#just the temptation and the need and thought of them throwing all rational thought out the window because they NEED thia | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lightningandfireinmybones · 1 year

Note

don’t know if you’re still taking requests for prompts but is possible can the audience get 14, 15, 36, 46, 54 all in one. thank you so much for all the wonderful writing you’ve blessed us with so far btw 🥺❤️.

HELLO MY LOVE I WASN'T IGNORING YOU I WAS JUST FINISHING UP CHAPTER 20 BUT HERE WE GOOOOOOOOO

“i want to taste you” & “open your mouth” & “you’re mine” & “you feels so good” & “don’t forget who you belong to”

(18+ !!!!!

horny jail bc we're leaning into the uncle thing in an au where it's not normalized for targs,,, you've been warned and my ticket to every religion's hell has been booked in advance so no need to remind me)

"Aemond! What the fuck-"

"Don't," Aemond hisses, continuing to drag Valaena down the hallway, the sounds of the party dying behind them the deeper into the house they go.

"Don't what? Don't object to being manhandled out of my brother's birthday?" Valaena aims a kick at Aemond's groin, one he avoids by throwing her into her darkened bedroom.

"Don't," Aemond grits out, following her in and slamming the door shut behind him, "dance with another man like that in front of me."

In the purple glow of the LEDs surrounding her bed, Aemond can see Valaena cross her arms over her chest, just accentuating the swell of her breasts over the edge of the corset top he loves and hates at once. The second he'd walked into Jace's birthday party to see Valaena dressed in a tight black and gold corset with leather pants molded to the curve of her ass, he should've known the night would bring nothing but trouble.

Seeing her grind with Cregan, Jace's best friend, on the makeshift dancefloor had tested his patience until he'd finally snapped and dragged her away.

"Oh?" Valaena arches a brow at him, accentuating the scar on her face, the one he'd given her. "Don't grind my ass against another man's dick? What, would it be okay if I ground my ass against a woman then?"

"Don't let anyone else touch that body. That ass is mine." Aemond leans against the door, blocking her way out, staring down at her as he breathes through the last of his patience.

"We're not together anymore, Aemond! You left me, remember? I can dance with whoever I want!" Valaena storms closer, teetering in the heels she's wearing, slamming her finger into the center of Aemond's chest.

"Valaena. You're mine. You always have been and you always will be," Aemond declares, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around, slamming her back against the door. He pins her wrists above her head in one hand, slots his knee between her legs, right in the cradle of warmth between her thighs. Every rational thought, every sense of self-preservation deserting him at the jealousy coursing through his veins.

"You said you were my uncle, just my uncle," Valaena pants out, her hips flush against his. "A good uncle doesn't rub his thigh against his niece like this."

"A good uncle doesn't do a lot of things," Aemond trails his hand up her side, ghosting over her breasts, just grazing her collarbones, caressing her neck. "But you're not a very good little niece, are you? Good nieces don't dress like this to tempt their uncle. Good nieces don't rub their needy little pussy on their uncle's thigh."

He tightens his grip on her throat. Giving into temptation, he licks the glitter from the elegant column of her neck.

"Tell me to stop," Aemond nips at the racing thump of her pulse. "Tell me you don't want me."

Instead of restoring sanity to them both, Valaena moans his name.

"Kepus," she says breathily, "I want to taste you."

The words are knives to the last shreds of his self-control.

In one motion, he's pushing her down to her knees, gripping her hair in his hands as he forces her chin up to look at her. Lavender eyes glitter at him, a flush working down her chest, the dark edge of a nipple poking over the edge of the corset.

"Open your mouth," Aemond says darkly.

Valaena obeys nearly instantly, lush lips parting and pink tongue poking out like she's waiting for him. Her hands are scrabbling at his hips, the metallic clang of his belt buckle the only sound in the room above their harsh breathing and the distant thud of a rap song's bass.

His cock springs free, Valaena's tongue darting out to lick at the head like it's a lollypop, big eyes on him the whole time.

He pulls the hair in his hand harshly, tugging hard enough to jerk her head back.

"No teasing. You want your uncle to fuck your mouth? Fine. Take it, Sweet Niece."

Without warning, Aemond thrusts forward, his cock disappearing deep into Valaena's mouth. She chokes nearly immediately, hands coming to clutch his thighs for stabilization. He doesn't give her any time to adjust, ruthlessly taking her mouth for his own.

Guilt doesn't exist. Time doesn't exist. The way her father is going to kill them both doesn't exist.

The only thing that is real, that is true, is the warmth of her mouth, the tears gathering in the corner of Valaena's eyes, the flick of her tongue across the head of his cock when he pulls out.

"You feel so good, taking my cock so well," Aemond groans, pushing her head deeper onto him. "You wanted your uncle's cock in your mouth? You wanted to be a dirty little whore for me, on your knees and loving every second of it?"

Valaena moans around him, the vibrations traveling up his spine to lodge in his brain. She loves this. She danced with Cregan to start this.

Fuck. They'd never escape each other.

He is unforgiving, but she takes every inch of him, choking and gagging around the thick length. It is heaven, it is hell, it is every condemnation they deserve mixed with absolution they do not.

With his fingers digging into the back of her neck, Aemond comes with a cry of her name.

Every drop, every spurt down her throat, she takes, swallowing with fervor, sucking him for all he's worth. It spills out of her mouth, her tongue following, an obscene scene dragging him down.

When he can finally bear to part from her, he pulls himself out of her mouth, crouching down to her level. Mascara tracks run down her cheeks, her lips are swollen from the abuse, but her eyes are bright. Happy.

Aemond runs his thumb over her lip, catching a stray drop of his cum. He pushes his thumb past her lips, into the sweetness of her mouth.

"Don't forget who you belong to, Sweet Niece."

#i leaned into the uncle thing #might as well enjoy the ride if i'm going to hell #enjoy you heathens:')#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #tdopom fic #ask #minors dni

55 notes · View notes

campbluelake · 1 year

Text

purification ritual || abbie || trial 4.4 || re: hibiki

The speech begins, and Abbie knows precisely where this is going. Murderers always have some sort of speech, don’t they? The ones here do, at least. Either they’re talking about how they haddddd to do it, or they’re saying how they’re sooooooooo sorry for doing it, or they’re just someone who made a terrible, terrible decision, aren’t they just pathetic? As if they didn’t just kill someone. As if someone’s life wasn’t snuffed out because of their actions.

And what was Hibiki if not the most pathetic of them all?

She doesn’t need the warning to keep her eyes away, but she continues to face out towards the forest. The sounds alone are enough to make her shiver, and she feels both hot and cold at the same time. Hell is supposed to be like that, isn’t it? Hot and cold. Or maybe she’s misremembering. Everything in her mind feels like Jello put through a blender right now. Can you blame her? She’s just, after all, learned that, yes, Leon did die just for someone’s stupid deal with some stupid demon.

“You made a deal with a demon, huh? Didn’t the stories from centuries and centuries back tell you to be wary? Read the fine print? Think these things through? If you’re unhappy with what you ended up getting, you have no one to blame but yourself. If you made a deal for only yourself without thinking things through, then that’s no one’s fault but your own, and you’ve gone and dragged Leon into your mess--you don’t get to act like you’re remorseful or regretful of what you’ve done.”

Her voice is hard as she speaks, head bowing down to almost rest on her knees that are drawn up to her chest. It’s a struggle to keep herself from falling to pieces right now, but she’s doing her best because she refuses to let this horrible, awful former(?) man get the better of her. If she doesn’t, then the temptation to stare him in the eyes and demand answers will win out over her rational thoughts of “bad idea.”

“You’re selfish. I bet that’s why the demon came to you, you know. They sensed that they could get you to agree to anything without thinking about it too hard, and, well, they were right, weren’t they? And you…He didn’t deserve any of that. He's kind. He's good. He cares so much, and he is everything you will never be, what you will never have a chance to grow into. He didn't deserve it. You do. You deserve it. Every moment of agony that he experienced is what--what you--

No. No, I hope whatever Ranger Buddy does to you is worse than anything you did to him. And I know it’ll hurt more, too, because Leon--Leon died loved. How are you dying? Huh? Pathetic, unloved, alone, and staring down eternal damnation, probably. It’s like Kyou says; even Jo’s better than you. Jo had people to call her friends in her final moments, didn’t she? But I guess you didn’t read the fine print of homicide either, did you?

I don’t need future vision to see your fate: trapped in a Hell of your own creation at the cost of cheap kicks in life. Congratulations.

Hey, hey. Any ghosts who’re listening in: did you know demons haaaaaaaaaaaaaate salt? Soooo, liiiiiiikeeeeeeeee, if you waaaaaaaaant before the execution happensssss you could get a nice, like, welcome ready for Hibiki. By getting all of the salt wherever you guys are ready to throw it like rice at a wedding! Yay, yay!!”

She claps her hands together cheerfully behind her, a forced grin on her face, but, well, hey, Hibiki killed Leon with an allergy, didn’t he?

An eye for an eye. It’s only fair. She only kinda wishes she could see it.

#ch4 #trial #abigail

0 notes

t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

Text

Summery: You and Tom bet on who will touch the other first after he comes home from filming. Both refusing to give in you resort to some teasing measures to get the other one to break.

Pairing; Tom + female reader.

Themes: Light-hearted, lots of teasing. Established relationship. Fluff. Cocky Tom. Cocky reader too, let’s face it. They are both stubborn idiots. Lots of horniness all around. To be honest, very little plot and mostly smut. Bit of fluff as well though.

Warnings: Unprotected sex in established relationship. Masturbation. This work is strictly +18.

A/N: Not beta-read, I’m wine drunk and wrote this in like 2,5 hours so it is what it is.

It was such a stupid fucking bet and he wish he never agreed to it. It is all your fault, he decides, as he watches you bend over into downward dog, your breathing rhythmic and even as you stretch your beautiful body. He tries to look away from your ass, honestly he does, but you’re wearing those light grey yoga pants that practically has him drooling and the fabric is hugging your body so perfectly it would be a crime to look away.

Plus, he’s pretty sure that’s the whole point of you doing this, practicing yoga in the living room right in front of him as he’s supposed to be working. The whole point is to have him staring, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it.

It had all started the week before he was set to return from filming. He had teased you (and sure, in retrospect that was a terrible idea and he should have known better) had said that you would jump him the first chance you got, that he probably wouldn’t even get through the door before you had him out of his jeans. You had retaliated with an accusation that he would be the one all over you and obviously he had to deny that.

It had spiraled, neither one of you willing to give in and admit defeat and now here you are; a full day after his return and he hasn’t as much as hugged you.

Because whoever touches the other first loses the bet.

And now here you are, in front of him; wearing skin tight yoga pants and bending over.

A part of him, the midsection of his body to be precise, wants to just give in; to hand you the victory - fuck his pride. But the part of him, the rational part he likes to think, that has him bashing up golf clubs every time his dad beats him in a golf round; refuses to give in.

So what if he hasn’t seen you, hasn’t felt your body in over three months? Or that he now has your magnificent ass right in his face as he’s trying to concentrate on his dull emails. So what? He’s not faced by that, he’s a man of the world after all.

