Actor, Master Maker, Lord of the Knits

Trait - Creative

Career - You can make your money from any creative pursuits, career or freelance.

Goals

Complete Artistic Prodigy, Creative Genius or Slumber Party Animal child aspiration

Complete the Holiday Crackers and Decorative Eggs collection

Set up a stall as either the Flea Market or at a Community Space (or sell online on Plopsy) to sell your wares

Hang out at Thrifttea regularly throughout your teens, attend at least one Fashion Show, Amateur Comedy Night or Poetry evening

Marry another creative sim

Have three children over the course of your life

If completed Bestselling Author aspiration, write a Book of Life and bring someone back from the dead

If completing the Musical Genius aspiration, get to lvl8 in handiness and craft your musical instrument on the woodworking table

Max three of the following traits: handiness, painting, violin, guitar, piano, pipe organ, DJ mixing, singing, knitting, cross-stitch, juice fizzing, fabrication, acting, writing, photography, nectar making

Create a creative club (book club, life drawing club, punk band, improv club etc) and hold weekly meetings

Let one of your kids’ friends move in

ORANGE - Generation Food

Food and drink are your raison d'etre.

Aspirations - Master Chef, Master Mixologist, Expert Nectar Maker, Appliance Wiz

Trait - Foodie

Career - Food Critic, Culinary, own your own restaurant or food stall, maybe even an online cookery vlogger. If it’s food and drink related, you can do it.

Goals

Work as a Fast Food Employee or Barista as a teen

Complete the Experimental Food Photos collection

Win the Spice Curry Challenge at the Spice Festival

Marry a sim who works in a restaurant you have visited, or a food stall you’ve frequented, or who is in someway connected to the food industry (pizza/grocery delivery person or food critic all count)

Unlock and complete the Grilled Cheese Aspiration

Max at least three of the following: Baking, Cooking, Gourmet Cooking, Nectar Making, Mixology, Juice Fizzing

Quit your career as you become an adult and open your own food or drink related business (or if you already owned your own business, sell it and get a new food related job)

Kill someone with Pufferfish Nigiri (on purpose or by accident)

AMBER - Generation Travel

You have been bitten by the wanderlust bug and spent most of your childhood dreaming of all the simlands you wanted to visit. Now that you are older, you just can’t seem to stay in one place.

Aspirations - City Native, Beach Life, Mt Komorebi Sightseer, Fount of Tomerani Knowledge, Jungle Explorer,

Trait - Dance Machine + (optional) Child of the Islands

Career - Freelance or Part time jobs only or errands and odd jobs to make money. For example, a freelance travel photographer would be a great idea.

Goals

Marry a sim you meet on your travels in a destination wedding

Complete all the above aspirations

Retire to your favourite travel destination

Complete Buried Treasure, Seashells, Omiscan Treasures, Ancient Omiscan Artifacts, Snow Globes, Posters collections

Live in each sim world for at least two days each and visit both vacation worlds before you retire.

If you have Child of the Islands, perform the summon Island Elementals, befriend one, invite them to move in and have a child with them for the sulani mana inherited trait

Max Photography and have a collection of photos, one from each world

Visit Sylvan Glade and the Forgotten Grotto

YELLOW - Generation Animal

You can’t resist making friends with all animals everywhere and in fact, you prefer them to other sims. Your love for animals was ignited the day that your parent bought you your first pet.

Aspirations - Friend of the Animals, Country Caretaker, Championship Rider

Trait - Animal Enthusiast (or Dog Lover/Cat Lover/Horse Lover/Rancher if they are more appropriate to the storyline)

Career - Own either a farm, ranch or a veterinary clinic

Goals

Own a Hamster, Rat, Pygmy Hedgehog or Bubalus as a child

Make friends with the monster under the bed

Always have at least one animal in the house from child age upwards

Complete Village Fair ribbons collection, if your sim owns their own farm, alternatively win at the Finchwick Fair

Complete the Feathers collection

If on a farm play with the simple living lot trait

Have only one child because you are more interested in your animals (other risky woohoo offspring are also ok)

Have higher relationships with your animals than the sims in your life

Have your spouse leave you/cheat on you because they feel neglected and immediately adopt three cats

Create an evil chicken and a golden chicken

CHARTREUSE - Generation Nature

You find an overwhelming sense of peace in the great outdoors and could never stomach an indoor job.

