#doing drawing exercises when I struggle with a drawing
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Thank you for tagging me for Wip Wednesday @cookietastic! I am practically made out of wips and sketches.
Mostly I have unfinished drawings of mini comics, they take a lot of time to do lol. Tagging @maya-must-art @keylime-bat-art @necrocoleum @ectospacecadet if you wanna join, but it’s no pressure! 🕺
#wip wednesday#wips#sketches#my art#a lot of these have been around for months#especially the top drawings#I usually go back to#doing drawing exercises when I struggle with a drawing#and abandon it for awhile until I’m comfortable with it again#(especially when it involves perspective)#it’s not Wednesday but let’s pretend airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars#ocs
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Suptober - Day 2;
Pillow Talk
#suptober22#suptober#destiel#spnfanart#spn fanart#destiel fanart#wiggleart#YALL IT TOOK WAY TOO LONG TO FIGURE OUT A SIDE PR OFILE#I’ve been struggling with it since I started with this style but I feel like I finally figured it out#including me doing a small character turn around model while drawing this#lmao#also doing lighting when you just have ink brushes is haaaaard how do people do this#I’m so used to using color and blend modes and my pencil brushes#so this is a good exercise#inktober#inktober22
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A/N: this small thing drew inspiration from a recent conversation I had with my wonderful @indignant-alpaca, delving into the common struggles faced by students across various disciplines. Despite our diverse fields of study, we all encounter similar challenges sooner or later. Drawing from my own experiences, I decided to craft a variation focused on enhancing the learning process, using one of my favorite characters, Bakugo, as a source of inspiration 💣
MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST
In class
Be actively involved in class discussions and activities. Katsuki would assertively participate, ensuring he grasps concepts firsthand.
Treat each class as a competition to stay engaged. Challenge yourself to excel, just like Bakugo's competitive spirit drives him to be the best hero.
Don't hesitate to ask questions when you're unclear. Katsuki would demand clarity, and you should too! It's a proactive approach to understanding the material.
Observe and analyze the teacher's explanations and demonstrations. Katsuki assesses his opponents' moves; similarly, analyze the "moves" in your lessons for a deeper understanding.
Take dynamic and concise notes. Katsuki strategizes in the heat of battle, and your notes should capture essential information for later review.
Studying
Approach your study sessions with intensity and focus. Katsuki's training is high-intensity, and your studies should match that energy.
Divide your study time into focused blocks for specific subjects. Master each "arc" before moving on to the next, just like Katsuki hones specific skills.
Work on problem-solving exercises regularly. Katsuki tackles various challenges, and you should too. Practical application reinforces theoretical knowledge.
Utilize interactive study methods. Katsuki learns by doing, and hands-on activities or simulations can enhance your understanding of complex topics.
Plan your study sessions strategically, focusing on high-priority subjects during peak concentration times. This approach mirrors Katsuki's tactical approach to hero battles.
Channel your inner hero by immersing yourself completely in the subject matter, just as Katsuki immerses himself in his battles.
Break down complex topics into smaller components for in-depth understanding, similar to how Katsuki analyzes quirks of his opponents to identify their weaknesses.
Learning attitude
Cultivate a hero's mindset. Set ambitious goals and view your studies as a heroic journey toward self-improvement.
Develop resilience in the face of challenges. Katsuki faces setbacks but emerges stronger. Treat academic difficulties as opportunities for growth.
Believe in your capabilities. Katsuki exudes confidence, and a strong belief in your abilities can positively impact your academic performance.
Be flexible in your approach to learning. Katsuki adapts his fighting style, and similarly, adapt your study techniques to different subjects or challenges.
Regularly reflect on your progress. Katsuki analyzes his battles for improvement; evaluate your academic journey to identify areas for growth.
Learning, Bakugo-style, means embracing the fact that doubters will always exist, no matter your achievements. Instead of seeking external validation, channel that energy into mastering your skills and gaining knowledge for your own growth. The focus should be on personal improvement and the satisfaction that comes from overcoming challenges, rather than proving yourself to others.
Periodically review past material to reinforce your knowledge. Katsuki often reflects on his battles to improve his combat strategy. Apply this concept to your studies for a solid foundation.
Test yourself regularly to identify weak points. Katsuki constantly challenges himself in battles to enhance his abilities. Use quizzes to gauge your progress and strengthen areas where you struggle.
Develop mental resilience to overcome setbacks. Katsuki faces defeats but bounces back stronger. Treat failures as stepping stones, learning from them to improve and move forward.
#bakugo katsuki#study like Bakugo#bakugo#katsuki bakugou#bakugo x reader#kacchan#bakugo headcanons#mha headcanons#bakugou katsuki#bakugo fluff#bakugou katsuki headcanons#bakugou fluff#mha fluff#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugo x you
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physical therapy part 4
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It takes some time, but finally, Dream's hand starts to feel better when he's painting. Granted, his grip strength still needs some work, and he's had to adjust the way he holds a brush to accommodate the lingering stiffness he gets in some of his fingers, but he's finding it hard to care when a few months ago he couldn't draw a straight line without it turning into a scribble. He'd known Hob was good at his job, but it still feels like a miracle.
The only downside is that once he makes enough progress Hob will surely decide to end their sessions. And while he had said that he liked Dream, that he cared about Dream... Dream is finding it hard to feel assured of those feelings. Someone's feelings can change on a dime, and it's impossible to predict.
But finally the day does come when Hob deems him progressed enough to simply continue his exercises at home. "At this point I think you've regained enough mobility that it's just a matter of gradually increasing how much you're using your hand," he says. "You've made a ton of progress."
"Have I?" Dream is less sure. Some things are certainly easier now, like doing tasks around the house, and picking things up. Art is another matter. Though perhaps he is simply making excuses because he doesn't want to stop seeing Hob.
"Yeah, look." Hob pulls out a folder from amongst his files, and shows Dream several sketches--the ones Dream's made in session, which he's apparently kept. Dream picks up the oldest sketch, the cats he'd doodled at his first appointment. They're shaky and uneven, like something he might have drawn when he was barely four. He supposes he can't deny the progress since then. He's torn between wanting to tear the drawing up, for it's too wretched a reminder--and wanting to hold it close to his chest.
"It's not that I think there's no more room for improvement, or anything," Hob says. "I just don't think continuing these frequent sessions is going to offer more than a marginal benefit."
Dream thinks that the benefit he is receiving at this point is more in being able to look forward to seeing Hob each week, than the physical therapy itself. He needs something to look forward to. He's put Hob's objectively terrible finger painting on his fridge. It's still the only spot of color in his empty flat. He needs that.
"So," Hob continues, "I thought I'd take you out to celebrate."
That pulls Dream from his head. "You... will?"
Hob winks at him. "Promised you, didn't I?"
Yes. Dream supposes he had promised that if Dream's feelings held true Hob would act on them. Is that what he's doing? Dream's growing disappointment swiftly morphs into something else. Hope.
"I--" he swallows hard. "I. Would like that." It's still strange, to have something he wants. And to feel like it may be okay to express it.
"Perfect." Hob grins, gets up, holds out a hand.
"Now?"
"You got somewhere else to be?"
Dream never has anywhere else to be, and doubts he would go there if he did. He takes Hob's hand.
Hob takes him to a Chinese restaurant nearby, and Dream looks at him suspiciously as Hob passes him a pair of chopsticks with a cheeky grin. "Now you are just testing me."
"Yup. 'Course if you can't use chopsticks in the first place then it's moot."
Dream can use chopsticks. Could. No, can. Death would say that he should think positively.
So he takes the chopsticks.
Once their food comes, Hob, the absolute bastard, puts down his own chopsticks and picks up a fork instead. And Dream knows, somehow he just knows, that it's not because he can't use them. He's teasing Dream. Or perhaps ensuring that Dream won't compare himself if he struggles. Or both.
He should feel hurt by the teasing but... somehow he's not.
"See?" Hob says when Dream manages to eat his noodles with the chopsticks. It's... not that hard. It doesn't even hurt. Maybe Hob is better at his job than Dream even thought.
It makes him tear up. Such a silly, small thing to start crying over when he's barely cried at all, even when he'd first hurt his hand.