You lean forwards again until you’re on the ground, turn to your back and start to slowly but steadily push your hips up and down, in what Tom can only assume, is referred to as the ghost fucking position.

“Aren’t you supposed to answer emails?” You ask and he doesn’t even need to look at your face to know that you have a smug smile on your face.

“I am” he mutters, looking away from your body on the floor and back to his phone screen.

You laugh, and he pretends not to hear it, while you pretend that the visible hard-on he’s sporting doesn't make you want to climb into his lap and give in to both of your temptations.

The bet was stupid and totally his idea.

Tom comes out of the shower, drops of water still pouring from his wet hair onto his sculpted chest. The only thing he’s wearing is the white towel wrapped around his waist and the silver Rolex on his wrist. Seeing you standing in the kitchen and slicing tomatoes he sends you his widest smile.

And you thought you were playing unfair with the yoga.

He sits down by the bartop, all bare chested and golden. “Anything I can help with?” he asks as you place the tomatoes in the salad bowl. “A change of music perhaps?”

You throw a left over piece of tomato at him and it hits him square in the chest. He just smiles wider, completely unfaced. “Leave my dinner playlist alone, yeah?” You tell him, resisting the urge to give him the finger.

“So tense” he snickers and leans his head to the side, “I know what could help you relax.”

“Throwing more tomatoes at you? Because we need them in the salad, Thomas.”

He stands up and moves around the kitchen island until he’s behind you, careful as not to touch, framing you against the bench with his strong arms on either side of your body. You can smell him, fresh out of the shower, feel the warm radiate from his body; it is as he’s already holding you. He’s so close, it’s like every cell in your body is reaching out for him.

And it’s been so long.

Three months of twisting and turning alone in bed, of only your own hands as company and him on the phone screen as he encourages you; tells you how goddamn gorgeous you look fucking yourself for him. Three months of only seeing him on the phone; not being able to touch him and feel him for yourself, to taste his skin. To just see him spill all over his own hand instead of being there, catching it all with your tongue.

But it will have to wait a little while longer, because although you might love him, and the way he makes you feel, there’s no way you’re giving in just yet.

Slowly turning around, carefully as not to touch him, you reach for the bottle. “You can open this, since you wanted to help” you say and hand him the wine, “that would help me relax.”

He smiles, unbothered by his failed attempt at luring you to defeat, and steps back. You stir the pasta sauce, trying not to look at his bare chest as he’s leaning over the kitchen counter, looking for something. Finally he finds the corkscrew and sits back again at the bar table. He gets to work with opening the bottle, his strong veined hand wrapped around the throat of the bottle, as the other inserts the screw. His brow is furrowed in concentration and he’s biting his lip. Around his wrist the Rolex watch reflects in the light. Uncorking the bottle he pours blood red liquid into two wine glasses and hands you one before taking a sip from his own, brown eyes looking at you from over the rim of his glass.

“Put a fucking shirt on, Thomas” you mutter, going back to chopping vegetables.

The song and dance of torturing each other continues for the following two days. What goes on between you can only be described as a red-hot war.

“Oh for fuck sake!” Tom’s voice booms over the living room.

“Too direct?” You ask, eyebrow raised.

“No, no not at all” he answers, voice dripping with sarcasm, “no please, keep deep-throating the banana, it’s incredibly subtle.”

Slowly he wakes, blinking into the dark night. The alarm clock on his bedside table tells him that it’s just after 2 am and for a few long seconds he stares at it.

A rustling of sheets beside him in bed and it hits him. He’s home, home in his own bed with you laying next to him, as it should always be. Except that things aren’t the way it should be.

Because of that stupid goddamn bet.

The sheets rustle again and he wonders if you are awake as well. But then he hears it; a soft moan.

Turning over in bed at lighting speed he stares down at you. “Are you fucking touching yourself?” He asks, heatedly.

Your answer is another soft moan as you look up at him, pupils blown wide and lips parted. Tearing of the duvet he looks down at your naked body, at you hand, covered in slick, moving over your clit.

Fuck.

He moves over, leans over you; his legs on either side of yours and his arm on each side of your face, carefully making sure that he isn’t touching you. A slight catch of breath is all the sign you give of having been surprised, your hand keeping it’s gentle pace.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, voice low in the quiet room.

“You” is your breathless reply, “you touching me.”

“Think this is how I would touch you?” He asks, snickering. He’s holding his body over you, looking into your lust-filled eyes. “I’d go much slower at first, tease you. Slowly move around your clit until your hips are bucking up and you're begging me for more”.

He moves his head, so that his lips are almost touching yours. Almost.

“You’re so good at begging after all” he murmurs against your lips, moving his boxer clad hips so that they almost touch you and you groan, your face telling of vexation and volatile bliss. But you do as he says, follow his instruction with the movement of your hand.

“Good girl” he whispers softly against your lips.

“Then I’d slide one fingers inside that wet cunt, still slow; still teasing.”

You whine, but you do as he says. Slowly you move one finger in and out of yourself, as the other hand is still circling your clit. “Need more” you moan but he just smiles.

“Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He teases with a devilish grin, tilting his head to the side, looking down at you with sparkling eyes. “But your hands are smaller than mine, so maybe you should add another finger.”

You insert your middle finger as well; and moan. “Faster” you beg, but he shakes his head and so a string of curses fall out your mouth and all he can do is smile at it.

“That filthy fucking mouth of yours” me mutters.

“Well if you shove your dick into it instead then this stupid fucking bet will be over and we’ll both get off.”

“You know, I’ve really missed your fantastic sense of humor while I’ve been away” he answers dryly, but with a smile.

“Tom” you whine. “I need more.”

He wants to kiss you so badly, to press his lips against yours and taste you; to remove his boxers and sink into you in one swift movement until your hoarse and wanton whines turn into satisfied moans, soft and sweet like honey.

“Go on then, darling” he says, voice huskier than usual in the dark night. “Speed up for me.”

You do, your body hungry for satisfaction, hunting your orgasm with determent, sharp movements.

“Fuck,” he swears, “fuck you’re soaked.” He looks down at your wet slit, your rapidly moving fingers, your hips bucking up to meet your hand. Looking back into your wild eyes he groans, his mouth still dangerously close to yours.

“The whole room smells of you” he moans, and it’s true. The scent of your arousal mixes with the scent of your perfumed skin and this is the closest he’s been so far to falter; to give in to temptation.

Your head is thrown back against the pillows, throat exposed, soft moans escaping freely. He wants to touch you everywhere, feel the softness of your skin with his rough hands, his wet mouth, his teeth. He’s breathing hard and he hasn’t even been touched, but he feels the want of touching you in his bones.

He wants to wrap his lips around your hardened nipples. To suck, bite, lick and kiss them until you fall over the edge.

“So fucking beautiful” he breathes out. Even if he had wanted to he wouldn't have been able to look away from you. “But it’s my hand your fucking, remember? Think I’d wouldn’t fuck you harder than that?”

And god, he wish it was his hand you were fucking, wish he could feel you come; hot and wet and pulsing around his fingers. Instead he is left to watch. Watch as the movements of your hand speeds up until fucking yourself with a carnal kind of need, until you fall apart at the seams; luscious bliss spreading over your features, and your tense body relaxes until you soften against the mattress; loose limbed and starry eyed.

And he is left to take care of the his erection all on his own.

A thin layer of sweat is covering his chest and his muscles are taut as he forces his arms to carry his weight into another push-up.

“Thirty-six” he groans out, his voice strained and deep from the physical effort, curls of brown hair falling over his face as he lowers himself to the ground again. “Thirty-seven.”

You couldn’t look away even if you tried, your eyes fixed on the muscles of his back, and the way they move as he moves.

You feel agitated and frantic and in that moment you want nothing more than to lay down beneath him; look up at him as move above you with swift, powerful moments. It’s beyond reason, the carnal tug inside you as you watch him and it is absolutely maddening that he hasn’t given in yet to his desire; because you know he desires you, have seen it in his dark eyes, always following you around the room, over the last few days.

But you are not going to be the first one to give in.

“Forty-two” he moans out, and the sound of his heavy breathing and deep groans vibrate somewhere far inside you.

You’re not.

You just need a change of tactic, that’s all.

The pub is packed tonight, but the more secluded pool area section is scarce of people. Tom sips on his beer, scrolling through instagram; waiting for you, as the speakers blast out ‘Galway Girl’ for what feels like the hundredth time since he came in. He’s been visiting a friend while you’ve been at work, having decided this morning to meet up at the pub after for a meal and a game of pool.

A text pops up on the screen, beside your picture. It simply says ‘Look up’.

He does. And fuck.

Oh, fuck no.

Oh, for all that is holy, surely you wouldn’t be that cruel to him.

Not the white shorts.

Not the white shorts you had worn last summer, the ones you know very well turns him on like nothing else. The ones you had worn that time when you had driven down to the beach on bonfire night; the time when you pulled him aside from the rest of the company and he had ended up fucking you against the birch wood tree just some meters away from all your friends, your shorts around your ankles and your nails digging into his back as you tried to bite back you moans.

Surely you wouldn’t be this cruel to him, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to die. He hasn’t had sex in over three months and you show up looking like this and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.

He’s just not sure about whether this is going to be heaven

or hell.

He watches you as you walk through the pub with long confident strides, the goddamn heels you're wearing extending your legs, and the fabric of the white tank top stretching over your chest. Your lips are painted blood red, as if you are ready for battle.

He’s not the only one in the pub staring at you but you keep your eyes fixed on him, burning into his eyes, as you move across the floor.

“Honey” you greet him. “Got one of those for me as well?” You nod to the beer in his hand, frozen mid movement to his mouth.

“Why?” He asks, trying to regain the upper hand. “Feeling thirsty?”

You laugh dryly, looking down at his crotch, where he’s painfully aware a bulge is showing. Instead of commenting on it he hands you the other beer bottle he ordered and watches as you wrap your red lips around the opening, swallowing down. He feels warm all over in the stuffy pub and he pulls at the collar of his t-shirt.

He reaches for the cue sticks and hands you one. “Alright, darling” he sighs, knowing very well what kind of teasing hell you are about to put him through tonight, “let’s play.”

The playlist has gone from Ed Sheeran songs to Mumford & Sons and the pub is still packed with people, though the pool area remains empty apart from you and Tom. It's warm in there and Tom takes big gulps from his third beer of the night. He can feel sweat forming on his back, his brow, his chest.

You’re not helping the situation. Although he’s pretty certain that helping is opposite of what you’re trying to do.

“You’re so fucking annoying” he whines, as he watches you hit the white ball perfectly, resulting in two of your striped balls ending up in the pockets. He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and mouth in a thin line.

He fucking hates losing.

“You know what you should do?” You ask, lining up against the table, arched back as you bend over with your cue stick; giving him a full view of your fucking fantastic thighs, “try to fuck it out of me.” You hit another perfect shot and a third ball goes in. You look over your shoulder at him, still bent over the table, and wink.

Standing up straight you turn to him. Swaying your hips to the music you lift the beer bottle to your red lips and you swallow a mouthful. Placing the bottle next to you on the side of the pool table you walk over to him, standing so close you’re almost touching.