Aspirations - Freelance Botanist, The Curator, Angling Ace, Outdoor Enthusiast, Eco Inovator

Trait - Loves Outdoors

Career - Civil Designer, Conservationist, Gardener,

Goals

Become a scout as a child and teen

Befriend birds or rabbits

Romance the Hermit from Granite Falls

Become a Plant Sim temporarily

Complete frog, fossils, fish, insects collections

Take a vacation every summer in Granite Falls

Max flower arranging and kill an elder sim with a death scented bouquet

Have an outdoor wedding and marry someone you met in Granite Falls

Max herbalism skill

Use Elixir of Fertility before trying for a baby

GREEN - Generation Wealth

Money is what excites you - earning it, spending it, keeping it in vaults safe from other sims are all hobbies you enjoy immensely.

Aspirations - Fabulously Wealthy, Mansion Baron, Market Magnate, Five Star Property Owner

Trait - Materialistic

Career - Business, Criminal, Tech Guru, Salaryperson, Military, Own a retail business

Goals

Work two part time jobs as a teen

Marry an elder, rich sim

Have a butler

Complete the Simmies collection

Conceive all your children in a money vault

Invest in property that you rent out

Build a community lot for every child you have and name it after them

Donate to charity weekly

Have at least one divorce

Start a Super Secret Rich Club for Rich Sims (simBilderberg, s’illuminati, the Sims Templar, the Freesims, the Rosimcrucians) and build them a super secret Bohemian Grove community lot.

TEAL - Generation Family

You’ll never be happier than when you are surrounded by family. Parents, children, spouse are all doted upon equally.

Aspirations - Successful Lineage, Big Happy Family, Vampire Family, Super Parent,

Trait - Family-Orientated

Career - Any (Education, Law for example)

Goals

Complete Voidcritters collection

Work as a babysitter as a teen

Marry your childhood sweetheart

Have either twins or triplets

Always attend the Festival of Youth

Adopt a sim

Volunteer as a family every weekend

Have a family reunion social event once a season

Renew your vows as elders to celebrate your ridiculously long marriage

Win a Karaoke Contest

BLUE - Generation Body

Your body is a temple and that’s why you leave the boots on the outside. Alongside your wish for bodily perfection you have always cultivated a keen interest in space. The rigors that the body must endure to cope with space travel, as well as alien physiology, fascinate you.

Aspirations - Bodybuilder, Extreme Sports Enthusiast

Trait - Active

Career - Astronaut, Athlete, Secret Agent, Military

Goals

Complete Rambunctious Scamp, Mind and Body or Playtime Captain child aspiration

Learn to ride a bike as a child

Attend either Cheer, Football or Soccer Club as a teen

Max out the rocket science skill - who said athletes were stupid huh?

Build yourself a garden rocket

Marry an alien

Conceive all of your children in space

Complete the alien, space print and space rock collections

Workout every day and max the fitness skill

Start a jogging/power walking club and meet weekly

Complete the fire challenge on the climbing wall without getting burnt

Go Rock Climbing, Skiing and Snowboarding at least once

Visit Sixam

VIOLET - Generation Friend

You want to be everyone’s friend and whether you are the life and soul of the party, the kindest, sweetest soul or just the sim who is scared of being alone, people tend to flock to you.

Aspirations - Joke Star, Party Animal, Friend of the World, Neighbourhood Confidante, Leader of the Pack, Good Vampire, Discerning Dweller

Trait - Outgoing or Cheerful

Career - Any (Politician, Athlete, Business, Police or any other charisma based careers)

Goals

Complete the Social Butterfly or Slumber Party or Playtime Captain child aspiration

Make a childhood best friend who must stay a best friend throughout your life

Join the Cheer team as a teen or have a Lifeguard part time job.