"Hey, it's okay," Hob soothes him, wiping away Dream's tears with his thumb. "I think the noodles are salty enough without the addition of tears, hm?"
Dream laughs, wiping at his eyes when the tears keep falling. "Good tears," he manages to say.
"I know," Hob says, and smiles at him.
Dream surprises himself by having an actually nice time. He hasn't had a nice time doing something in so long. It feels good. He doesn't want it to end.
Of course, it does end, and he finds himself lingering outside the restaurant, hesitant to go home. Particularly as he no longer has a set time when he will see Hob. He feels aimless without that, but. It is hard to ask.
"Dream..." Hob starts, likewise lingering in front of the restaurant. The lights of the signage above cast his face in shades of violet. Dream has thought him handsome before, but never so much as now.
Hob hesitates over what to say, then finally just steps over to him. "Come here."
And before Dream can decide how to react, Hob folds him into a hug.
Dream goes still on instinct. Then, gradually, relaxes into Hob's strong hold. He... can't remember the last time someone hugged him.
He lets himself tuck his face into Hob's shoulder.
"Hey," Hob says. His voice is so close to Dream's ear now. "I'm proud of you."
Dream hears himself make a tiny whimpering sound. He. He does not know how to be proud of himself. He thinks he would only be proud of himself if he could go back in time and stop himself from getting in that terrible relationship to begin with. But he does like how it sounds when Hob says it.
Hob gives him one more squeeze, then, disappointingly, releases him. "I almost forgot. I have something for you."
He digs around in his bag and comes back with a box that looks rather like art supplies of some kind. "It's modelling clay," he explains. "So you can play around and work on your hand without just doing, you know, boring exercises all the time."
Hob is too considerate of him, truly. Dream holds the box close.
"You okay to get home?" Hob asks, and Dream nods. His ex has not bothered him again, and Dream is now hopeful that he won't. Though that does not necessarily mean he doesn't want Hob to follow him home.
"Good," Hob says. Then, while Dream is still thinking about the hug and the clay and everything else, Hob leans in and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Dream."
Dream stands paralyzed until Hob is gone, and it's only then that he realizes he failed to set another time for them to meet. He supposes he does have Hob's office contact info. Still, it is disappointing not to have something to look forward to.
But when he gets home, and opens the box of clay, he finds a note inside. It has the name of a coffee shop, and Tuesday, 3pm?, and Hob's personal number. At first he's confused. Why wouldn't Hob simply ask him while they were together? And then he realizes that Hob must be trying to give him a chance to comfortably back out if he wants to by letting him decide in private. It makes him want to cry again. Hob truly is too considerate of him.
But he takes out his phone and types in Hob's number, and a simple reply. Yes.
#a singular chapter in which dream has a good time!#physical therapy fic#dreamling#my writing#bit of a time jump bc i dont think i have it in me to write one billion physical therapy sessions XD like they gotta kiss sometime#long post
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Drawing Ryōmen Sukuna
Development notes
This post has been in the making since last year, before the manga has reached its current arc. My aim was to respond to comments that pointed out that my version of that time didn't look like the one in the anime.
I calculate everything I do and the way I do it. My current goal is to share my thoughts on the development of my take on him - simply because I'm a nerd when it comes to anatomy and I love figuring things out. It involves a lot of thinking, questioning, analysis, dissecting information and building theories. So I totally understand if it's not anyone's cup of tea.
MANGA SPOILER WARNING
The very beginning
I used to have a serious case of lack of self-confidence. My earliest art of Sukuna dates back to 2021, but it always felt like my skills are not worthy of this particular character. I never shared my art. I was also struggling to find my artistic voice. I was obsessed with the idea of semi-realism, but even if I managed to pull it off after weeks of stylisation practices, I didn't like the results.
Due to personal reasons, I stopped trying to draw him for a long time.
The development of "my" version
It was an entirely conscious decision to draw him differently.
The top reasons for the change was that I didn't want to sexualise him in his host, Yuuji, who is a minor. Back then I thought he inflicted the deformation on himself (extra limbs, eyes, etc), for the sake of efficiency, and I was curious what he looked like before that - or what he would look like in a civilised environment.
During the process, I considered a number of factors:
the beauty standard of the other JJK men - I wanted him to fit the lineup - his original appearance made him stand out quite much
in a setting where he adheres to the rules of society, more or less, I believe his MBTI personality type (ENTJ) would dictate a lot of his choices when it comes to appearance, at least to a certain extent. I thought he would choose to have an appearance that fits the beauty standards of the era
I kept his tattoos because it's a very distinguishing feature of him, but I also exercise freedom in the way I draw them, to make them as stylish as possible
Reincarnation
I used to believe once he reincarnates, his proportions would be closer to that of a "normal" human, even if he has some extra limbs. However, his size and features are above and beyond of what we are used to, and even the story emphasises their malformed appearance. So a a whole new era of Sukuna started in my art. I chose my favourite manga panels of him and mix-and-matched the most attractive features into a figure that I consider on the fine edge of monstrosity and unconventional handsomeness.
Even when I draw him with a regular number of limbs, I keep his usual mass and proportions. I dubbed this form "true gains" form.
I also realised that some of the tattoos Yuuji's body displayed was a product of the partial reincarnation stage, like we see it on Tsumiki's forehead.
NOTE: Did anyone notice that Sukuna is getting progressively more and more human/handsome in the manga? When he took over Megumi's body, I also noticed that as the story progressed, he started to look older and more mature. I'm curious of it was a conscious decision.
Twin dilemma and speculations
According to the Japanese wikipedia page, the mythical figure Sukuna could have been a conjoined twin. Despite my extensive digging in the matter, I was shocked by the recent lore drop.
My question: what does Sukuna look like in a universe where he did not absorb his twin in the womb during development?
It hasn't been confirmed, but I find it very possible now that he was born with his extra limbs, eyes and mouth, as well as the deformed, wide features. (...as opposed to my first theory about him altering his own body for the sake of efficiency)
This, however, would mean that in a universe where both him and his brother are born healthily, he would look different. There is the obvious lack of extra arms, eyes and mouth - but I believe he would also be closer to the JJK beauty standard of men, as far as proportions go (eg. more narrow face, anime-esque nose, larger eyes).
At first I was hesitant to accept this idea, as I'm very attached to the 4-arm hulk / "true gains" form now, but then I realised: this would mean that "my"version of him actually has logically explainable place in at least an alternate universe.
Thank you if you got this far.
I may edit this post later. Let's see where the story takes us.
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CRYSTAL READING: Getting in touch with your creative spirit
How can you be more creative ?
What creative themes resonate the most with you ?
Book a personal reading for you.
Reading for each group below :
1. Trolleite
🎐How to get in touch with your creative spirit :
Showing your emotions through the dance.
The dance of the hands, the dance of words.
If you take a peek into your creative cradle, you will see spirits dancing there. Dance with them, and let the words flow out freely. I see that you have the gift of crafting beautiful words.
Dancing or doing some activities and exercises that blot out the noisy inner critics.
When you are in the water, when you let your emotions run freely, the moment you're about to fall asleep. That's when you can come closer to your creative spirit.
Reading or seeing art of foreign culture could also help you open the gate of creativity.
🎐The theme of your creation:
Celebration of the intimate details and beauty of daily life
The darkness
The strange landscape of dreams
The forgotten memories of bygone childhood
The foreign lands and people
The sea, the water, the life beneath
The motion of life, transformations, life's fragility
Wings
Celebration
Dancing
Something deeply vulnerable
Movement of the body, movement of the mind
Fluidly, floating, flowing
2. Clear quartz
🎐How to get in touch with your creative spirit :
The power of touch
Through the sensations in your hands when touching, you get the spark of creativity.
It's through the connection with other beings in life, through 1on 1 conversation with yourself, with other people that connect you with your inner spirit.
Going out in nature, feel the busy activities surrounding you, the wind, the swaying leaves, the frogs leaping, the flutter of wings, the sound of running water, the velvet surface of petals...
Record the sound, the scenes you see through the camera.
You may have the gift of recreating the wonders of life. By sculpting, drawing, cooking, or taking pictures.
Observe life and see the interconnections of everything.