Almost

In fact, you might as well be, for he can smell your perfume, mixing with the scent of your shampoo. Can feel the heat radiate of your warm body. It’s been so long since he’s held you and his entire body is painfully aware of it.

With your lips just centimeters from his you whisper; voice husky and low, “I know how bad you want me, honey.” You move your face so that you’re almost kissing the stubble on his cheek, mouth nearly pressed against it.

“You want my hands” you whisper again, looking up at him, your hand hovering right over his erection, carefully as not to touch it, and he nearly bucks out to meet your hand. He’s glad that the area is more secluded, part of the wall hiding the pair of you from view. It feels like there’s just the two of you in the entire world; might as well be for all he cares right now. A blush colours his cheeks as he stares back at you.

“You want my mouth” you breathe against him, your lips curled into an evil smile. “You want my tongue” and you lick your lips before biting it, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You wish I was on my hands and knees right now, so you could fuck my mouth.” you finish.

His skin feels tight and overheated, but he keeps his tone casual as he replies, “actually I wish you were bent over the table so spank that arse of yours, but sure, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie.”

“What’s stopping you? You think you can hold on forever? You know I’m not going to give in, Tom. You know me. Can you imagine going to sleep tonight? Untouched? Again?”

There’s no use he thinks as he plunges in for a kiss, pulling you tight against him; eager to touch as much as you as possible with impatient hands.

He tried to beat the devil at her own game and he lost.

“Think you lost, honey” you say between kisses as he’s pressing you up against the front door.

“Don’t give a flying fuck love, just keep touching me and I’ll die a happy man.” His voice is breathless and hoarse and his hands are all over you; as if he can’t get enough. Your hand is in his soft hair, holding on, as the other is cupping the bulge in his trousers, stroking him through the fabric as he whimpers in your ear.

“We should probably get inside,” you whisper. “Unless you want your neighbors to witness me give you a hand job on the front steps.”

He groans, but steps away from you. His hair is ruffled and his pupils are blown wide, spit from your previous kissing covering his lower lip. You imagine you look just as disheveled.

“Think you need to learn a lesson in delayed gratification” you tease, not being able to stop yourself.

His eyes go even darker and he takes a step forward again, cups your chin and looks you straight in the eye in a way that has bolts of excitement shoot up your spine. “Before the night is over” he says in a slow, gruff voice, “I will teach you all there is to know about delayed gratification.”

He digs in his pockets, pulls out his keys and unlocks the front door, guiding you in with a hand on your lower back.

He feels as if someone has lit a match under his skin. His whole body is screaming with vehement urgency for yours. His hands can’t get enough of you; his lips never want to leave your soft lips again. Your soft little noises are filling his head and he hardly even registers your hands unzipping his jeans; until you’re pulling them, alongside his boxers, off of him in a sharp tugging notion.

“Filthy girl, I fucking love you” he moans out between kisses as you wrap your soft hand around his hard cock.

He pulls at your tank top and for a moment your skin separates entirely from his as you step away, so that he can remove the fabric from you. Yanking at the goddamn jeans shorts he pulls them down around your ankles and you step out of them. Your underwear soon follows suit along with his t-shirt until you both are free of any inconvenient clothing.

He needs your warm and soft skin pressed against his, needs your soft little moans in his ear as he fucks into you, needs the taste of your sweet skin on his tongue.

He lifts you up on the bed and soon follows suit. Reaching down he slips a finger between your legs, feels how wet and warm and slick you are and groans loudly against your shoulder.

Lining up against you, cock in hand he looks at your lust filled eyes. “Next time I’ll go slow, yeah? I’ll take my time.”

Your answer is your hands on his shoulder, pulling him against you and he slips inside you with an ecstatic moan. You moan as well, wrap your legs around his hips. He starts moving, thrusting in and out of you with greedy dragged out jabs. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room and mixes with your whimpering mewls.

You are so hot and tight and wet around him and the pleasure is so intense it’s bordering on painful. His face is so close to yours, it is as if you are sharing breaths.

He wants to punch himself from denying himself this for several days when he already had to go without for months.

“Did you think your hands could stand in for mine while I was away? That it could measure up at all?” He asks you, voice thick with lust. He’s so full of want for you and you’re all soft noise and wandering hands. Your warm breath on his even warmer skin. His lips on your nipples; kissing, sucking, biting.

You writhe beneath him, unable to lay still as you buck your hips up to meet his; fucking into him. He’s not going to last long but neither is you and holding on is a losing battle. Like he said, next time he will go slower, gentler, softer. Drag it out for an entire night. But you both have too much built up pressure inside you to last now. He feels like a bomb about to go off, sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine, as he fucks into you with even greater force. You’re hot and swollen and hugging onto him so perfectly he feels like he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t get to come soon.

But he knows that you are close. Feels it in your nails, dragging along his back, in the sharp movements of your thrusts, in your laboured breathing against his shoulder. He feels it in the way your cunt squeezes around him.

“I’m coming” you whimper and he wants to cry from the relief as he feels you spasm around him.

“Fuck” you moan out as your breathing calms down, and he’s holding you pressed against his chest. “Haven’t had a decent orgasm in months, I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“You really can’t function without me, can you?” he says with a smug smile and honestly, hadn’t you’ve been so blissed out you probably would have bitten him.

A/N: I honestly don’t know if any of this made sense. I’m drunk and tired and I’m going to bed. If you read it, please leave your thoughts.

#tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland smut #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader

658 notes · View notes

rowanaelinn · 3 years

Text

Fire on Fire - Chapter Eight

Chapter seven // Chapter nine

Warnings: suicidal thoughts.

It’s kinda rushed but it kinda fits with today’s prompt for rowaelin month! next chapter is going to be way longer :)

————

Rowan took a piece of towel and used it to remove the foam from his client's leg, revealing a tattoo he had been working on for four long hours.

It was a large bouquet of flowers, each one a different color to represent a member of the client's family, with writing in the Old Language with their names.

“Here it is,” He told her, holding a mirror above her leg so she could see all the details. Her smile grew as she took in her tattoo. It was one of his favorite parts of his job, the emotion on their face. He loved to be able to bring such feelings to the people he worked on.

“I love it.” She said and Rowan only nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. He put away his equipment, throwing away the little pots of ink that he hadn't quite finished while his client left, thanking him, before going to sign the last papers at the counter. When he finished, Rowan joined her and gave the invoice to Remelle, their assistant.

He left to clean up his workroom before entering the break room, heading straight to the fridge to take out his food. He had spent an hour yesterday cooking pasta, chicken and cutting up his favorite vegetables to make a salad. Cooking had always helped him to keep his mind busy and these last days it was more than necessary.

A few minutes after Rowan settled down at the round table in the middle of the room, fork in hand and his dominant hand busy holding an Apple Pencil while he multi-tasked eating and drawing for his appointments, Gavriel entered the room.

Rowan tried not to stare at him, exactly as he had done all week. But today it was more complicated as Gavriel sat down next to him, getting his full attention. He tried with all his might to concentrate on the drawing in front of him, but the temptation was too strong. "How's..." He cleared his throat, the words hard to come out. "How's Aelin?"

He avoided any eye contact, his eyes fixed on the tablet even if his drawing hadn’t progressed in the last ten minutes. He hated the feeling of worry in his chest. Rationally, he knew she was physically okay or Gavriel and Aedion would be by her side now. But she had been good at hiding her emotions, so good that her family didn’t see anything worrying. Apparently, he was the only one who saw anything, and it did nothing to help his worry about how she was right now.

After long seconds without a response, Rowan dared to look up at Gavriel. His head was turned toward Rowan, fork a few inches from his opened mouth. His entire face was frozen. Rowan just raised his eyebrows, waiting for anything to come out of his mouth. His boss shook his head, seeming to come back to reality. “Yeah. She is, why?” He could see the confusion on Gavriel’s face but Rowan wouldn’t answer that question so he just shrugged.

Rowan managed to stay quiet a few more minutes, even if he could feel the awkwardness in their air, but another question was burning his throat. “Have you ever met Arobynn Hamel?”

This time he looked up to see Gavriel look at him as if he was an alien, but thank the Gods, he didn’t comment on his interest. “Once or twice, but very briefly. Generally, that was just when he was picking Aelin up.” Rowan nodded, still trying to understand what Aelin had meant by The furthest they are from Arobynn, the safest they are. She hadn’t said anything else, leaving him more confused than anything.

“How did she met him?” He tried to appear casual as he asked that, taking another fork of food in his mouth. The food tasted sour as Gavriel kept watching him suspiciously. He couldn’t ask these questions to Aedion, knowing his friend he would be too defensive of his cousin, especially if Rowan was the one asking the questions. Gavriel knew about Aelin and Rowan’s disdain for each other but he knew less than Aedion, he hadn’t seen the two of them yell at each other or hadn’t witnessed them doing absolutely everything to ruin the other’s day.

He didn’t dare to ask Lysandra either, he was sure the woman would stab him with her hells if he even dared to pronounce Aelin’s name.

So Gavriel was the safest choice.

He seemed to think about who to tell him before opening his mouth. “At a party, when she was sixteen or fifteen, I think.” He took a bite of his food. “Arobynn’s an old friend of her father, both went together to college and were best of friends there, but they lost contact and met again at a gala. They talked about Aelin and found out she wanted to work in the same industry as Arobynn. He’s been her mentor ever since.”

Fifteen? Maybe Rowan’s mind was just fucked up to think it was weird, maybe he was just influenced by what Aelin said the other night. He might not have found it weird if she hadn’t said anything. He was just thinking too hard, trying too hard to find an explanation for what’s happening to her.

“You think he’s good to her?” Gavriel was a wise man, he was trying so hard to be part of his son’s life and it included taking care of Aedion’s cousin. Surely, he didn’t notice the little things Rowan did, but maybe he noticed something else. Rowan’s boss only shrugged.

“He found her a place at her university, made her TA, and gives her a job every summer. So, yeah. I guess so.” And he was paying for her education, a fact Aelin hid from her family. Why would she? It was what didn’t make sense, what was weird with all that. “I’m even sure he’s the first person she went to see when she left her parents in Terassen.”

What?

“What do you mean, ‘left’?” He asked, his brows furrowed. It wasn’t the only thing that didn’t make sense, he knew for a fact Aelin came to the house first. He hadn’t talked to her that day, he and the boys were sent to their room as if they were teenagers the moment a crying Aelin knocked at the door. He had lingered longer than necessary in the staircase, long enough to see her in a dress, shoes in hands, and cheeks filled with black makeup that had run down her cheeks.

Next thing he knew, Aedion spent a week at his father, trying to get Aelin better. Rowan had thought about this night for too long, Rowan always thought Aelin had partied too hard (because from her outfit, it was quite clear she had partied) and it was the straw that broke the camel's back for her parents. Even without wanting to, it had been impossible not to know about Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.

Pictures and videos of her in more than indecent dresses for her age were on page one of every magazine, when pictures of her sniffing coke had leaked it had even been made to National News. She had been sixteen at the time, and it had only been one of many times she had been caught doing what she shouldn’t have.