Complete the Postcards collection

Never live alone

Romance the Statue Busker

Marry one of your best friends

Throw one of every party type that is possible on the lot you live on

Throw a social event weekly

Have more than three children

PURPLE - Generation Paranormal

Growing up you always had a vague feeling in the back of your mind that the world held secrets from you. And now you are older, you are determined to find out what they are!

Aspirations - Purveyor of Potions, Vampire Family, Master Vampire, Spellcraft & Sorcery, Strangerville Mystery, Good Vampire, Werewolf Initiative, Celebrity Psychic(custom career by adeepindigo), Master of Mysticism (custom career by adeepindigo)

Trait - Pick one from Paranoid/Erratic/Geek/Loner/Nosy

Career - Freelance Paranormal Investigator, Fortune Teller or Mystic(spellcaster only), Military

Goals

Move into a haunted house or apartment, or make your house haunted

Solve the Strangerville Mystery

Marry an occult sim

Have an occult baby

(optional) Become an occult sim yourself

Befriend a vampire, alien, werewolf, mermaid, spellcaster, ghost and the Grim Reaper

Complete Moonwood Relics, Magical Artifacts, Sugar Skulls collection

Summon Bonehilda

If a werewolf, find and marry your fated mate and have a dormant wolf or greater wolf blood child

Start a Council of Occult sims

MAGENTA - Generation Deviance

Is there something inside you that is broken? Or are the other sims just soft, weak losers? You delight in subverting expectations and going your own way. You can’t seem to help hurting others or poking your nose in where it isn’t wanted. Will you get your comeuppance?

Aspirations - Public Enemy, Chief of Mischief, Villainous Valentine, Seeker of Secrets

Trait - Evil or Kleptomaniac or Mean. Pick at least one.

Career - Police and Criminal

Goals

Complete Live Fast teen aspiration

Complete the MySims collection

Start your career in the Police

Romance and marry your boss

Fall in love with a criminal, divorce your spouse and marry the criminal

After the wedding, quit the police force and join the criminal career

Attend the Humour and Hijinks Festival and win for the Pranksters

Have a lifelong nemesis and get that sim eaten by a cowplant

Start a bowling team and bowl weekly

WHITE - Generation Health

Early on in life you realise the need for a calm mindset despite it not always coming easily to you. You prioritise a holistic approach to health and feel that mind and body are equally important to sim well being. You are especially motivated to share this revelation with other sims you meet.

Aspirations - Inner Peace, Self-care Specialist, Zen Guru

Trait - High Maintenance or Vegetarian

Career - Doctor or run your own spa/yoga studio

Goals

Complete Rambunctious Scamp, Mind and Body or Playtime Captain child aspiration

Complete the Gardening collection

Have a Father Winter baby

Have a Lighthouse baby

Meet the Tragic Clown and woo them by wearing a tragic clown outfit to cheer them up. You must marry wearing matching tragic clown outfits, photos are mandatory. You can then both change out of clown clothing for the remainder of your lives should you wish to

Make a stockpile of jam for future generations

Become a yoga instructor and hold weekly classes

Meditate daily

Max the wellness skill

BLACK - Generation Brain

The pursuit of knowledge is all important to you, whatever your chosen field and you are certain that no life can be well lived unless you graduate from university and continue to learn throughout life.

Aspirations - Renaissance Sim, Nerd Brain, Computer Whiz, Master Vampire, Archeology Scholar, Spellcraft and Sorcery, Academic

Trait - Genius

Career - Scientist, Tech Guru, Engineer, Law,

Goals

Complete Whiz Kid or Mind and Body child aspiration

Complete Goal Orientated teen aspiration

Must attend Chess Club or Computer Club as a teen

Must go to University

Marry a fellow university student

Max Robotics and make a servo

Have a science baby

Get abducted by aliens

Complete geode and microscope collections

Always help your children with homework and school projects

Visit Sixam, if working as a scientist

GOLD - Generation Fame

You just know that one day, you are going to become a star, winning awards and adored by everyone you meet.