🎐The theme of your creation:
A pair, a couple
Companionship
Loneliness
The relationship between close friends, lovers, families
The illusions, the magical, the fantasies
Mask, acting, disguise, transformation of the appearance
Cinema, photography
Blurry landscape
Hidden femininity
Sudden upheaval
Faith
Adventures, pilgrimage
The struggle of rules and oppression, freedom
Transcendence
3. Carnelian
🎐How to get in touch with your creative spirit :
Pay attention to your dreams. They are whispering quite loudly to you
There is a hidden life in your dreamscape. Sometimes, it can spill into the waking life, pull you in a trance, and make you out of focus for a moment.
You have a powerful inner spirit, be more aware of your daydreams or wandering thoughts, they can somehow come to realization. I sense a negotiation between your ego and your creative spirit. Your spirit demands lots of things, but your ego is resisting.
You also receive lots of influences from the mass. You could subconsciously take in the mass's negative and positive energy.
There are 3 areas in your life that are closely connected with each other. Change in one area will result in change in other areas. They are all under the influence of your emotions. And those areas are the gates to your creativity.
One is your subconscious life. One is your faith and ideals. One is your relationships and mundane life.
🎐The theme of your creation:
Trio
Religion
Meditation
Travelling, journey, spiritual trip, learning
The path less traveled
Finding oneself
Compassion
Interviews
Odd habits, genius
Strange solutions for inexplicable situations
Social trends
Giving voice to hidden lives, the minority
Arrows and spears, pioneer
Love.
#crystal reading#lithomancy#channeled message#pick a card#pick a pile#creativity#creative space#creative spark#divination#intuitive messages#tarot#astrology#inner world#creative inspiration#art direction#creative process#crystal healing#crystal resonance#tarotcommunity#psychic reading#pick a group
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⤷ their s/o has anxiety – hq
✩ characters: various
✩ warnings: mentions of panic attacks
✩ a/n: i know anxiety is different for everyone but this is just based on my own personal experience ◡̈
⭑ kenma is very observant and can always sense when you're feeling overwhelmed in public places— it isn't long before he's asking if you want to leave, and if you say you feel guilty for cutting your day out together short he'll tell you it's fine because he prefers being at home with you anyway.
⭑ hinata isn't afraid to deliberately embarrass himself in front of others whenever you do the same, he knows you hate being the centre of attention and so he hopes that he can draw everyone’s eyes away from you and onto him instead.
⭑ yaku is so good at reassuring you when you have a panic attack, he’ll stay with you the entire time and hold your hand, refusing to leave your side as he tells you that everything will be okay and that you'll get through it just like you always do.
⭑ akaashi is always happy to listen if you ever need to vent to someone about your struggles, he can empathise with how you feel since he experiences a lot of the same things you do and is therefore very understanding of what you're going through.
⭑ sugawara has no problem with being the one who talks to the cashier when the two of you are at a checkout, and while he does try to encourage you to face things that make you anxious, he appreciates that it's not always easy for you and is happy to help you out when you need it.
⭑ kuroo likes to remind you to take your medication on time, especially if you're someone who is prone to forgetting— he even buys you one of those pill organisers and will leave various post-it notes around the house to help you remember.
⭑ yamaguchi does his best to learn all of your triggers so that he knows when you might be likely to have a panic attack, and whenever he notices that you're feeling anxious he'll walk you through breathing exercises to try and help you ground yourself.
⭑ bokuto will always order your food for you if you ask him to, he does it for you so often that he practically has all of your go-to orders for different restaurants fully memorised— he never judges you for not being able to do it yourself, but any time you do find the courage to order without his help he'll be so proud of you.
⤷ please do not repost my works on any other sites!
#★彡 elle’s writings .ᐟ#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#various x reader#haikyuu various x reader#kenma x reader#hinata x reader#yaku x reader#akaashi x reader#sugawara x reader#kuroo x reader#yamaguchi x reader#bokuto x reader
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Pearl
Pair: Eris x reader; Lucien x reader (platonic)
Word count: 1.191
Warnings: Lucien is only mentioned, unrequited love, fluff, angst, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and virginity
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Once you two were the closest of friends and now you were his wife.
The marriage wasn't terrible, he was a good husband, but your heart belonged to Lucien.
You had been terribly in love with him for as long as you could remember, your heart would often feel like it was about to burst out of your chest. The similarities between Eris and Lucien didn't make it any easier.
"Have you thought of any names yet?" you asked softly, struggling to zip your dress.
Eris approached, offering his assistance, his upper body bare and sweaty.
Multiple freckles adorned his exercise-hardened body, stretching across his skin.
He looked too good; you shouldn’t be drawn to him. Your heart belongs to his brother. You cursed yourself for thinking about Lucien while drooling over Eris.
Yet, those shoulders, those full lips, and seeing him sometimes in uniform made you feel delirious.
He appeared composed, unlike you, showing no signs of breathlessness after everything you did.
He smirked as if he knew what you'd been thinking.
"What?" you asked.
Eris smiled warmly, remarking, "Considering you're eyeing me, like my brothers do with Mother's strawberry cake, I think I look good."
You laughed.
"You look horrible," you blurted out. "Your ego shouldn't become bigger."
Eris only chuckled finally securing the zipper.
You turned around, looking up at him. His russet eyes were filled with love and a dazzling smile stretched across his face. He seemed happy you noted.
"Stop smiling," you demanded.
"I'm not responsible for what my face does when you talk," Eris replied with a grin.
His hands sought your waist, drawing you close, chest to chest.
"I think we've had enough for today," you interjected, placing your hands between you two, creating a small distance. He merely laughed, nuzzling his head into your neck, inhaling your scent.
"We are now husband and wife, don't be shy now, there is nothing wrong with me hugging you. Hugging my wife," he said. You playfully hit him.
"I've picked some names. I just hope you like them," he said, his voice slightly muffled.
He kept running his nose along your neck, making you shiver and softly laugh.
Running your hands through his soft hair, you felt him shudder in response, a quiet sigh escaping his lips.
He fought the urge to confess.
I am in love with you. I've been in love with you since forever.
Pulling his face from your neck, he gazed into your eyes. His right hand slowly rose to tenderly caress your cheek before he kissed your forehead.
Guilt consumed you, weighing heavily on your conscience for entertaining thoughts of his brother while fully aware of Eris's feelings for you.
He wasn't subtle in his behavior around you, he looked out for you, even as you were foolishly in love with Lucien, who already had a mate and had been courting her.
Perhaps Eris was meant to be your mate, perhaps the bond would snap while being with him. Either way, you couldn't abandon him, you owed him your loyalty, as he deserved it.
"You're cute," he chuckled, watching your face scrunch up in an adorable manner.
"What?" you asked, puzzled.
"I said you look stupid," he snickered mischievously.
"Eris! How dare you!" you exclaimed, mouth agape at his audacity.
He laughed out loud as you attempted to wriggle out of his hug.
While watching you, doubts slowly began to surface. Although you were now officially his wife, he knew you were still in love with Lucien.
He desired to win you over, a goal he'd set since your first meeting.
He remembered it, clear as day.
He was mean to you and despite being the high lord's son, you had fearlessly insulted him, causing Lucien to burst into laughter and your own parents to scold you.
Now years later, you were attempting to conceive a child because Beron desired it.
He believed that your power would be a valuable addition to the blood line, so the marriage was arranged.
You bid farewell to your friends and family, knowing that you couldn't see them as often as before. You had taken on new responsibilities .
Raised in a wealthy and affluent family, you were perceived as family-oriented, educated, and poised in Beron’s eyes, despite the fact that your siblings might beg to differ.
In his eyes, you were a precious pearl, untainted and pure.
The sight of your bloodied sheets on the wedding night confirmed to him that you were a virgin, worthy of his son and as the princess of his court.
To you it was a dumb tradition that needed to disappear, a rule discriminating against females. It held power over them while men faced no such restrictions.
Despite being over 300 years old, you had never been intimate with anyone. Eris was surprised, he had expected the opposite.
Nevertheless, he was deeply in love with you, unable to imagine life without you - he would have taken you regardless. Still the mere thought of someone else being with you filled him with raging jealousy.