Before Gavriel could answer, the door opened to let Aelin appear in the doorway. She was holding flowers in her left hand, a smile on her face as she saw her uncle. Unfortunately, her face froze when she saw Rowan. Rowan’s entire body stilled, eyes roaming all over her body. She seemed okay, not skinnier than the last time he saw her, not hurt.

“Oh,” she said, opening and closing her mouth multiple times. She swallowed before clearing her throat. Only a blind person wouldn’t see her anxiety. “I didn’t think you ate there.”

He usually didn’t, having enough time to go back home. It was more comfortable to eat there, but he had been burying himself under work since he woke up in her empty bed. “You thought wrong.”

She was uncomfortable, and he both wanted to make her feel that way for hours and wanted to comfort her at the same time.

Sensing both of their unease, Gavriel stood up and went to leave the room. “I brought you those, your favorites,” Aelin said, giving her uncle the flowers. “I went to your favorite flower shop.”

Gavriel smiled and kissed Aelin’s cheek, earning a smile out of her. “Thanks.” He looked back at Rowan, he knew it was a warning glare but he didn’t care. He needed to speak with her. Gavriel left, pretending to have something else to do but it was all an excuse to let them speak.

“So, you’re alive.”

Aelin snorted. “I don’t know if you look relieved or sad.”

He fought his lips from rising. “Anything to say?”

Aelin looked at him, her bottom lip between her lips and her hands fidgeting. “Your shirt is ugly.”

It was his turn to snort. Of course, she wouldn’t go straight to the point. He arched a brow, waiting for a real answer. Even though he was the one sitting, he held more power than her now.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” he said as he closed his tablet, letting his fork down on the plate to have his hands free. “I just want you to act like the adult you are, and it doesn’t include running away in the middle of the night after telling someone you want to die.” His voice was hard, it made Aelin flinch.

“I never said I wanted to die.”

“You said you didn’t have the strength to live, Aelin.”

“Yeah, never said I wanted to die.”

“But do you?” He had to ask, because if she did… He would do what was necessary, he couldn’t let her die. She was already killing herself slowly, between the sex and the alcohol… She told everyone she was sober from drugs but she had been lying for so long to everyone he had a hard time believing it.

Rowan got his answer when she avoided his gaze, focusing on the floor. His heart broke, he needed to help her and he doubted sending her to a psychiatric hospital would help.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, voice heavy with emotions. With his head, he made her sign to sit next to him, and to his surprise, he complied. She turned her chair to face him, their knees brushing. He could see the dark circles around her eyes from that close, her lips dryer than usual and dotted with small wounds that he knew were due to her teeth.

“I’m coming back home.” He told him, finally looking at him. “I was around, I finished school yesterday and had to sign some things at Arobynn’s office. So I bought Gavriel’s favorite flowers to thank him, I didn’t know you would be here.”

“You hoped I wouldn’t.” He stated and she only nodded. She looked broken as if she knew she could let her guard down after what happened between them Monday. He was happy she knew he would be here for her.

“I was ready to call the cops when I woke up alone, Aelin,” Rowan confessed. He needed her to understand people suffered from her actions. “I was going to until I heard Aedion complain to Lysandra about you leaving him for his father.” He exhaled a loud breath, trying to forget everything he felt that morning. “Aelin, I thought you were dead somewhere.”

Her hand gripped his, he couldn’t hide the surprise from his face. She kept her hand in his, her small fingers enveloping his. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from it, they had never touched like that. “I’m sorry,” her weak voice said. “I panicked. I didn’t think…” He looked back at her, letting her time formulate her thoughts. It was hard enough, she didn’t need to be pressed. “I didn’t think you’d care, to be honest. Nobody ever did, you said it yourself. Aedion was annoyed I was at Gavriel’s, not that I was gone. It’s always been this way, I’ve always been… free.”

It wasn’t freedom, it was negligence. But she didn’t need to hear this now, so he kept his mouth shut, just nodding in understanding. He linked their fingers together, delighted to see the surprise on Aelin’s face, at least they were even now. He squeezed her hand, accepting her apology. Two weeks ago he would have thought Aelin did it on purpose to have attention, but he began to realize he was wrong about her.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow.” He said, changing the subject. He had to get back to work soon, and he didn’t have the time to unpack everything he wanted right now. Aelin still looked at their hands, feeling too hard to describe on her face. She nodded.

“Lysandra and Dorian spent the week throwing a huge party for you,” It wasn’t exactly a surprise, Aelin knew there would be a party but probably thought it would just be her and her close friends. Lysandra and Dorian had another idea in mind. “If it’s too much, we can ditch. We’ll find an excuse.”

Finally, her eyes looked back at his face. She had a small smile on her face, Rowan’s heartbeat eased at that. “No.” She shook her head. “A party is what I need right now.”

Rowan wanted to disagree on that, but she was an adult. She knew what was best for her. “Then let’s party.”

Her eyes widened. “You usually don’t come to my birthday.” She was right, he had avoided these parties full of teenagers as much as he could, but he wanted to stay with her.

“I thought were an English major,” he teased her, pulling at her arm slightly making her smile. “What part of ‘you don’t have to be alone anymore’ don’t you understand?”

At that, she smiled so brightly Rowan could have sworn it lighted up the entire room.

————

tag list: @sheharahu // @morganofthewildfire // @thestoriesyoutell // @fromthelibraryofemilyj // @swankii-art-teacher // @itsforeverinnocent-blog // @becarefuloflove // @imnotsogoodatthis // @rowaelinismyotp // @a-court-of-milkandhoney // @feysand-loml // @surielandiareendgame // @live-the-fangirl-life // @story-scribbler // @loves-books // @fangirlprincess09 // @theysayitscrazy // @hellasblessed // @danibutterr

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #fire on fire #aelin galathynius

74 notes · View notes

sly-merlin · 3 years

Text

A busy birthday | j.suh

Requested : johnny + birthday dinner surprise

Genre : fluff

"Stop being a cry baby johnny."

Yuta said, shoving his hair back away from his face. Since the break of dawn, they had been practicing like bulls running after a red flag and ever since then, johnny had been moping around with disappointment painted over his face.

"I'm not being a cry baby yuta. I just asked if you all want to practice late at night. Simple." He replied and gulped down the remaining water from the disposable bottle. Yuta shook his head and snatching the empty bottle, crushed it from the middle before facing johnny,

"Just talk to her. It's not like we are allowed to go anywhere tonight. might as well spare yourself the trouble and confront her. Anyone c-

"But I never forget any important events and we being restricted gives me the right reason to be mad yuta. It's 9p.m and she didn't even care enough to throw a message at me. She can't be that busy."

Even the choreographer didn't scold them for the loudness. When Johnny's happy, he's the light in the room and when Johnny's whining, he takes down everyone with him. Such was the case right now.

"She has her responsibilities johnny. She's a teacher. Maybe she forgot while checking papers or something. Don't stretch this too much. You all are giving me a headache!" Taeil reprimanded, tiredly.

"So no one cares about how I feel? Seriously? Fine. We have another practice at 6 so I'll just sleep here i guess. Fuck you all."

Back facing the mirror, he slumped down. Silence hung in the air and no one dared to open their mouths. Johnny, despite being the rational one, couldn't rub the displeasure off his face. He felt heartbroken and ignored, feelings that might not matter after a few days but they had already sunk in enough for the moment to last a day or two.

All the boys exchanged knowing looks, mutely involving the choreographer as well. A mere nod from him was all it needed for yuta to drag a sulky johnny towards the door.

"What the fuck are you doing yuta. Mark you too!" Johnny narrowed his eyes, which they couldn't even see.

"Fuck off bitch. Go home because dorms are closed for you. If I received a single worried call from y/n, you would be dead! Take this phone and keys and run off." Shoving his stuff in his pajama pockets, yuta closed the door after him.

Johnny mumbled curses at him for being so callous but the partition didn't pass his words.

Cheerful shouts were the last thing he heard before he trudged for the main door.

*****

"Let's pray he reaches on time or y/n would chop me into small pieces." Yuta whined, returning to his position for the practice.

*****

He had denied and refused but the truth was that he felt hurt and despite being sad, he didn't want to end the day without seeing your face. The conflict was really painful and that's why he was carelessly removing his shoes at the threshold of the house, hoping he'd leave the dejection behind with the shoes.

What he didn't expect on entering was the blended aroma of the foods that he couldn't really point to. There was chicken, maybe chilli soup too? Or it could b-

"Happy birthday johnny suh."

A Giggle reverberated in the dim lit hallway as you wished him. With a small cake set on your palms, you looked at him with a gleam in the eye and with a smile outshining the colourful assortment of candles on the cake. He manually let out a chuckle but composed himself immediately after he realised that you must have been told by the boys.

"Blow the candles, birthday boy." You chirped.

He stared at the cake for a while, indecisive as to whether he should confront you or just forgive you without any question asked. He did both.

Blowing the candles, he glared at you and walked away, not before snatching the cake from your hands.

"Woah woah. That way dory!" You instructed, taking him by his arm. He was perplexed. Since when did you get so fast?

"I'm not hungry." He lied.

The food decorating the dining table was mouth watering, the taste in your hands was something he would've loved to die for. But he wanted to control himself, from snapping at your nonchalance and the temptation of lunging at the meal.

Before he could've turned away, you began lightening the scented candles on the table and his eyes finally took notice of your body. You were wearing nothing special, no makeup either. Johnny's simple black shirt swallowed your figure while your loose hair waved with your movements. It was indeed his favourite look on you.

"Come sit." You said.

"Who reminded you." His voice was surprisingly calmer than he had intended it to be.

"Who reminded me what?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he spoke again.

"Yo-you forget my birthday y/n."

"Who told you that?" Arms crossed, you challenged his words.

"You didn't call me the whole day." With defeat laced voice, he placed the cake back on the table. Watching you approach him, he took a conscious step back.

"You didn't even wish me in the morning," he whipped his head on the right to avoid you.

A hearty chuckle tore his gaze away from the wall and back to your face.

"You got up at 4:30 a.m Johnny. I didn't wish because that's how a surprise is supposed to work. I took a half day leave so i could prepare dinner for you. You are so busy these d-

Your rambling was cut off as you were sharply pulled by him.

"I thought you really forgot about me." Hugging you tighter, he spoke with a heavy throat.

"Aww you are such a baby John."

He kept swaying you for a few more moments and muttered multiple apologies. You basked in the warmth that he provided, happily, until you couldn't take it anymore.

"If you don't leave me right away, I'm going to cancel your midnight birthday gift John Suh."

I'll be johnnying until 14 feb! Happy johnnying everyone

#nct-writers #neowritingsnet #nct scenarios #nct fluff #nct imagines #nct angst #nct drabbles #nct 127 #nct x reader #nct smut #nct soft hours #nct johnny #Johnny scenarios #johnny imagines #Johnny fluff #Johnny x reader #johnny smut #nct timestamps #nct reactions

246 notes · View notes

occult-castiel · 4 years

Text

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained. "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line — It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

#ok trying this agian to see if it actually pops up in anything I tag it with #destiel #deancas #suptober20 #suptober2020 #suptober #heres to hoping i guess?