Aspirations - World Famous Celebrity

Trait - Self Absorbed or Ambitious or Overachiever

Career - Provided it gives you fame, you can do it for money! (Athlete, Entertainer, Freelance, Painter, Style Influencer, Tech Guru, Social Media, Actor)

Goals

Must attend drama club as a child and teen

Complete Drama Llama or Admired Icon teen aspiration

Can only marry another celebrity

Have one celebrity baby

Be involved in a celebrity scandal/drama

Win a Starlight Accolade

Complete Crystals, Metals and Elements collections

Create and sell a trend on Trendi

Start an exclusive celebrity club focused around a hobby of your choosing

You can do as many, or as few generations as you want just so long as you let the Wheel of Fate decide each and every time!

#simblr #ts4 #sims 4 simblr #sims 4 challenge #sims 4 legacy

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queerofthedagger · 1 year

Text

Merlin Bingo 2022 Masterlist

It was a bit of a scramble at the end there, but I blacked out my card for the @merlinbingo for a second year, ey! Unlike last year, I got it into my head to fill them all with fics and also grab all the bonus badges along the way, because apparently, I like to make things difficult for myself—who knew?!

Once again a huge thank you to the mods for running this, as well as to everyone who reads my stories! This is one of my favourite fests in this fandom, and I can't wait for the next round <3

Without more rambling from me, a list of all 25 bingo fics beneath the cut ✨

don't you love the way (I drag you down)

[Merlin/Arthur | M | 2,3k]

M1: Betrayal | Canon Era

Merlin smiles, mirthless and grim as he bares his throat. “Come on, then,” he says, voice dripping with a taunt. “Are you not going to kill me, my Lord?” The bile is back. With it, nausea roils in Arthur’s gut. The silver blade glints in the dim evening light, orange and pink and shadows dripping off of it; a stark contrast against the virgin white of Merlin’s throat. ___ They have never been good at talking, exactly, but if anyone had asked Arthur how he thought this would go, the answer would not have been magic, a dagger, and the release of year-old tension.

brittle parchment, scattered truth

[Arthur & Ygraine | G/A | MCD | 1,5k]

M2: Pen Pal AU | Canon Era

But you are my child, and so you deserve the truth. ___ Five letters Queen Ygraine wrote to her son, and one letter that was written in response.

run deep, run wild

[Elyan/Gwaine | T+ | 1,3k]

M3: Bookstore AU | Modern Era

Viña del Mar is a city of flowers and fountains, of gleaming, towering buildings, and the ocean an ever-reliable constant against rocks and sand. He can see how Elyan, of all people, would like it here; for the first time since this little game between them started, Gwaine yearns to find him. To not only chase him, through foreign cities and more or less obscure literary references, but to dig his fingers into sun-kissed skin and hold on to it, too. ___ Elyan leaves him clues in bookstores around the world, waiting for Gwaine to catch up. There is nothing Gwaine would rather do.

The First Pride Was a Riot

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 5,1k]

M4: Hugs | Modern Era

The first pride was a riot, and Arthur stands amongst the wreckage of glass on cobblestone. He stands amongst blue and purple and pink, amongst all the colours of the rainbow, and Arthur— —well. All that Arthur can think of is Merlin. ___ The first time Arthur goes to a pride march, he doesn't feel like he belongs, doesn't think that being bi has to change anything. The first time Arthur goes to a pride march, he meets Merlin, and it changes everything. As it turns out, Arthur discovers that perhaps, change isn't such a bad thing.