You upheld that tradition yourself, not only due to your families pressure but also out of a lack of interest in giving yourself to someone, only to potentially regret it later; at least with a husband, you reasoned, he would be bound to you.
It didn't mean that you were inexperienced or unaware of what needed to be done and how to do it, you weren't naive.
Marrying Eris and having a child with him would secure your family's high status, even though your father strongly opposed the union. Your father had different plans, and a marriage to the heir of the court wasn't part of them.
You and Eris each reassured your father and mother that you would be protected.
He himself promised you, to save you from the same fate as his mothers.
Your wedding was a grand affair, with a significant amount of money spent and all your loved ones in attendance, except for Lucien.
He couldn't risk his life by attending but sent a heartfelt letter wishing you happiness and asking you to inform him if Eris ever wronged you.
As wedding presents he sent you a beautiful blue dress, reminiscent of the night sky, a solar system from the Dawn Court, along with books from the Day Court.
The sweetness of his gestures moved you to tears, deepening your love for him and making you feel ugly as you were now married to Eris.
Eris, always protective of you, became even more obsessed and vigilant after the wedding. He was somewhat relieved that Lucien couldn't attend, despite missing his brother dearly. Eris feared that your love for Lucien might grow stronger, causing you to lose any affection for him.
But that’s not the only thing he had been worrying about.
Unbeknownst to you, he secretly has been using a forbidden tonic to reduce his fertility.
You having a child would jeopardize his plans, it would put you in harms way if anything were to go wrong.
And he wanted to win your heart over before burdening you with a child.
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Notes: I hate University 😭
Also sorry for the mistakes was to tired might correct them someday🫠
Main Taglist: @bubybubsters
#a court of thorns and roses#acotar#eris fluff#eris angst#lucien vanserra#eris vanserra x reader#eris x reader#eris x y/n#lucien x reader#acotar x reader#acotar fluff#unrequited love#arranged marriage#lucien vandaddy#eris vandaddy
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I decided to take up teaching myself piano for funsies, and...4 days in, I am enjoying myself. Autistic rambling behind the cut lmao
I've got the layout of the keys committed to memory, and I can find notes, [major]scales, and chords very easily (patterns!!). So--I'm dumping all my concentrated effort right now into building hand independence, and it would be feeling nearly sisyphean if I didn't know how brains worked. I'm still struggling to play through a five note scale with both hands at different paces [one playing in half notes, the other playing in quarter notes.] Literally the most basic of the basic exercises...but I figure there's no point getting much fancier than this until I can do it with some relatively clean consistency, and at a good tempo. It's brain neuropathway stuff--so really, so long as I take my time[extremely slow lmao] to be clean and accurate, I should be able to do it faster and faster as the days go by. And then once it feels like a relatively easy exercise [rather than something that blends my brain into soup], I can introduce some more difficulty.
I'm kinda curious to see how long it take to build the skill. Not even learning how to play songs, just learning how to make my hands and fingers move independantly, deliberately, to a set tempo. That shit's SO HARD lmao I thought I would graduate past this first exercise in a couple days, but it's gonna take...a bit longer. I can tell I am improving, though, because it takes less time for me to stop tripping up each time I sit down. Can't hold a steady tempo just yet tho, no matter how slow.
When I'm not doing that, I'm just playing around with random chords and trying to figure out why certain combos sound so good, and why others don't. And it really is all just...patterns. Which is cool! The theory side of things is making a lot more sense to me than I expected it to, and I really like it.
Anyways, I've been hammering on this thing a lot, since I only just got it and the novelty has me captivated. Like...a couple hours each day. I recon that'll slow down once the novelty wears, but I hope I never lose interest completely. So long as I can sit down and practise consciously for half an hour each day, I figure it'll get me to a point eventually where I can produce something that resembles...music lmao
we'll see, I guess. The exercises are actually fun to do tho...which is more than I can say for drawing 😂
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Their s/o struggles with anxiety
Requests are open!
Note: So sorry this is late anon! I took a little break from requests. Thank you for requesting though! I hope you like it 💕
Anon asks: Hi lovely here to keep ya busy. How about a reaction with dearest Stray Kids in which they spot signs of anxiety on their s/o and help em out...
♡Chan♡
He’s observant, his eyes are always on you when out in public. He knows how hard social settings can be for you especially when they’re overcrowded and hectic as the one you were currently at was. He’s become so good at reading you, comforting you, knowing when you’ve reached your limit. He’ll slip away somewhere quiet with you; let you calm down, do breathing exercises, get you whatever you need, etc. He always knows what to say to make you feel even just a little better.
♡Minho♡
He always holds your hand whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed. He squeezes it and runs his thumb over your knuckles, telling you to just focus on breathing. He’ll pull you aside and give you a gentle pep talk if you’re feeling upset about it. He’s the kind of giving you security when your feeling like this, going along for the ride as you learn how to cope with your anxiety.
♡Changbin♡
You found going out in public to be overwhelming most of the time. It’s always easy for you to get overstimulated, and Changbin has grown to know when you are. He doesn’t mind if you need to put headphones on or something to help you get through things. He’s flexible, offering to go somewhere quieter or less crowded if he feels like the function will be too much. He helps you resettle and adjust when needed and is always by your side as long as you want him to be.
♡Hyunjin♡
When you turned to him and nervously admitted you felt like throwing up, Hyunjin nearly had a heart attack. He had no clue your anxiety over what was happening was that great, but got up with you immediately. He waits in the doorway worried and ready to comfort you when you step out to try and recollect yourself. He combs his fingers through your hair, gets you something for your stomach, and assures you it’s okay and it’s fine with taking you home to rest.
♡Jisung♡
When you’re feeling down and overwhelmed with emotions, Han doesn’t mind staying home to be with you. He’ll stay in bed with you all morning, letting you rest or cry or vent to him. He gets you whatever you want; warm drinks, comfort food, extra blankets, etc. He understands feeling this way and wants to take care of you like you do for him.
♡Felix♡
Chest and stomach pains were nothing new. You were always telling him in stressful or anxiety inducing situations how your chest would tighten and hurt, or your stomach would turn to the point of pain. He listens and pays great mind to your social cues, and doesn’t mind cutting anything short of you’re in discomfort. He holds your hand, draws shapes on your skin, and lets you curl up with him.
♡Seungmin♡
It took him a bit to notice how bad your nail biting and skin picking was, but when he does he offers to help you try to break the anxious habit. He tries all the usual tracks with you; lemon juice or bitter tasting nail polish, helping file your nails down short, bandaids, etc. it makes him sad when he notices you’ve picked around your nails until they’ve bleed. He helps take care of them and stop you when it happens. If you're insecure over how torn up they get, he assures you there’s nothing wrong with it.
♡Jeongin♡
When you can’t settle your mind down to go to sleep he’ll gladly stay up with you. He’ll lay there and do nothing, or get up and do something with you if you want. He could talk calmly with you or just sit in comfortable silence; whatever you need. He’ll listen to whatever worries are keeping you up and try to talk through them with you. He’ll try things like tea or exercising that are supposed to help you sleep. He’ll cuddle with you, let you vent, anything you wanted.
#stray kids fluff#stray kids x reader#stray kids reaction#stray kids imagines#bang chan#lee minho#seo changbin#hwang hyunjin#han jisung#kim seungmin#lee felix#yang jeongin
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With Mercy for the Disturbed
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.
-OR-
the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: AU; Extremely Dubious Consent; Or Non Con; You decide but vibes are definitely off; Dark Fic; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV
A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say. I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too.
And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)
Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date.
Word Count: 8.8K
Read on AO3
He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died.
Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as.
Sometimes you call him that too.
He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now.
In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream.
His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait.
He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.
He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here.
The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else.
You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.
A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him.
He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence.
He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.
You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.
“Mornin’.”
“Ready?”
“As ever.”
The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too.
“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.”
He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch.
“You used to fish?”
“Think so.”
“Are you remembering?”
“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.
“No?”
You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”
That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”
“No… Don’t think that’s true.”
“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”
“Forgiveness too,” he adds.
The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”
“Not at all.”
Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come.
“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately.
“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”
“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red.
“Yes.”
“That’s bad.”