123 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Taste Your Beating Heart, Chapter Three (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

word count: 5490 | ao3 link

Tayce needs to do it. Aurora would understand, if it were the other way around. It’s just the way things have to be.

Aurora freezes under her touch though doesn’t move away, because she trusts Tayce. A fatal mistake on her part. Sad, really. “What are you-”

It’s almost entertaining, the way her words cut off when Tayce bares her fangs and finally, she can have something to drink, as if she hasn’t been hungry for ages, and she closes the distance between them in less than a second and-

AN: Thank you all so much for the wonderful response on this fic, it makes me so happy! This chapter took a little while to update because real life has gotten a bit busy, but nonetheless, I hope you like it. Thank you Writ for betaing and being the best person to brainstorm with and Pop for taking out anything too Canadian sounding. Enjoy and tell me your thoughts!

_________

There are no more blood bags left. Tayce is thirsty, and there are no more blood bags in the fridge.

Bimini’s gone to visit a pal up north and Cara’s out hunting, and the last time any of them went to pick up more blood was at least a month ago, and crap, Tayce should have gone to stock up when their stash had first started to run low.

Maybe she can go for a hunt. There’s not enough time to get some more blood bags now but she can always grab someone off the street, for a quick snack.

Ding dong.

Shit. Shit . Aurora’s not supposed to be over for another hour, she can’t be here already-

“Open up! I have a surprise for you and I couldn’t wait at home tapping my toes any longer.”

Bloody hell. Tayce can smell her, there’s no need for Aurora to announce herself, really, but today the scent is more potent, wafting under Tayce’s nose, and she can’t help the way that her eyelids flutter as she lets out a breath.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” Tayce gets out before turning on her heels, running towards the fridge and throwing it open with desperation as if its contents will have changed from the last time she opened it five minutes ago.

There’s Lawrence’s three cheese lasagna that she’s yet to drop off to the neighbours’, but otherwise the fridge is empty of the blood bags that usually line the shelves. No surprise appearance of any blood. Tayce lets out a grunt in frustration.

“What’re you doing in there, taking a bath? Solving some maths equations? Masturbating? Don’t have all the fun without me,” Aurora snickers audibly through the door.

Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be fine. Tayce can put up with a few hours in Aurora’s presence without having fed already. She has good self control, she knows that after being with Aurora for a few months. She hasn’t done anything stupid yet.

She’ll just pay extra attention to herself.

“Shut up, I’m coming,” Tayce mutters, reaching the door handle to unlock it and steeling herself with a deep breath, which turns out to be a bad, bad idea.

Because when she pulls the door open Aurora launches herself at her in a hug, her legs wrapping around her waist and shit, she smells so good and Tayce’s mouth is watering and Aurora’s heart is pumping fast and the blood rushing through her veins is loud, much too loud in Tayce’s ears and it would be simply too easy to just twist her neck, wouldn’t be painful at all for her-

“Finally. And here I thought I was going to live the rest of my life out on your doorstep.” Aurora’s smile is easy, almost as if she doesn’t know how delectable her blood smells, how warm her touch is, before her brow furrows. “Hey, you okay?”

“What?” Tayce barely hears the question as she closes the door behind her, not when Aurora’s heartbeat is the loudest sound echoing in her brain, when all she can think about is how fucking thirsty she is.

She needs it.

Fuck it.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Tayce murmurs, and the words are almost a relief, even though Aurora’s eyes widen when Tayce takes a step closer, brushing her hair away from her neck.

Tayce needs to do it. Aurora would understand, if it were the other way around. It’s just the way things have to be.

Aurora freezes under her touch though doesn’t move away, because she trusts Tayce. A fatal mistake on her part. Sad, really. “What are you-”

“Fuck!”

Tayce shoots up into a sitting position, the sheets rumpled around her waist as she tries to catch her breath, rub her eyes before opening them once more.

Bed. She’s in bed. Not her own bed but Aurora’s, the girl still peacefully slumbering beside her, her lips slightly parted as her chest rises and falls.

She hasn’t gone and killed her girlfriend. Fuck. Thank god. It had just been a dream, nothing more, and Aurora’s scent isn’t as overpowering as it had been in her sleep because Tayce isn’t hungry right now and the temptation is easy as always to ignore.

Nonetheless, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and pads towards the fridge, throwing it open. Beside the takeaway containers and the surely expired orange juice in the corner there are two bags of blood, the ones always stored in Aurora’s fridge for safekeeping.

Aurora is fine. Tayce is fine. Everything is fine.

Aurora’s still breathing when she looks over and Tayce isn’t hungry, because it had been a dream. Just a dream.

Tayce’s heart stopped beating centuries ago but she can almost still feel a phantom hammering in her chest, reminding her along with the beads of sweat on her forehead just how precarious of a situation this is. Climbing back into bed beside Aurora, resting her head back down on the pillow feels almost dangerous. What if she goes and snaps? What if she has another dream but wakes up and doesn’t realise it and goes for Aurora’s jugular anyway, the hunting side of her taking over as it does when she’s on the prowl? Aurora’s her girlfriend, yeah, but she’s also human, and what if Tayce gets to a point that she just can’t resist?

What if the short term pursuit of something to drink means that Tayce will eventually lose Aurora by her own hand?

Fuck, this is why she never does this. She’s seen it happen before, like with Asttina and her girlfriend back in the sixties, or when Cara had tried to date that human pirate in the late 1700s. It doesn’t ever end well with humans, Tayce knows that.

A tiny part of her wants to believe that she’ll never hurt Aurora, that she’ll always be in control of herself because god knows, she never wants anything to happen to her. It can’t, not when Tayce is going to be the one to have to pick up the pieces of her own shit actions and Aurora’s going to be the one to pay the price. Tayce is always careful - she drinks every time before seeing Aurora, even when she’s not thirsty, and she’s good at tuning out Aurora’s scent after months with her. There’s very little risk in Tayce’s rational brain, because Aurora herself is more important. The fact that she’s living and breathing and has so much in front of her.

She’s not ever going to lose that because Tayce is hungry. Not in a million years.

But then again, what if Tayce is fooling herself and sooner or later her sleep-addled mind is just going to go for it? What if Aurora will simply be in the way and Tayce won’t be able to control herself?

She’s really fooling herself with trying to form a sense of normalcy with Aurora, in this quasi sort of relationship. As if Tayce is human herself and can enjoy human things, as if she even deserves them. As if she’s not going to outlive every human alive on earth today and see their graves, only for a whole new group of humans to roam the planet.

The thing is, Tayce wants it. She wants it so badly. She wants to be able to wake up with someone who she can call her girlfriend, she wants to go to uni and go clubbing and stop at a kebab shop on the way home. She wants to visit her parents on holidays and have goals and career aspirations and a lifetime to look forward to.

Instead, she’d buried her parents back in the 1600s and has survived precisely one burning at the stake and three town mobs under suspicion for being a witch.

Idiotic humans, never quite getting their monsters right.

Tayce can pretend, though. Sometimes, when she’s in Aurora’s bed and has an arm around her as she’s starting to doze off, she can imagine that she’s only twenty two, maybe, still with so much to experience in life ahead of her. She can pretend she has human problems like having a shit boss at work or looking for the perfect gift to buy for an anniversary. Sometimes it feels real, when she can feel how warm Aurora’s skin is against hers and how her heartbeat is steady.

But then Tayce holds two fingers up to her pulse point on her neck and feels nothing at all. And why would she, when she stopped having a pulse centuries ago?

Aurora shuffles beside her, turning over onto her side and mumbling something into her pillow and it’s dangerous, really, how much Tayce’s heart swells when she sees it. How much Aurora’s affecting her after only a few months, how much she doesn’t want to lose her already.

Because it’s inevitable, when with someone immortal. Bound to happen.

The clock on Aurora’s bedside table reads 03:13, and sleep is the last thing that Tayce wants to do anymore. Not when she remembers the sight of how Aurora had been so close and easy to-

No. Tayce won’t even think about that. Not if dreams can ever have a chance of being premonitions.

Humans are too fragile for their own good. If only Tayce could build some armour for Aurora to keep her safe, protect her from anything that could possibly hurt her. Tayce pushes away the thought that what Aurora needs protection from most is, well…her.

The unselfish thing to do would be to let Aurora go, to stop sleeping over at her flat and spending time with her and going on little dates and let her live her life the way that she deserves to. To let her grow up, maybe get married and start a family of her own the way Aurora should have the chance to do if she wants.

The thing is though, Tayce is selfish. Very selfish, because she loves the rosiness along Aurora’s cheeks and the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles and the way Aurora’s hands tangle in her hair when she’s between her legs and eating her out. Tayce doesn’t want to let it go, and honestly, she can’t.

She’ll just have to be careful. Really, really, careful.

Everything is fine. It’ll continue to be fine.

Maybe if Tayce tells herself that enough, she’ll start to believe it, too.

Tayce lies awake for the rest of the night, forgoing the sleep that she doesn’t require as a vampire to function in favour of fiddling with the edge of the blanket, her eyes flitting over Aurora’s sleeping form. The way Aurora’s chest rises and falls as she sleeps is a tease that Tayce can’t look away from, rubbing salt into the reminders that the two of them are so irrevocably different.

It’s almost a relief when the morning takes over and the room around them begins to lighten, as Aurora blinks away the sleep from her eyes and snuggles a little into Tayce’s side before pressing a kiss into her shoulder. Tayce can feel her lips pull into a smile without meaning to.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Was starting to think you’d never rise from that slumber.”

Aurora raises an eyebrow, adorably rumpled as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“No!” Maybe Tayce sounds a little too defensive, because Aurora starts to snicker. “Not on purpose. I couldn’t sleep, and your snores were so loud that I couldn’t help but gape in astonishment.”

Aurora squeaks, shoving Tayce’s shoulder. “I don’t snore! Take it back.”

“How would you know? You’re gone to dreamland when you do,” Tayce grins, leaning in to kiss the pout that begins to form on Aurora’s lips.

She does feel a little bit bad, though, considering that Aurora doesn’t snore in the least, and so she pushes herself off the bed amidst Aurora’s protests and grabby hands, and pads toward the kitchen.

“What d’you want for breakfast? You want me to make you something small before your morning lecture? Can’t have you falling asleep on your professors, can we?”

“So mean today,” Aurora huffs, sitting down at the counter, but there’s a small smile on her face, almost bashful at the offer. “Some beans and toast?”

“Coming right up, your majesty.”

Human food isn’t too appetizing to Tayce anymore, but the process of putting it together remains somewhat soothing. Maybe it’s the different parts, the methodicalness of it all. Maybe it’s the way Aurora’s face lights up when Tayce puts the plate in front of her. Either way, she doesn’t mind it in the least.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Aurora mumbles through a mouthful of her breakfast, putting the toast down on her plate.

Tayce’s movements stutter slightly as she’s washing the saucepan in the sink. “Hmm?”