On Bending, Breaking, and Mending

[Merlin/Arthur | G/A | 2,3k]

M5: Napping | Canon Era

The teasing remark is already sitting on the tip of Arthur’s tongue but suddenly—suddenly, Arthur is so very tired of this game between them. For months now it has felt as if they have fallen out of step with each other, as if anything either of them said always just landed slightly wrong. He is so very tired of walking on eggshells around Merlin, each and every step questioned a hundred times. He is so, so tired of watching Merlin work himself to the bone and wondering whether he is the right person to say anything about it. ___ Merlin is Court Sorcerer, Albion's Golden Age is right on their doorstep, and still, things between them are anything but alright. Sometimes, the most obvious answer is the one most difficult to see.

bleed the truth (I will never re-undo you)

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 4,2k]

A1: Tattoo Shop AU | Modern Era

Loath as Arthur is to admit it, there still is a part of him that has never moved on from the sixteen-year-old boy who let his best friend stitch black ink in disorderly letters across his skin, and let those same hands press him into messy sheets after. That has never moved on from the enormity of it, not in seven years, and he can’t help but think that if there is to be a chance to salvage even a fraction of it, the gesture has to be as grand as it all had felt, back then. “He knows,” he repeats, his voice firm, and the girl across from him watches for a beat longer before she shrugs and writes him in for an appointment two months from now. ___ They say to be careful about what you get inked into your skin; Arthur has never been particularly good at not being reckless, even less so where Merlin is concerned. It might take seven years and some detours, but in the end, it does all pay off.

What If You're Someone I Just Want Around

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | MCD | 2,9k]

A2: Secrets | Canon Era

Arthur has always known that Merlin is keeping secrets. He has known it when Merlin stood up to him in a marketplace, eyes full of defiance and not a shred of fear to be found. He has known it when Merlin swung a mace at him even though it was clear that he had never handled one before, refusing to cower before anyone, prince or not. He has known it when Uther had made Merlin his servant, and Merlin looked as if he would walk out of Camelot right then and there. From the first day they’ve met, Arthur never wanted anything more than for Merlin to consider him worthy of each and every part of him. ___ Sometimes, you love despite, not because. Sometimes, finding out does not change anything.

Nothing Left to Prove

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 6k]

A3: Gym AU | Modern Era

“Your father really is a prick, huh?” Merlin says, approximately three streets later. Arthur smiles and tips his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of sunlight on his face. He throws his arm around Merlin’s shoulder to pull him close and says, “That he is; luckily for me, I have an amazing boyfriend who somehow thinks I’m a damsel in distress.” Merlin laughs and wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist, his eyes bright in the tentative sunlight. Arthur thinks that the best decision he has ever made was to antagonise a random guy in a gym, and getting put on his back for it without any mercy. ___ Or, five times Arthur appreciates Merlin's skill, and one time Merlin makes good use of it.

Like Honeyed Summer Days

[Arthur/Lancelot | G/A | 700]

A4: Protectiveness | Canon Era

The point is, Lancelot has never considered himself a religious man, but he is sitting in a clearing, late summer blooming around him, and there is a king lying with his head in Lancelot’s lap, hair spun gold and eyes closed with trust. There is a king lying in his lap, face turned into the palm of Lancelot’s hand, and the small smile quirking his lips is so content that Lancelot fears he will choke on the happiness of it all.

Live for the Hope of It All

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 2,3k]

A5: Innocence | Canon Era

Arthur shrugs, tilting his head to look at him. “Are you mad?” “Oh, you—” Merlin says, pinching the bridge of his nose; it is solely for the sake of hiding his smile, Arthur can tell. “Of course, I’m not mad, Arthur. This is very stupid, but it is also very, very sweet which makes it, conveniently, very you. A little bird whispered to me that, unfortunately, I might be slightly fond of that.” ___ August days, a stealthy plan to make sure that for once, Merlin will take a break, and the heaviness of memory that tends to come with late summer days. Arthur wouldn't change it for the world.

Since Avalon

[Merlin & Kilgharrah | T+ | 100]

G1: Kilgharrah | Canon Era

Merlin knows when Kilgharrah dies.

gentle bite

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 100]

G2: Paddles | Canon Era

Impact; count out loud; rush of gold and warmth.