You shrug, “Perhaps.”
“Selfish.”
Again, “Perhaps.”
And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”
You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that.
“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”
“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.
He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it.
“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.”
That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go.
He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.
“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself.
“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical.
You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”
His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–”
“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat.
“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.
“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know.
“No. I don’t know.”
“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”
“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.
“By who?”
“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad.
You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.”
Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess.
He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”
You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”
He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”
“Who have you been?”
And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either.
“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you.
“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested.
“No, it isn’t. It’s–”
“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking– “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum.
He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room.
-
He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing.
He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever.
You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak.
“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready.
“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter, trail off, voice small and unsure.
He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted.
“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”
“Wh– what do you mean?”
“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”
“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl.
The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel.
You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day.
You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought.
“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs.
“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.
With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you.
“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.”
Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know.
Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.
He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them.
He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.
You kiss him back.
And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now.
He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life.
You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless.
“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips.
He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it.
He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver.
“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him.
“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”
“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with.
“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.”
Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you.
He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be.
“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.”
Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear.
“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him.
He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”
“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.”
Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”
Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel.
You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan.
“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”
And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more.
He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this.
“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give.
When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him.
He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this.
He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”
“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him.
And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.”
“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself.
“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking.
Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you.
The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.
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There Are Consequences
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader
Summary: While hiding your relationship is an essential requirement of maintaining it, Maverick struggles to hide his feelings when another man becomes involved.
CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, and where would we be without the angst, people??
WC: 3000+
This is Part 3 in the There Are Rules universe.
You’re packing up when Maverick calls your name from the front of the room. You look up at him warily as the officers around you start rising from their seats.
Maverick clears his throat, his eyes locked on yours and, even as the rest of the room is bustling after a long day of flying and debriefs, you’re suddenly completely still. Everything always slows down when his gaze settles on you.
“Can you hang back a minute?” he asks.
You nod, sliding out of your seat. You head to the front against the flow of traffic while Maverick walks around his desk to meet you. He stands a good five feet away, riffling through some papers in his hand, until the last of the officers leaves the room.
Maverick glances up at you once everyone else has gone, gingerly setting the stack of papers down on his desk. “Lieutenant,” he says quietly. “That was some flying today.”
You blink at him, a small smile spreading on your face. Surely, he didn’t call you up here to talk about aviation.
Maverick watches you levelly, not a hint of humor in his face. “You broke the hard deck.”
“For a second,” you say, rolling your eyes. “To avoid a collision –”
“Breaking the hard deck is a collision with the ground,” Maverick interjects.
You sigh. “You would’ve done the same.”
Maverick shakes his head. “You can’t keep using that excuse.”
You stare at him moodily. “You’re not denying it.”
Maverick furrows his eyebrows. “We train like we fight, Lieutenant. So that we can fight like we train. You keep breaking the hard deck during exercise, you’ll end up crashing during combat.”
You seethe under the guise of a polite nod. “Yes, sir,” you reply.
Maverick narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side as though he isn’t convinced that you’re done arguing. “I don’t care if you’ve got bogeys on your tail chasing into the cliffside – you might as well have gone straight through the rock.”
You glare at him, holding back every single retort that threatens to escape your tightly sealed lips. “Yes, sir,” you manage to utter, gritting your teeth the moment the words leave your mouth.
Maverick watches you patiently, waiting for you to dispute his logic. When you don’t, he takes a step forward. “Lieutenant,” he says calmly, his eyes sweeping over your face.
“Captain,” you reply.
He moves just a touch closer, letting his fingers skim the back of your hand. “I need you to be more careful,” he says in a near-whisper.
His proximity dizzies you until you can hardly decipher his words. “Mm-hm,” you respond vaguely.
His thumb draws a couple of circles into your palm, but he never quite takes your hand. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant,” he says in a low voice.
You close your eyes, letting out a wavering sigh when his breath warms the apple of your cheek. “Aye aye, sir,” you say quietly.
Maverick releases a partially stifled groan, pressing his head against yours for a moment before he steps away. “That shouldn’t turn me on,” he says, backing away further as he holds his arm out, pointing at you.
You furrow your eyebrows. “What?” you ask, a little bewildered because you’re still stranded in a moment that’s already passed.
“You calling me that,” he says, shutting his eyes and shaking his head as though he’s attempting to clear it of your sorcery.
“Sir?” you ask.
He laughs tensely. “Stop.”
You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Captain?” you say innocently, exploiting his weakness now that you’ve caught on. You take a step forward.
He sighs, bringing a hand to his face. “This is bad,” he warns as you approach, although there’s an amused grin on his face.
You bite your lip, smirking. “Do you like it when I’m bad, Captain?”
Maverick’s mouth drops open for a second as he watches you in awe. “Lieutenant,” he says hoarsely, placing his hands on your arms before you can come any closer. “If you’re trying to test my self-restraint, you’re winning.”
“Am I?” you ask softly, trying to push yourself against his hold.
Maverick moves his head to one side, setting his jaw as though he’s bracing himself for a difficult task. “I’m begging you,” he whispers, turning back to look at you as his breathing becomes more pronounced. “Don’t come any closer.”
“You started it,” you say.
He nods. “I won’t make that mistake again,” he says, finally letting go of you and shaking out his hands wearily. “We can’t do this here. If anybody finds out –”
“I know, I know,” you say. “There will be consequences.
…
Later that evening, you meet your squadron at the Hard Deck. You nod at Maverick and Cyclone, who are seated at the bar, but walk past them to join your friends. You spend the night going over the day’s hops with Phoenix, kicking Rooster’s ass at pool, and exchanging furtive glances with your instructor who has yet to run out of creative reasons to look over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of your group near the back of the bar.
It has been two weeks since the locker room fiasco but, in all this time, you and Maverick have barely had a moment alone. Between the grueling training and keeping up appearances, there has hardly been time for romance, so when you see Maverick getting out of his seat and pulling his leather jacket over the fitted, white t-shirt he’s wearing, you can’t help the disappointment you feel.
You down your martini moodily and rise slowly, leaning on the table.
“You doing okay?” Phoenix asks.
You nod, feeling the significant weight of your head as you perform said action. The third martini must have been a double. Still, you straighten your back and release the edge of the table. “Never better,” you respond, taking care not to lose your balance as you spin on the spot. You let out a sigh upon seeing Maverick’s back as he nears the door and start unhurriedly for the bar.
But before you reach it, a man in service khakis steps into your path. Not only is he wearing an exuberant grin, he’s also still sporting his aviators despite the late hour and lack of sunlight indoors. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he says in a jubilant voice.
Cyclone looks up from where he’s seated at the bar and raises his eyebrows in your direction before pointedly turning away. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Maverick has come to a halt near the exit.
“What’s your poison?” the man asks, putting a hand on your arm and gesturing to the bar.
You watch him quietly for a moment, trying to decide whether you’re devious enough to take advantage of the situation. After all, the moment the man lays his hand on you, Maverick turns to watch you from where he still stands by the door, and you can’t say that the pissed off expression he’s wearing isn’t wildly attractive. But, ultimately, you look up at the man who’s now putting his arm around your shoulder, and say “I’m good, thanks,” and slip out from under his embrace.
“Come on,” the man insists, taking a hold of your wrist as you start to walk away. “One drink, sweetheart.”
In your periphery, you see Maverick start to make his way back toward the bar. “No, thank you,” you reiterate, pulling your hand out of his grasp.
But when you turn away, the man steps into your path. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he says, putting his hands on your waist.
Before you can respond, you hear Maverick’s voice, much closer than you would expect him to be. “I believe the lady said no.”
You glance over to see the threatening look on his face despite the composure in his voice.
“Hey gramps, how ’bout you take a hike?” The man chuckles.
You notice Cyclone turning back to face the three of you, his eyebrows hovering even higher than the last time you saw them. He meets your gaze with a cringe just as Maverick narrows his eyes. “Step away,” he says in a low voice. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
The man leers at Maverick. “Or what?” he asks, tugging you forward.
It takes but a moment for Maverick to wedge himself between the two of you and grab the man by the collar of his uniform, nearly lifting him off the ground. “I suggest you get out of here right the fuck now,” Maverick growls, displacing the man several feet. He drives his back into the bar before finally letting go of his shirt.