Maybe it’s nothing. It’s not like Aurora knows about Tayce’s dream from last night, or the slight twists of uneasiness that run through her system at the idea of having Aurora entangled in her messes. But then again, Aurora’s not one to tread lightly, closer to a bull in a china shop than any sort of graceful creature. She never hesitates when expressing an opinion or any sort of emotions, which is why Tayce isn’t sure why she nearly drops the pan at her question.

“What is it exactly that we are, Tayce?”

“So you just…”

“Ran back here, obviously. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You absolute, fucking eejit.”

Lawrence’s words are stated with the weariness of a tired mum, and Tayce can’t blame her, frankly, not when she’s pacing back and forth in the living room herself.

“She asked what we are!” Tayce exclaims, crossing her arms as if it’ll rid her stomach of the pit of dread that’s started to form.

It’s not as if Tayce hadn’t known it was coming. She’s not stupid. It’s just that…

There are things she’d rather not think about if she doesn’t have to.

“You’ve been shacking up with her for months now. You don’t think the girl was bound to get a bit restless?” Lawrence asks, rubbing her temples. “No self-respecting woman’s going to hang around like a wee koala on your back without a good reason to do so.”

“Why does everything need to have a label? Can’t we just go with the flow, isn’t that a thing?” Tayce asks, flopping down on the couch beside Lawrence. “Naming it makes it complicated.”

“As if getting cozy with a living, breathing, human rather than sucking her blood for dinner wasn’t complicated enough,” Lawrence tuts, shaking her head. “You’ve made your bed, babes. And your girl’s about to leave it ‘cause you did a shit job with the sheets.”

Tayce sighs, sinking lower onto the couch. The pool of dread in her abdomen feels like it’s growing larger and larger, creating a web that feels like it’s going to overwhelm her at a moment’s notice, drowning her in what ifs and hypotheticals that all end negatively.

“Okay, think of it this way,” Lawrence starts. “D’you want to drink her blood and all that? Get a little snack?”

Tayce shoots up from her slouched position, indignation rising in her chest at the suggestion. “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

“Then d’you want to break up with her instead? Let her go?”

“No, I…” Tayce trails off, pausing. “I should, right?”

Maybe she should. Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe Tayce can resign herself to the single life, on her own forever and ever. Aurora can find a nice girl and live her life and die of old age in sixty or so years, the way a human should.

That’s what Aurora deserves, right?

“No, you shouldn’t, you numpty,” Lawrence says, cutting through her resignation with a smack on her shoulder. “You’re having fun. She’s having fun. What’s the harm? Why not call it something?”

“Because that makes it…”

Real.

Putting a label on it means that Tayce has to acknowledge the fact that she’s really, truly doing this. That if there’s the chance that this could become something long term, Tayce will have to deal with the consequences that will inevitably arise. If she doesn’t lose Aurora to her own fangs, she’ll lose her to time.

Wouldn’t it be better to cut this off before it becomes infinitely more painful on Tayce’s still heart?

Lawrence raises an eyebrow. “Newsflash, it’s already real. You brought her here to meet all of us, didn’t you? I don’t see any other humans that you’ve brought around these parts.”

“Well, that would be because I haven’t done this with any other humans, have I?”

The words make Tayce pause as they leave her lips. She’s never thought about it before, the fact that Aurora’s the only human she’s spent time with like this. Sure, there was the werewolf girl in the early 1800s, and that fae Tayce met when visiting Snowdon once, and Tayce certainly can’t forget the siren she’d had a fling with when her and Cara and Lawrence and Bimini last went to the coast.

But a human? Before Aurora, humans had been a means to an end, an occasional treat. Humans represented Tayce’s past and her old life that she’d had to let go of after being turned, a mosaic of unreached aspirations and plans that Tayce won’t be able to see to fruition despite her immortality.

Aurora had started off as a hunt, a quick snack, before turning Tayce’s world upside down, waking up her heart and making it flutter a bit after four hundred years. But now, Aurora’s captured her in her grasp and Tayce is not sure that she necessarily wants to let go.

Even if it’s going to be painful, eventually, when they do.

Because what Tayce has with Aurora right now is certainly not going to last forever. Not when humans have an expiry date written in fine print across their rib cages.

“Y’know what I think?” Lawrence starts, patting Tayce’s shoulder, “I think you need to talk to her. What’s wallowing on your own going to do? She’s probably pouting all on her own, too. Go pout with her, it’s a nice couples activity.”

Tayce snorts, despite the uneasiness flowing through her veins at the prospect. “You’re certainly one to talk. Shouldn’t you go and pout with your wife?”

“We are here to talk about your relationship problems, not mine,” Lawrence huffs, waving a hand. “I’m the one playing agony aunt here.”

“Why don’t you just call her, Lawrence?”

“Well, she hasn’t called me either, has she?” Lawrence’s voice increases in pitch just a tad, matching the crease that forms between her eyebrows.

“Tell you what,” Tayce starts, “I’ll talk to Aurora if you talk to Ellie.”

It’s a silly prospect, considering that Tayce knows that she has to talk to Aurora regardless, sort out this web of nonsense and confusion while also figuring out what she wants. She’s certainly not going to pull a Lawrence, by running away and just not talking to Aurora for the foreseeable future, because that’s not her.

Well. The second part, at least. She’s already gone and run away from Aurora upon the first question about commitment.

But Lawrence, though? After eighty years of not seeing her wife? Her stubbornness is only matched by Ellie’s, and from the way Lawrence scoffs, Tayce isn’t sure if the idea is enough to convince her.

“Tell you what,” Lawrence counters, “I’ll wait for Ellie to call me first. Let’s see if that ever happens.”

“You’re more stubborn than Cara was last week when trying to fit into that dress she bought a size too small.”

“Don’t let her hear you,” Lawrence snickers, and Tayce can’t help but join in, despite the way the clouds of uncertainty hang above not only her head, but above Lawrence’s, too.

Maybe she can plot with Bimini and Cara and figure out how to get Ellie and Lawrence in the same place. Maybe lock them in a cupboard until they work it out.

But first, Tayce needs to work her own shit out. As much as her heart drops at the prospect, as much as she’d rather stay far, far away and avoid her problems and pretend nothing is wrong…she can’t. Not when every fibre in her body feels like it’s being pulled towards Aurora’s flat, as if she doesn’t want to, but needs to see her again, talk to her, spend time with her, figure everything out with her.

It’s dangerous, very dangerous, how much it bothers Tayce to stay away from Aurora. How much her body almost rejects the concept. She’s in too deep for a human she met only a few months ago, enough that past Tayce would laugh at exactly how pathetic she has become.

Not that the opinions of past Tayce even matter at this point, when she’s in so deep. And somehow, Tayce can’t bring herself to care about them.

The passage of time means nothing when you’re immortal, though the minutes that pass between Tayce’s knock and the door finally opening feel indefinite.

“Started to think you’d let me turn to dust out there,” Tayce starts, though the attempt at a lighthearted comment falls flat when she sees the mascara smudges under Aurora’s eyes.

Fuck.

Aurora’s attempt at disinterest is easy to see through, the speed of her pulse and the tap of her fingers on the doorframe betraying how affected she is. “What d’you want?”

“I - can I come in?” Tayce asks, because really, she’s not about to have a conversation on the doorstep, and although Aurora narrows her eyes, she opens the door enough for her to pass nonetheless.

Aurora shuts the door behind them, wrapping her fluffy robe around herself a little tighter with a slight protrusion of her bottom lip. “Are you here to break up with me? ‘Cause if you are, don’t say anything, I’m breaking up with you first. I don’t get broken up with.”

The words are accompanied by a sniffle that slightly dampens the effect, and despite the way her chest is tight Tayce has to hold a smile back at the way Aurora is so quintessentially herself.

“Now who said anything about breaking up?”

Not that they’re together. On paper, at least.

“You ran out of here like you’d seen your nan in her knickers!” Aurora exclaims, crossing her arms with a huff. “That’s practically screaming that you want to break up.”

“Now that’s a sight to consider.”

“Stop it,” Aurora grumbles, letting out a breath, and Tayce has to resist the urge to reach out a hand, wipe the mascara track on her cheek. “You need to start talking.”

Part of Tayce wants to stall more, ask Aurora about what, but…there’s no avoiding this anymore. Tayce can’t, despite the blissful months of pretending that future consequences won’t exist. Better to face it. Do something about it.

Even though she feels like she wants to be sick.

“Aurora, I don’t…do this. All of this. This casual thing, this dating…deluding myself into thinking I’m in my twenties and not frozen in time for centuries. This isn’t normal, what we’re doing. Not normal in the least.”

It’s not, and it never works out, if her friends’ past experiences are anything to go by. Humans are risky, their fragile forms enveloped in concerns around their weaknesses and mortality and penchant for ending up as prey.

“So what? Why’s it matter what’s normal and what isn’t?” Aurora says it like it’s a challenge, a slight narrow of her eyes. “When have you ever been normal?”

“ I don’t want to be normal, no thank you. God forbid. But you deserve normal,” Tayce counters, and the words sink heavy in her stomach like stones. “And to live life the way you’re supposed to.”

Aurora huffs, so quintessentially her. “Who’re you to tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

Part of Tayce just wants to let it go, give in to the fact that maybe an imperfect existence is acceptable. But she can’t, not when Aurora isn’t fully aware of the consequences.

“I’m stuck,” Tayce starts, “and you’re not. You’re going to get to live your life and you’re going to learn and grow and change the way any human should, and I’m not going to do that. I’m frozen in time, I don’t get to go forward with you.”

Tayce remembers her first century as a vampire. When those around her had started to age, clinging onto the passage of time like vines and watching them grow as the new generations took their places. The countless funerals, the new humans replacing their existence on Earth. The realization that human Tayce would have been six feet under by that time, too.

It’s sobering.

“Are you saying you don’t want me ‘cause I’ll get all old?” Aurora splutters, her eyes widening. “With all the white hair and wrinkles and nursing home stays to come? That’s what this is about? You don’t want to wipe my arse one day?”

“What I’m saying is that you deserve someone to grow old with. You deserve someone who can share all the human experiences that are yet to come for you.”

Experiences that Tayce won’t ever have, no matter how long she’s on the planet for. The reminder is a twinge in her back, a dull pain in her abdomen, a reminder of the shit tradeoffs one gets with immortality.

“And what if I don’t want them?” Aurora’s voice carries a challenge as she takes a step closer to Tayce. “What if I just want you?”

“You sound like you’re straight out of a Nicholas Sparks book with that line,” Tayce quips, but Aurora pokes her shoulder.

“Tell me you don’t feel it, too. That this is worth it. You could have killed me that first time we ran into each other, or the second time, and you didn’t. Why is that?”

Tayce shrugs, trying to ignore the part of her brain that already knows the answer with implications that she doesn’t want to think about. “I wasn’t hungry.”

The words are a lie and Aurora knows it, from the way she rolls her eyes.

“Bullshit, and you know it. Y’know what I think? I don’t think this is about wanting me to have a normal life. I think this is about you. You’re scared.”

Tayce scoffs, because she doesn’t get scared. Not when she’s stronger than any apex predator on the planet. “You think I’m scared?”