Four Anniversaries and a Bust

G3: Free Square | Modern Era

[Merlin & Arthur | T+ | 6k]

“Let me get this straight,” Arthur says, once he calms down. “You want me to spend my birthday at some kind of restaurant that I could most likely pay with less than what I make in an hour, for a piece of free cake, pretending we are a couple?” Merlin pulls a grimace and shakes his head. “Not really, obviously; I’d miss out on the cake before I pretended to be your boyfriend—” “You’re lucky that you are just as aro as I am; otherwise, this would be insulting as fuck.” ___ Merlin discovers that, apparently, there are restaurants who give out free cake on people's anniversaries. Really, there is no reason why this shouldn't apply to the anniversaries of a friendship, too. And if he and Arthur decide to stretch the definition of what counts as an anniversary a little—well, no one has to know, right? Right.

sacrifices (freely given; intolerable)

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 2,3k]

G4: Whump | Canon Era

Well, the thing is that Arthur does not want to die. He wants countless nights like this, Merlin’s steady breathing solace against his side. He wants to find out if Merlin would let him tilt his head up, what he would taste like, beneath Arthur’s lips and his tongue and all the raving hunger. He wants the sun-soaked mornings and Merlin’s cold hands reaching for him, and he wants to never again see the red of Merlin’s blood well to the surface. The thing is that, more than anything, he wants Merlin to be safe. Unfortunately, the reality of Arthur’s life has always been that the people he loves are safer the further they are away from him. ___ The Questing Beast injures Merlin, not Arthur. This changes nothing, and it changes just about everything.

My Golden Crown of Sorrow, My Bloody Sword to Swing

[Gwen/Morgana | T+ | MCD | 2,5k]

G5: Deals with Demons | Canon Era

You can help me,” Morgana breathes, and she still does not understand. Gwen smiles, and she does not feel like a queen. She feels like a goddess, ichor burning through her veins. “I could,” she says, smiling down at Morgana. “But do you really think that, after everything you have done, I would?” ___ Gwen finds Morgana just before she dies. Morgana has taken almost everything from her, and there are things Gwen has left to say.

Felix Culpa

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 1,5k]

I1: Lawyers AU | Modern Era

“God, but I hate you,” Merlin chokes out, and it sounds horrible. It sounds like a lie, and the shattering truth of the matter is that Arthur has always been excellent at sniffing those out. There is a reason why he makes a great lawyer. Merlin simply wishes that things were different, at least in those rare moments where he admits it to himself. Ironically enough, most often that happens when he is drunk, or when he is about to come; ironically enough, it is still Arthur who, more often than not, is responsible for either. ___ It is bad form to hook up with the competition; it is worse form to keep hooking up with your ex. Somehow, Merlin's questionable life choices might lead to something good—great, even—anyway.

Golden As I Open My Eyes

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 2,9k]

I2: Frottage | Canon Era

In the end, it is for the best. In the end, these are the truths that he knows: Merlin has once been his friend. Merlin would never betray him, loves Camelot more than he loves himself. Merlin has always believed in their destiny above anything else, and Arthur— Arthur has always believed most in Merlin. ___ Sometimes, the unravelling of secrets is the easy part. Sometimes, what is most difficult comes after; how do you relearn something that you thought you knew better than yourself?

An Instruction on the Virtue of Patience

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 1,4k]

I3: Orgasm Denial | Canon Era

It has been a week; Arthur stopped considering himself above such things as begging somewhere halfway through. ___ Merlin is of the opinion that Arthur needs to learn some manners; Arthur is the opposite of complaining about the employed methods.

Bad Choice of Words in my Alibi

[Merlin/Arthur | M | 22,2k]

I4: Issues | Canon Era

“I never believed that you would betray me,” Arthur says, because Merlin knows him, even if the same might not be true the other way around. Merlin could tell when he was lying, when he was lashing out to protect himself, long before a bond tore down all the defences Arthur so carefully erected around himself. “Do not pretend that you ever believed me capable of truly hating you. I could not, no matter how much I may want to.” The way Merlin’s face twists reveals that there is another story there, and words echo within Arthur’s head, guttural and ancient—a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole. He wants to laugh at the truth of it, at the absurdity of it all. Here they are, a prince and a servant, Uther Pendragon’s son and one of the most powerful sorcerers to ever walk the earth—caught up in a fight over who possesses more devotion, who is going to ruin themself for the other’s sake first. ___ One hot summer day and an ill-advised kiss leave Arthur with an incomplete soul bond, panic about all his secrets coming to light, and the question of why Merlin is so afraid of Uther. Actually, scratch that—why is Merlin afraid of him?