“Woah! Woah!” the man yells, clearly not prepared to take a beating for what he thought might be a decent hookup. He holds his hands up, cowering. “I’m leaving, pop.”
Maverick glares at the man as he stalks off in a hurry. You glance nervously between Maverick’s curled up fists and the relaxed set of Cyclone’s shoulders. He’s watching Maverick in amusement. “Well, that was entertaining,” he comments while Maverick continues to seethe.
You wince as Maverick’s jaw hardens in response, not entirely optimistic that Cyclone won’t end up in his path of destruction. You bite your lip as Maverick finally releases a controlled breath and looks in your direction. His eyes sweep fleetingly over your face, although he holds your gaze for a deliberate moment before turning to Cyclone. “I can’t stand that kind of arrogance,” Maverick mutters, reaching for a bar stool next to his superior.
Cyclone smirks at him pointedly. “That’s ironic.”
Maverick gives Cyclone a flat look but doesn’t respond.
Cyclone takes advantage of the break in conversation to glance in your direction. “You alright, Lieutenant?”
You gravitate warily toward the bar. “I could use a drink,” you respond honestly.
Cyclone calls over the bartender while Maverick looks over his shoulder to steal a glance in your direction. He’s wearing an unreadable expression and this about doubles your level of anxiety. Cyclone distributes six shots of Tequila between the three of you and, lifting his shot glass, says, “I thought you were leaving, Maverick.”
Maverick eyes Cyclone impassively. “Is that your toast, sir?” he asks.
Cyclone chuckles. “Why not?” Then he downs his shot.
You follow suit, squeezing your eyes shut as the bitterness of the liquor settles in your mouth. You let out a quick breath before sticking a wedge of lime between your teeth and cringing as you bite down. When you notice both Cyclone and Maverick watching you in amusement, you give them a forced smile. “Oh my god,” you mutter around the lime wedge still in your mouth. “So good.”
The men laugh and you take a breath of relief, feeling the tension dissipate. Maverick raises his second shot glass and, while Cyclone reaches over the bar for the saltshaker, winks at you with a discreet smile. This tiny gesture is enough to send a ripple of electricity through your body.
Cyclone lands back on his barstool with a loud sigh and offers Maverick the salt. Maverick holds up a hand to indicate that he isn’t interested so Cyclone just shrugs and starts sprinkling his hand.
You glance at Maverick just as his eyes linger on yours once again and the desire to touch him becomes disastrously overwhelming. You feel your heart begin to race when you recognize the longing on his face before he squares his jaw and looks into his shot glass. He brings it to his lips, but Cyclone stops him with an outraged “Maverick!” He looks at Cyclone in surprise while the latter shakes his head in disapproval. “It’s your turn to give a toast.”
Maverick lets out a weak chuckle, reverting his gaze to the liquid in his glass. “To the mission, of course,” he says. He takes his shot quickly and then looks at you with a mild squint, as though he’s studying your reaction.
“Of course,” Cyclone agrees and, as he tips his shot glass back, you feel the back of Maverick’s hand brush lightly against your knee.
That’s when the troupe of enthusiastic aviators arrives at the bar. “Excuse the interruption,” Hangman says. “But this looks like a party I want to crash.”
Maverick raises his eyebrows at him. “Typically, I advise my pilots against crashing,” he says.
You chuckle, rolling your eyes at Maverick’s joke while the rest of your squadron gathers around.
Maverick rises, allowing the newcomers access to the counter, and gives you a subtle wink as he moves through the swam of aviators. “See you kids tomorrow,” he says with a smirk.
“Captain!” you exclaim, leaping from your seat and squeezing through the bodies crowding the counter.
Maverick glances back at you warily. “Lieutenant?”
You hesitate for a moment, wondering how appropriate your ensuing request might sound. “Mind giving me a ride back to base?”
Maverick blinks at you mutely before his eyes briefly slide over to Cyclone and then back to you again. “Sure,” he says pleasantly.
You give him a tight smile before turning to bid your friends a good night. Cyclone gives you a quick nod and returns his attention to the beer someone’s just handed him. Apprehensively, you make your way toward Maverick, who’s about halfway to the door. Maverick turns on his heel as soon as you reach him and marches briskly toward the exit. “Keep up, Lieutenant,” he mutters under his breath as you pick up your pace.
“Are you mad?” you ask quietly as he holds the door open for you.
Maverick meets your gaze. “No,” he says with a shift of the jaw as he fights to keep a straight face. “Impatient.”
You raise your eyebrows, stepping over the threshold with a small laugh. Maverick walks out after you and gestures to the parking lot at the side of the building.
Once the two of you are past the large windows of the establishment, you feel Maverick’s fingers weave through your own. The afternoon sun has sunk below the horizon and the long shadows of palm trees start to melt into the soft darkness of dusk. It's thanks to this cover of nightfall that Maverick pulls you aside behind the Hard Deck and, after a quick glance over his shoulder, finally looks you in the eye. “Good evening, Lieutenant,” he says and, even in your pocket of darkness, hidden between the spotlights of two unsuspecting streetlamps, you see the twitch of his lips as his mouth curls upward.
You smile back at him. “Good evening, Captain,” you respond, not meaning to sound quite as sweet as you do, only you’re so enamored by his eyes, it’s damn near impossible to keep from melting.
Maverick brings your hand up and presses it to his mouth, closing his eyes as he lets out a breath. He shakes his head, meeting your gaze with a more serious expression. “Sorry I intervened,” he says.
You blink at him in surprise. “I’m not,” you respond. “I mean, I know you know I can handle myself.”
Maverick chuckles. “I assure you, I don’t doubt your competence.”
You lower your gaze to watch his hand tighten around yours. “It was nice, having you stand up for me.”
Maverick reaches up with his other hand to lift your chin. “I almost decked him.”
You laugh. “I noticed.”
“I think I reacted before I realized that I probably shouldn’t have.”
“Hmm.” You pause, searching his face. “I know the feeling,” you say finally, perhaps a tad sarcastically.
He watches you quietly for a moment, knowing exactly what you’re getting at. “Your barrel roll,” he concedes.
“I was inverted before I even realized it.”
Maverick nods. “You’ve got great instincts.”
You gaze at him thoughtfully. “My point is, I don’t think I would have done the same maneuver at a lower altitude. Another reflex would have kicked in.”
“Look, I’m not going to stand here and deny that you’re a talented pilot. But I’m also not going to commend you for a reckless stunt that put your life in jeopardy and nearly caused your pursuing aircraft to lose control,” Maverick states firmly.
You pout your lips teasingly. “Not even a little?”
Maverick grins reluctantly. He brings his head down to rest over yours. He’s silent for a moment, breathing calmly, in unison with you. “That was some flying today, Lieutenant,” he mutters finally, echoing his morning lecture in an infinitely more agreeable tone. Affectionate. Proud. “Couldn’t have done it better myself,” he half-whispers. His hand moves to cradle your cheek while he places a tender, burning kiss on the corner of your mouth. Your lips part as you let a soft, whimpering sigh escape in the midst of your mounting desire. His lips linger longingly on your cheek before he shifts his weight to move closer and kiss you again. He’s not even kissing your mouth and the passion of the moment is already driving you wild.
Then, just as you’re about to insist on a proper French kiss, a booming voice impedes your plans. “Maverick!”
Maverick leaps away from you like he’s been stung, as though this action might negate what Cyclone has undoubtedly already witnessed. “Sir,” he starts, his tone confident despite the alarm on his face. “Let me explain” –
Cyclone silences him by holding up a hand. He glances mutely between you and Maverick. “I don’t have to tell you what kind of position this puts me in, Captain.”
“I understand that, sir,” Maverick responds with a stiff nod.
Cyclone stands quietly for what seems like a full minute before speaking again. “This ends now,” Cyclone declares levelly, the hushed quality of his voice adding a threatening tone to the statement.
“There’s nothing to end,” Maverick assures him. “This was an error in judgement, and it will not happen again.”
Cyclone juts out his chin in a grimace and shoots a stern glance in your direction. “This ends now,” he repeats, ensuring to enunciate every syllable to emphasize his point.