“You’re scared of what’s going to happen in the future. Is that why you’re trying to cut this off now?” The understanding that blooms on Aurora’s face makes Tayce want to hide, turn away.

Aurora can read her like a book too damn well.

“You want to walk away now? You really think that’s going to make a difference?” Aurora runs a hand through her hair and Tayce hates how sharp her senses are sometimes, because she gets a whiff of her shampoo and it makes her heart tug, a reminder of how nice it is to snuggle with Aurora’s head against her shoulder.

Tayce tries to imagine what it would be like to let Aurora go now. Not coming over to her flat, not waking her up with kisses. Not seeing the way Aurora lights up whenever she asks her to drop by campus, not being able to make cheesy jokes that make Aurora’s nose scrunch up.

Fuck.

As much as Tayce prides herself on being headstrong and in control of herself, she’s not sure she’d even be able to go through with leaving.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Tayce hates how vulnerable she sounds, the cracks in her armour that somehow only Aurora is capable of shining a light through.

Aurora, for her part, doesn’t fault her for it, only stepping forward to lace their fingers together. It’s a lifeline, a rope that keeps Tayce steady despite the way her mind is spinning with what ifs and consequences for what they’ve gotten themselves into.

“We’ll just take it one day at a time, that’s what,” Aurora whispers, pulling Tayce in closer for a kiss, and Tayce can feel the armour that she keeps around herself begin to develop some hairline cracks along the metal.

Maybe it’ll be worth it, if it means she’ll get time with Aurora before inevitably losing her and having to pick up the pieces. Tayce never really has made the best decisions to protect her own heart in the long run.

But at least she’ll make sure that she’s protecting Aurora’s in the process.

The house is quiet when Tayce unlocks the door. It’s only about 6 in the morning, but time doesn’t matter much when sleep is for fun rather than a necessity. Still, the lack of commotion is a bit surprising as Tayce kicks off her boots and walks further inside.

Tayce’s heart feels a little bit lighter as she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’s never going to have lines along her forehead or sprout any grey hairs, but the conversation with Aurora feels like it’s taken years off of her system, resolving the tension that had begun to build along her spine.

Because she’s accepting the fact that she’ll have to lose Aurora eventually. It’s inevitable with the fundamental differences between them, the fact that Aurora has a clock that’s ticking while Tayce doesn’t. And maybe, just maybe, that’s fine, because Tayce doesn’t have to deal with it now.

It’s a problem for future Tayce, who is no doubt going to tell her off for already being so attached to a human once she has to let go of her.

Tayce is going to take it one day at a time, like Aurora said. Relish in the time that they do have, take solace in the fact that Aurora’s still living and breathing with her heart still beating for now. The reminder of Aurora’s mortality doesn’t have to affect her until it becomes something that neither of them can ignore.

But until then? Tayce is going to enjoy time with her girlfriend.

Girlfriend. A word that Aurora had squealed at when Tayce had properly asked her, feeling a bit silly herself because in her hundreds of years, she’s never had to use it before. Tayce had been through courtships and some short lived marriages back in the day, but this is new, uncharted territory, even for her, and she feels like a teenager again with the butterflies that sit in her stomach.

Tayce heads towards the kitchen, her mind on Aurora as she goes to grab a blood bag from the fridge. The straw that she shoves through the plastic before taking a sip reminds her of the Capri Suns that Aurora likes so much.

“ Psst. ”

“Ah!” Tayce jumps at the sound and can feel her cheeks burn at the cackle as she turns around to see Ellie at the kitchen table, looking positively delighted.

“Perception abilities gone to shit, have they?”

“What’re you doing here?” Tayce grins, heading around the side of the counter to hug her friend. “Lawrence finally got up off her arse and called you, then?”

“I can hear your foghorn voices!” Lawrence bellows as she shuffles into the kitchen, a sheepish look on her face as she makes eye contact with Tayce. “You. Don’t you dare gloat.”

“No gloating here,” Tayce holds her hands up, but nonetheless shoots a wink at Lawrence. “Just a light I told you so .”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she goes to stand beside Ellie, nearly at her height while Ellie’s sitting down. “We may have talked things through. A little bit.”

“About how Lawrence was a bit of a stubborn cow - hey , ouch - okay, about both of us were stubborn cows,” Ellie shrugs, rubbing her side where Lawrence had elbowed her only moments earlier.

“Well, look at that. A nice little fairytale ending for the two of you. I feel a bit like a proud mum, if I’m honest with myself,” Tayce grins, but Lawrence is quick to shoot her a look.

“And you? Have you stopped pouting and sorted things with your woman?”

“For now.” Tayce shrugs, and doesn’t add more, because it’s true.

For now. They’re fine, Aurora’s fine and alive, and the two of them have this for now, even if they may not later. And maybe, that’s what remains the most important thing.

They’re fine and ready to thrive for now.

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #uk2 #a'whora #tayce #taywhora #lesbian au #vampire au #taste your beating heart #holtzmanns

11 notes · View notes

treeni · 4 years

Text

Sanders Sides Orange Side Predictions

Theories Masterpost

If you haven’t read @averykedavra‘s post on the idea then you absolutely should. It is extremely well thought out and considers a lot of possibilities about the Orange side, even though there are some specific thoughts that I personally disagree with, it is absolutely worth reading through.

First, I want to say I agree with them pointing out @dragonsaphirareads character Otto, aka “Obsession” as being a brilliant take on what the Orange character could be from a conceptual basis. I also think @candied-peach / Peachsneaker’s character Wrath is another brilliant take on the opposite side of the spectrum of the potential of what the orange side could be. Honestly, if you haven’t, you should check out these two creators' works immediately as they are both completely fantastic writers and have a lot of great Sanders Sides stories, both with and without romance.

My only gripe is that I think both characters are too inherently good in their depictions. Personally, I think both authors are right, to a point. I think the Orange character would be someone who cares too much and takes things too far. What’s interesting about DragonSapphiraRead’s character, is that he was once Passion and gave up parts of himself to the others. It’s interesting, but I personally don’t think that’s how it’s going to go.

Instead I think Passion is exactly the trait that the darkside character is going to embody and this is where I most agree with averykedavra’s take. I think the Orange side is going to come in as someone who appears “good,” “right,” and even “helpful” at first glance, and yet, you gradually start to realize the problems further on.

If you look at the progression of the darksides so far, you may notice that they have followed the rule of three in establishing a pattern. Virgil showed up and scared the others until his point got across until he was listened to, so really was it any surprise when both Janus and Remus immediately did the same upon their introductions? Given the divide, it took time and understanding to start being open to the good that Virgil brings. Janus has only just started to really prove to Thomas that he is well intentioned and Remus hasn’t even begun that part of the journey yet. However, you can see the three characters all in various states of the pattern that Virgil set. Virgil is at acceptance, Janus is at tolerance (or at least close to it) and Remus is still at distrust, but past the introduction and initial scare.Their actions have all followed the rule of three behavior that establishes a pattern for the audience to recognize. We inherently know Janus and Remus as being on the same “track” as Virgil was on a subconscious level.

Which is why I think the Orange side will absolutely destroy that expectation by diverting from that path and all current expectations of darksides. After a pattern of accepting the darksides, I think they will decide to immediately give the Orange side a chance because by then they will also have multiple examples of their shortsightedness about the darksides potential in helping Thomas.

I also think Orange will absolutely come in and appear good at first glance. This will probably happen after Janus is really, truly accepted by the other sides and Remus is at least on his way to being accepted. I also really liked averykedavra’s idea that the orange side gives his name immediately, but I disagree on the idea that he can hide his role. The roles are something that others have been shown to bring up to the group and be generally aware of. No side has had to introduce their role as far as I can remember.

However I actually think of this as further evidence for the side having the role of Passion instead of Wrath or Obsession. Because Passion seems good at baseline and is absolutely good if controlled. However, Passion also encapsulates things like Wrath, Obsession, Procrastination, and Spite.

Imagine if you will, a side that comes in dressed as seemingly innocuous in fandom gear and tee shirts with big smiles and excitement. He quickly and easily proclaims his excitement of all of the others’ work and is extremely supportive at the beginning. I could see CharacterThomas becoming quickly and easily attached to someone who seems so positive and relatable. I think he’d be a little like Patton at first glance, but more childish. There would be none of the “fatherly” care in him for example. He would seem interested in what the others would say and generally only make quiet additions to the conversation. In the beginning it seems as if he brings out the good in the other sides with his small bits of help and encouragement. Except, he doesn’t stop at small. Instead as the sides start to become used to his presence he starts pushing things further and further.

This side never lies, he doesn’t need to. He can manipulate the truth to do his bidding. He gently reminds Roman of all of the things he hasn’t yet achieved of his dreams. As a friend he pulls Patton aside to remind him of some of the bad things happening recently in the world, just to warn him of course. He asks for Logan’s help in clarifying some facts that might be a little uncomfortable, but definitely important. He gently nudges Virgil about some of the dangerous things that could have happened to Thomas and really? Isn’t he just lucky to have come out okay so far? And self-preservation? No, not even he’s safe as the side reminds him of the rocky state of his “supposed acceptance” until Janus’ doubts overtake him.

You think Thomas struggles in dealing with one of them acting in extremes? Just wait until they all are. Logan becoming obsessive, Roman becoming unfocused, Virgil becoming paranoid, Patton becoming hysterical, and even Janus literally walling himself away because he devolves into extreme self-defense. (Also possibly trying to hastily wall just him and Thomas away. Because defensive rationality.)

The vast differences between the caring Patton and this side become increasingly clear to the audience, but by this point it’s too late. The sides are (almost) all hanging on his every word.

Logan can’t outmaneuver manipulative honesty, Virgil can’t caution against it, Roman’s too restricted to find a creative solution for it. Even Patton and Janus are ineffective because not only does it sound and feel right, it also seems akin to some of Janus’ behavior of revealing “uncomfortable” truths that Thomas doesn’t want to hear.

I think this side is going to slowly drive the others into their own extreme biases until their own behaviors are so chaotic and restless they become literally unable to contribute to the conversation.

I also think that will be what makes this particular side terrifying. Instead of scaring the others into listening to him, he simply feeds into their own biases until they are so divided there is no longer a conversation.

You see, this side wouldn’t simply want to be a voice to be heard. He would want to be the only voice.

Okay, now for my justification as to why.

1. As I already mentioned before, we as humans like threes, comedians will list three things to establish a pattern and then add a fourth in a “one of these is not like the others” to make a joke. The best way to break a pattern is to flip expectation on its head. This side is already breaking that ideology simply by existing as a fourth darkside. He isn’t there to follow the others paths.

2. Janus and Remus’ religious dialogue that is telling of their own negative views of their lack of “inherent goodness” because they consistently use their own existences as proof of Thomas’ “inherent evilness.” While being revealing of their thought processes, I also believe it is a hint to the last side’s state as a Lucifer-like character in the classical sense of his intended perception. Not a demon, but an angel. Someone who believes they have done no wrong and tempts you on a personal level.

3. Also consider some of the things orange as a color symbolizes: encouragement, enthusiasm, and motivation, yes, but also ambition, domination, temptation, and warning.