Insult to Injury

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 3,1k]

I5: Secret Siblings/Evil Twins | Canon Era

Perhaps that is why he feels bereft now, magic just another trivial matter between them; Arthur prefers his baths scalding hot, and Merlin loves blueberries. Arthur secretly hates killing more than he mourns his mother, and Merlin actually has magic. They both love each other more than they were ever meant to, but as long as they do not speak of it, they can ignore the cataclysmic consequences. Merlin doesn’t think he can bear it, to leave it as yet another unspoken truth between them. That this will not be what breaks him. ___ On a grief-soaked day in November, Arthur reveals that he knows of Merlin's secret. Except. If only it were that easy.

Romance, Romania, and Relocation (the Dating, Dragons, and Disaster Remix

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 3,8k]

C1: Selfless | Modern Era

Arthur thinks of how Merlin has always been too selfless for his own good, and the tabs in his browser that catalogue the history of a dream he has never once told Arthur about, but that Arthur knows the shape of, all the same. ___ It isn't possible to raise a dragon in London, once it is past a certain size. Arthur and Merlin struggle to separate from Aithusa after the first year, though, no matter how much they both know that it's for the best. Sometimes, unconventional problems require unconventional solutions, and Arthur thinks Romania is rather beautiful, really.

Still I Surface in Morning Light

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 11,4k]

C2: Bodyswap | Canon Era

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice has calmed, but there is still steel in the substructure of it. “You asked me to conjure fire; tell me how you've got the burn scar on your chest.” It is everything Merlin can do not to laugh, hysteria gathering in the hollows of his teeth; of course, this is the scar that Arthur would ask about first. “No. Ask about another one.” ___ An attack gone wrong leaves Merlin and Arthur stuck in each other's bodies. While Merlin thinks the most complicated part is that Arthur ends up with his magic, it does not take long until he is reminded that it can always, always get worse.

We Could Be So Good

[Merlin/Arthur | T+ | 5,1k]

C3: Insults that mean I Love You | Modern Era

A fragile, reckless kind of hope replaces it in the hollow spaces between Arthur’s ribs. He lets it grow, lets it twist around his bones, and then he keeps it there. Merlin is still going to leave in less than two days, and something might have changed between them, but Arthur— Well, perhaps, Arthur has missed his chance. The hope that things could have been different, the bittersweet regret of it, is better than the risk of rejection, of jumping now only for twelve months and an entire ocean to destroy it, after all. ___ Five times Arthur thinks that he and Merlin could have something amazing but doesn't make a move, and one time Merlin finally does.

Mine (pronoun; possessive)

[Merlin/Arthur | E | 1,4k]

C4: Marking | Canon Era

Tomorrow, Arthur knows, he will wear the marks with the same ease that he wears his sword with. He will press his fingers to them throughout the day, will relish the dull pain of them even as the court gossips behind his back, and let it settle something restless within him. ___ Arthur is used to how everyone treats the body of a prince as something not entirely his own; Merlin decides to do something about it.

our glinting, bloodied legacy

[Tristan & Ygraine | G/A | MCD | 800]

C5: Tristan de Bois | Canon Era

Ygraine marks her time in Avalon by the threats to her son’s life, and how many of those are preceded by an easy movement of the wrist that carries the blade aiming for his heart. ___ The rise and fall of a kingdom and its bonds, told through the spin of a sword.

#bbcm #bbc merlin #merlin fic #merlin bingo #mona's writing #unlike what the card suggests it's not exclusively merthur altho it is. mostly that #looking at this gives me a specific mixture of pride and 'bitch are you good??' but alas #enjoy??

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