You don’t say anything, but Cyclone doesn’t wait for you to respond. He heads out into the parking lot, leaving the two of you behind.
Maverick drags a hand over his face. “Of all the fucking people” –
But you don’t let him finish. “Nothing to end?” you say hurtfully. He looks up at you wearily. “An error in judgement?”
Maverick watches you resignedly. “What would you call it?”
The despair on his face frightens you; makes you consider the possibility that his response to Cyclone might have been more deliberate than simply a spontaneous evasive maneuver.
Maverick sighs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. You meet his gaze; his eyes brim with tears but his jaw is set. “I take full responsibility.”
As if you want an apology. As if you need to place blame. You take a step toward him, but he retreats.
He lets out a labored breath and blinks back a flood of tears. Then, he says in a strained whisper, “This ends now.”
You might’ve accidentally broken the hard deck but, just like that, Maverick intentionally breaks your heart.
Read Part 4
Tag List:
Not sure when Mav's tag list got so long! As always, let me know if you no longer wish to be tagged in my works <3 The rest of the list is in the comments.
@wandering-wah
@callsign-sunshine
@ghost-heart34
@birdy-bat-writes
@matya4
@wkndwlff
@nyx2021
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@thefandomimagines
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@scenesofobx
@Criminalmindsandmarvel
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@malindacath
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@callsign-echo
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@risingtripletaurus
@callsignmaverick5
@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell
@hermaeusmorax
@littlebadariell
@simp-for-fictional-people
@ollyoxenfrees
@iamabeautifulperson18
@living-in-my-imagination88
@wintercap89
@mavrellover91
@gingerbreadandpaper
#pete maverick mitchell#maverick#top gun#pete mitchell#tom cruise#top gun maverick#maverick imagine#maverick fluff#maverick angst#maverick mitchell#pete mitchell x you#pete mitchell x reader#pete mitchell x y/n#maverick x you#tom cruise imagine#tom cruise fanfic#tom cruise x reader#maverick x reader#maverick x female reader#tom cruise x female reader
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-Size training with chan and changbin, them being so big and buff got me feeling some kinda way. Just imagining dom! chan benig so nice and soft while you try to fit him down your throat. MehAps anal? slowly working your way up to bigger sized dildos until you're ready for either one of their cocks? Just reader being small and them forcing their dick into you- so basically big dick energy with both of them- ok thank youuu <333
This ask has me all sorts of messed up! Anon I am so thankful for you.
Okay I wasn't sure how to break this down, so I am going to do both boys separately than Poly!
Chan would be so caring and sweet when size training you. I feel like it all started from the first time you two were getting intimate. It ended early because you couldn't take him all the way, he was just too big. While he had a short-lived ego boost, he saw the pain in your eyes and immediately stopped. After a long discussion about insecurities and wants, you two decided to size train. He bought a bunch of toys in varying sizes but never bigger than himself. You two had a schedule set for when you would begin stretching. I picture him sitting against the headboard with you sat in-between his legs. He would slowly draw circles on your clit and ease in the toy, only praises left his mouth. Chan was concerned when you said you were ready to try him again but was completely impressed when he was able to sink right in. While he may still be praising you... his movements were punishing.
Changbin would see size training as a sort of exercise. He likes to push the limits of his body through working out and when he saw you struggling to deep throat him, he got a wicked smile on his face. It was a regimented routine he had set up for you. Every time you would go down on him for training, he would set up reps. Half his dick in your mouth for 10 seconds, pull back for 5, then repeat. After each "work out" Binnie would take such good care of you. Just like muscle training, you needed to rest and respect your body. That way when your neck session came, he could push you just a bit more. You didn't even realize until after he finished that you managed to let his fuck your throat like a doll.
Now the two of them together would be so hot. I think the two of them would size train you for anal. They both get so jealous of who gets to ruin you, so why not at the same time. They bought the cutest set of plugs with different gem colors to represent sizes. Depending on the day, one of the boys would lay your naked body over their lap while the other spread you open and nestled in the plug. It was always loving touches and sweet words. Once it was secured, they made sure you came at least twice. one from each of them. They were getting ready to set up for you next plug when they noticed one was missing...the largest size. When they found you sat all pretty in bed with a glimmering pink plug, the two boys lost it. Now it was a competition of who got to use it first.
#stray kids#skz#stray kids smut#skz smut#sweetie of the bakery#bang chan#bang chan x reader#bang chan smut#chang#changbin smut#changbin x reader#seo#seo changbin
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How come I managed to get an outline done for once for the sole purpose of getting me to finish a chapter but I just can't get myself to finish that chapter?
Chapter Outlined, Can't Write Chapter
It happens. Outlines go only so far... you still have to flesh out the scenes as you write them... figure out the dialogue and the blocking. It's sort of like you can plot your trip route on Google Maps, but you still have to actually drive from one point to the other.
So... when you have an outline but are still struggling to actually write:
Problem #1 - You Don't Have a Way In
Having a chapter outline usually just means you know what generally (and importantly) needs to happen in the scene, the general order those things need to happen in, and some things like the scene's purpose, your character's goal, etc. But this is sort of like having a set of instructions that say, "Go to building. Go inside." Okay, great... but how are you specifically getting inside? Are you going through the front door? The back door? Climbing through a window? Landing on the roof in a helicopter? Tunneling in through a basement wall? So, before you can actually start writing, you need to figure out the specific way you're getting your character into the scene. A good way to do this is to go to the first important thing that has to happen in the scene, then rewind from there. What is your character doing in the moments before that? What has to happen in order to put them into that place in that moment? Is there anything unique about the circumstances or location you can focus on? Try opening up some of the books on your shelves and look at the ways different chapters begin. It will start to give you ideas for how you can open your chapter.
Problem #2 - Not Inspired/Excited
Having your chapter outlined doesn’t mean is a good first step, but if you're not feeling motivated to actually write the chapter, it will harder to write it. Try doing some fun exercises to get yourself excited about the chapter. Do a mood board or playlist for the chapter. Save some character and setting inspiration photos on Pinterest. Do an interview with your character that takes place after the scene/chapter to get their take on what happened and what they feel about it.
Problem #3 - Something Isn’t Working
Stories are like a house of cards in that one misplaced “card” can bring the whole thing crashing down. Sometimes you lose interest because an earlier element or event didn’t quite work. You can feel in your gut that something’s not right, so your brain interprets that as losing motivation. It’s not really that you’ve lost interest in the story… it’s that you’ve lost interest in the dead end path it’s on. Go back to the previous chapter or two and look for something that’s not pulling its weight. It could be an unnecessary character dragging the story down, a subplot that is cluttering up the story or drawing attention away from the main plot, or a scene/scenes that don’t add to the story. It could even be a combination of these things. If you can find it and fix it, your motivation may return.
Problem #4 - You’re Distracted by Other Things
If you sit down to write and you’re busy scrolling through facebook, texting with friends, and singing to the radio, you’re probably not going to get much done. Try blocking out thirty minutes (or whatever amount of time you can afford) and dedicate it entirely to writing. Shut down social media and other tempting apps/sites. Turn off the TV. Put your phone on silent. Tell housemates not to bother you. Put on soft music without lyrics, and focus solely on writing. If you find your mind starting to wander toward other things, yank it back and focus on your story.
Problem #5 - You’re Lacking the Physical/Mental Energy to Write
Whether you’re sick, not getting enough sleep, super busy, depressed, or in a bad mood, not having physical or mental energy can make it hard to write. Do what you can to bring your energy up as much as possible, both physically and mentally, and you may have an easier time writing that chapter.
I hope something here will work for you!
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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!
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The Perfect Match
Roy Harper x Reader
Summary: A head cannon in which you are Roy’s perfect match.
Masterlist - Tip Jar
Independence
Throughout Roy’s developmental years, he was always treated with excessive handholding, rules and over exertion of authority.
This has led Roy to feel resentful of constraints.
In his former years, Roy relished the freedom and exercising autonomy through the Outlaws.
Roy really appreciates the sense of freedom you give in your relationship.
Roy: “Would you be upset if I cancel our date tonight? Jason’s back in town.”
You were fully dressed up, ready for your hot date.
Y/n: “Nope.”
And you really meant it.
You took advantage of your hot fit and took yourself on a date.
The flexibility you give him is one of the key factors to your loving relationship.
Adventurous Spirit
Given Roy has spent most of his free time training and practicing the art of archery, Roy needs a romantic partner who shares the passion of adventure.
Roy: “Wow… I never seen anyone shoot the ground when the target is only 5 meters away.
Y/n: “I was just testing the bow resistance…”
Roy: “Uh-huh…”
Whilst you may not be the most talented archer or most fit individual. You are always keen to try and participate.
Your enthusiasm to do better is infectious and Roy just loves and appreciates your willingness to try and do better, especially when it comes to his interests.
Y/n: “Roy did you see, did you see?! I hit the outer ring!”
Supportive and Empathetic
Roy has had to endure many hardships throughout his developmental years which has plagued him every so often during his adult hood such as;
Addiction issues - not only does Roy have past entanglements with addictions which leads him to live a clean life. He had developed a critical eye for intentions, as a trusted friend was the cause to his addiction. Now, Roy analyses everything for deeper motivations. That’s just the result of the trauma and it’s a the reality in which you had accept. Whilst it can be insulting and exhausting to be under the microscope, you always speak your mind freely and bluntly.
Relationship dynamic of being in a team - it’s a struggle for Roy to build trust in others due to his past experiences. He has trouble letting people in, but once your in, you most certainly not getting out. You appreciate the value in which Roy holds you and makes you feel extra safe and comfortable knowing that Roy, no matter what, will always be there for you.
Responsibility as a hero - Roy has had to endure the heavy burden of protecting society as nothing more than a well trained human. Society is never short of criticism and Roy is hard on himself enough as it is. This can lead to feeling emotionally and physically strained. Roy cannot handle the criticism of his short comings when it comes to his romantic entanglements too.
Roy: “Y/n, baby, I’m so sorry I missed your birthday party, it’s just, this woman, and her child-“
Y/n: “Roy! I had the best birthday ever! I took lots of photos, so you could see it all when you finished your patrol. But we can do that later, do you want me to draw you a bath? Have you eaten yet?”
Roy: *pant* “aren’t you-“ *pant* “upset with me?”
Y/n: “Don’t be a silly goose, I know you wouldn’t miss anything intentionally, must’ve been really important. We’ve been together for years, think I don’t know you by now?”
Sense of Humor
Even in the hardest of times, it’s at times easier to just have a laugh.
Roy appreciates that you don’t take difficult situations to seriously and just have a laugh with him.
Roy thinks your extra-adorable since you kept notes on his funniest one-liners.
"Some days, I wish I was a firefighter. All you have to worry about is fire."
"We're supposed to be professionals, yet here we are, running around in spandex, talking to ourselves."
"All these costume changes, and I'm still trying to figure out my life."
In a crowd full of hero’s your laughter amongst the dead silence is always appreciated.
#dc imagines#dc x reader#Roy Harper x reader#Roy Harper imagine#Roy x reader#Arsenal x reader#Arsenal imagine#speedy x reader#speedy imagine#red arrow x reader#red arrow imagine#arrowfam x reader#arrowfam
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Hiiiiii! How about Husk x Skvader (Winged bunny) reader? I think the dynamics would be really interesting, since bunnies are usually prey animals and cats are predators.
Bonus points if they are too sweet for their own good, which got them stuck on a deal with alastor just as he is.
If you need more directions, maybe angst, centered around being trapped together under the same man, and comforting each other in a solidarity kind of way? (Maybe reader comforting him after that scene in season 1 - where he shakes on the ground)
Warning: addiction mention
Husk vaguely knew you for years, decades even. You’d both been contracted for Alastor. You longer than him.
He didn’t get to know you until after Alastor moved himself and his favorite souls into the Hotel.
It’s partially because he didn’t care enough to know you and also because when he was around you, you were either glued to Alastor’s side or Niffty’s. You sort of stayed in the shadows in both their vibrant personalities.
Quickly, he learned why you were one of Alastor’s favorites.
Not only did you make Alastor look more intimidating by contrast but also, you were just so damn kind hearted.
Alastor liked the odd souls among Hell and you were definitely one of them.
You were in charge of event management which meant you worked extra close with Charlie. The two of you got on better than two peas in a pod.
Husk overheard some of Charlie’s frankly awful ideas and praised you silently for making them more bearable.
Still, he didn’t really get to know you until you ended up drunk at the bar. It’s how he got to know everyone.
It tugged on his heartstrings when he learned how you got contracted.
You had been trying to recover from an addiction when you relapsed and ended up in Hell. Then you were suddenly surrounded by your addictions but every time you indulged you felt worse. At your lowest is when Alastor found you. He scooped you up in a contract and provided you with a place to actually recover.
(Which proves that Alastor could actually be doing a hell of a lot more than he was for the Hotel but Husk wasn’t going to say that)
That’s why you were so quiet. Afraid of temptation grabbing hold of you again if you spoke to the regular citizens of hell.
That’s when it clicked why Alastor wanted you clean when he found you and why you always seemed so upset when Husk had been around you previously. Alastor only called upon you for things involving drugs. He called upon you to watch you struggle and Husk to watch him indulge. Sick fuck.
It made since why it took several months for Husk to get to know you the way he knew everyone else. You avoided the bar (and by proxy him) because you were scared of overindulging.
Until that night. Until you came up to the bar with drooping ears and wings, asking Husk to make you something mild. Just enough to forget whatever made you so upset on that phone call you took.
Husk actually made an effort to get out from behind the bar then.
He saw you put so much time and effort into the denizens of the Hotel, someone should put that effort back into you.
He actually put some true sincerity into those exercises you and Charlie came up with and found himself growing found of you.
Of course, he didn’t realize this until you came to the bar again some other night and he told you no. He came out from behind it and grabbed your hand.
“Let’s try something else,” he told you.
He pulled you in for a hug and actually started purring, voluntarily.
You melted into his embrace and pressed your face against his chest. He could feel your ears brush against his face before they relaxed.
When Alastor made his power play, you knew something was wrong when Husk came back downstairs.
You pulled yourself away from Mimzy and discretely made your way to him.
With a wing draw up to give you two privacy, you asked him what happened. He didn’t say anything but his hand was at the base of his neck.
You guided him to his room.
For a moment, you hovered, not sure whether to stay or go. When his breathing finally evened out. You decided to not overstay your welcome.
“Wait,” he said, voice sounded strangled, “can you—?”
You went over to the bed he was sitting on, hunched over, and simply stayed beside him.
Eventually he plopped down on the bed, wings spread out across the mattress.
You looked back at him, using one hand to prop yourself up. He was rubbing at his neck.
“Do you want me to leave now?” “No. “Okay.”
Eventually, you fell asleep. You on top of him, his arms wrapped around you, one between the downy fur of your ears, you face providing a gentle pressure against his neck, your wings tangled together.
You knew better than to ask either Alastor or Husk what happened.
The two of you ended up closer after that night.
After that night, Husk’s hand would ideally go to between your ears.
Angel teased you about it all the time, knowing if he went to Husk it’d stop. Charlie thought it was adorable.
The night before the battle, Husk offered to groom your wings.
It started with his gently prying out any loose feathers. Then his claws carded through your hair. You leaned into his touch, so gentle on your scalp despite the danger of his claws.
“Don’t you die on me tomorrow.” “Well, then you’ll have to do the same. Now turn around.”
Husk was very tense at first. He didn’t even seem to breathe but eventually he calmed. You heard a gentle purr fill the room.
It was the last thing you heard from him before the battle began.
When it was over and everyone was collecting their own, he sought you out.
“See, I didn’t die on you.”
He’d never seen you fight before. He’d never even seen you angry. You always handled things with such kind consideration but now you were drenched in angels’ blood.
“No, no, you didn’t.”
He surprised you by placing his hand between your wings and pulling you close to him. He placed a kiss between your ears and laughed to himself when they fell backwards in shock.
#I was looking for a Husk picture#found this as a cropped screenshot#went back to the pilot to the full screenshot#this is now my favorite screenshot of husk#he just so angy#hazbin husk x reader#husk x reader
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