It’s still loose evidence as we haven’t even met the side yet, but we as an audience can still derive a lot about him from the other characters.

Now that I’m here shoving all my opinions in your faces, I might as well go all out.

I am currently two for three on darkside names so I’m going to throw my hat in and tell you my guess on that too.

If the new Orange side follows my predictions I also think he will be named Aiden.

Why? First, it means “fiery one” which is a perfect association for both passion and the color orange. It also mimics a “light side” name without quite fitting in with the “en” ending. Additionally, like most names, it is a modernization of older names and this particular one has derivative connections to both the Celtic god of sun and fire “Aodh” and the Greek god “Aidoneus” otherwise known as Hades. (Also keep in mind that Lucifer’s name means Morningstar, aka the sun.) Finally, the word “Aid” is literally in the name to give the impression of innocence.

And that is my TED talk.

#sanders sides #orange side #prediction #headcannon?#sanders sides theory #theory #passion theory #longpost #textpost #sscolortheory #thomas sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #treeni theory

129 notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

do you have an oc? i want hear about your ocs

Right! I’ve actually had these four siblings in mind for a while, and I *will* use any excuse I get to talk about them. In my defense, they’re all great. Babies that are well past spoiled-rotten, but they’re my babies, and I can’t help that. (The picrews used are here x x x x)

TW: Imprisonment, Emotional Manipulation, Delusional Mindsets, Non-Consensual Drug-Use and Toxic Relationships.

Name: Lionel Hardcastle

Position: The Failure of an Older Brother

Age: 26

Type: Delusional And Obsessive.

Bio: The tranquil, would-be heir to the Hardcastle organization. Although his younger siblings were considered, Lionel was always the best with clients, the calmest in painfully crushing situations, and even if he made a point to hide it, the undisputed favorite of his parents. He would’ve taken over as soon as he was of-age, but his glaring lack of interest in the world of business and leadership provided quite the roadblock.

Well, and the fact that he can’t read. Never could, never will, and he shows no indication of an ability to learn. Needless to say, this caused some… minor issues between him and the rest of his family.

That might be why he likes you so much, his sweetheart, his love, the light of his oh-so-frigid life. You’re just so kind, and he knows you’ll never abandon him, even if you act so stubborn whenever he asks you to promise. It’s all he can do not to laugh when you throw your little tantrums and scream like you don’t adore the affection he’ll lather onto you so suffocatingly. There’s nothing he’d rather do than be around you, any moment where his skin isn’t on your instantly becoming unbearable. It’s no wonder he’s always the first of his siblings to snap. He hardly remembers to breathe, when you’re not in the room.

Lionel is quite the artist, too, focusing on stone and sculpting but dabbling in paint whenever the temptation strikes him. Suffice to say, as his fixation begins to outweigh his rationality his patient partner becomes his favorite muse. There’s more of your likenesses in existence than there are galleries to house them, but don’t worry, Lionel’s got a special portion of his workshop dedicated to all those mediocre extras, if only to keep himself sustained when you’ve switched from begging for the restraints to come off to hiding yourself away. Still, there’s only so long he can last before breaking and running to find you. If you really wanted to be alone, then you must not want to be with him. That’d mean you were trying to get away from him, trying to leave him, and…

Lionel just isn’t sure if he can take that. Not again, and certainly not from you. He’s a weak man, when it comes to that, but he as more than enough iron-based safety measures to put his mind at ease.

Name: Persia Hardcastle

Position: The Motherly Middle Sister

Age: 25

Type: Controlling and Overbearing

Bio: Where do you even start with Persia? She’s the second-born, but it wouldn’t be untrue to say she’s more akin to a nanny than another Hardcastle. Part of it comes from how she grew up, how she had to take care of a pair of twins and deal with a suddenly absentee older brother, all while juggling just how unprepared her parents were for their own tragic, mysterious, purely accidental deaths. But, some people think she’s just… like that. A perfectionist, even when it comes to her own flesh-and-blood.

Of course, you’re no exception. She’s just as tightly-laced with you as she is while trying to save Finn’s reputation or bring Lionel back home. She does love you, don’t get me wrong, but you’re her stress-relief, her saving grace, the only factor in her life she can have complete control of, even if she doesn’t realize just how much sway she has over you. She knows it isn’t healthy, that no one should think the things she does about you, but Persia can’t risk losing you. She won’t lock you up, she isn’t crazy, but… she doesn’t really have to use chains and collars, either.

It’s odd, how fixed a certain behavior can be for one person, even after they’ve outgrown the use for it. She was the main caretaker for the twins while they were growing up, so she may’ve gotten into the habit of being a little… parental, when it comes to those she loves. If that just means giving you a disapproving look when you’re eating something you shouldn’t be or insisting on tucking you in at night, count yourself lucky. Falling into her role a little too passionately certainly wouldn’t be out of character, not when she’s already so invested in making sure you’re happy and healthy and by her side. Her angel’s medication is a small price to pay for bliss, really, even if you’re such a baby when it comes to taking it.

Name: Evelyn (Evie) Hardcastle

Position: The Mature Younger Sister

Age: 19

Type: Manipulative and Possessive

Bio: Now, here’s our heir. I mean, why wouldn’t she be? She’s fully literate and everything! Evie’s parents were already gone before Finn and her were so much as differentiable, but their advisors caught on to the siblings’ personalities quickly. Naturally, Evie found her way into a position of power as quickly as she was able to, not only for lack of competition. Not unlike her older brother, she doesn’t have any real interest in whatever vague, sketchy medical field she was thrust into, but Evie stands apart from the pure-intentions of most Hardcastsles. She likes the power of it all, how big it makes her feel.

She likes knowing she’s the one in charge. You’ll come to understand that, with time.

There’s a good chance you’re her assistant or secretary or some member of her staff that made the mistake of getting a little too friendly, stumbling your way into her cold, dead heart before she could properly put up her defenses. The specifics don’t really matter, not as long as you have those big, shining doe-eyes and the sense to do whatever she says without a second thought. She just thinks you’re so soft, so cute, so vulnerable when you’re in the hands of someone stronger than you… you can’t blame her for getting a little carried away, honestly.

Don’t worry, though, Evie’s the most responsible sibling for a reason. She’s not a nice woman, but she can put on quite the show, as long as it’s for your sake. She’ll be whatever you need her to be for the longest time, whether that’s a boss willing to make compromises or a shoulder to cry on. She’ll string you along for as long as she needs to, having you isolate yourself and falling into her arms so sweetly, but her patience tends to wear thin when someone else comes into the picture. Do your best to avoid that, regardless of how minor the relationship may seem. She already keeps you on such a tight leash… it’d be a massacre if you gave her a real excuse to use force.

Name: Finnian (Finn) Hardcastle

Position: The Rebellious Younger Brother

Age: 19

Type: Jealous and Obsessive

Bio: I hope you’re not prone to whiplash, because Finn is the polar opposite of his sister. Despite being twins, identical on the deepest level two people can be, Evie was groomed while Finn was cast to the side, spoiled and let run wild, unimpeded by the standards his other siblings were held to. He has nothing to do with the family cooperation and as little to do with the others as possible, and he likes it that way. You might’ve caught on, by now, but Finn isn’t exactly the ‘business’ type.

But, distance breeds loneliness, and loneliness breeds desperation. It’s not that he latches onto everyone and anyone, no, Finn is rather selective, but he refuses to let go when he does find someone he wants to be with. You’re just so smart and so clever and so perfect, and all Finn wants to do is stay close to you, to never leave your side. The goal is innocent, full of misguided hope, but Finn didn’t exactly have a normal upbringing. He doesn’t know he shouldn’t want to follow you home or that it’s a little off-putting for a stranger to sit so close to you on an empty train, nor is he going to catch on if you try to turn him down gently. Hell, even if scream and do tell him what a pathetic stalker he is, you won’t get very far. Finn is just so happy you’re talking to him, he can’t bring himself to process what you’re saying.

Oh, and keep in in mind that he’s very used to being the center of attention. Whether it’s Persia’s persistent demands for ‘family time’ or Evie’s loudly voiced concerns, Finn knows when he’s the focus, and he doesn’t like it when the spotlight is somewhere else. That applies to you, too, as hard as he tries to stay on your good side. Distractions aren’t an option, he just gets so twitchy whenever he starts to think he’s your second-favorite, even if you’re being stolen away by a gift he got for you. It’s not a pleasant sort of envy, either. The way he clings to you and whines may seem harmless, at first, but Finn isn’t exactly good at holding himself back, especially when it comes to you. Desperation can turn into destruction in the blink of an eye, and he rarely goes after your new toys.

326 notes · View notes

morgana-ren · 4 years

Note

Okay so I Need to ask. Repressed Shigaraki, after that initial night, how would he go about handling his libido. Like would he ask you out or just daydream a lot? What if it got out of hand (lol hand) and he couldn't take it

He… wouldn’t. Handle it, that is. He’s convinced himself that he’s “immune” to such temptation, so when it smacks him in the face like a damn ceiling fan, he has no clue how to go about it. He’s never dealt with overbearing lust before. This is all new to him. He’ll get a little hormonal rise every now and again but usually he can deal with it with the ol’ in-out four finger palm pump. Not this time.

He’s already feeling awkward and ashamed after the other night, as wacking off in public has a tendency to do to someone who is extremely sexually reclusive, and he was 100 percent correct when he thought that nothing would ever be the same again. When he sees you again the next morning, it’s all going to come rushing back, along with the overwhelming need force his tongue down your throat and other places as well.

But after a few seconds, he’s going to tell his head (both of ‘em) to shut the fuck up and try and play it off like everything is normal. He’ll do his best to conduct business, and he’ll actually do pretty well!

At least until you come and sit by him at the bar. You’re talking to him, saying something he’s sure is important but your words are turning to mush in his head because your scent is overwhelming. All he can think about is shoving his nose in your hair and inhaling until it clogs his sinuses and you’re all he can smell ever again.

He can’t think. He can’t focus. It frustrates him, so he’ll actively turn away from you, making himself seem as unapproachable as possible. His body language is outright hostile, and you seem to get the hint, because you look away and soon he can’t hear your voice anymore. Eventually you pick up and leave, but the haze doesn’t lift from his mind like he thought it would. He needs more.

He’ll retreat to his room, trying to stem back the tide of arousal. It’s like his body is trying to punish him for all those years he kept it locked away. But now that you’re so close, so close he can touch you, no cheap substitute is going to do. On some level, he realizes this, but it’s impossible. There’s no way someone like you would ever consider someone like him, and even if you would, he’s your boss. You’d never go for it.

Would you?

He feels the sudden need to seek you out now, test the waters. As much as his rational mind knows it’s the worst idea in the world, he isn’t thinking with his brain anymore. His cock might as well be the compass that points north between your snug thighs.

He shambles down the desolate hallways, still a little too nervous to try knocking on your door directly. That’s a bit too forward, at least for right now, and frankly he truly believes that if he catches sight of you almost naked again with a bed in view, he physically won’t be able to stop himself. So instead, he patrols around the lair, hoping to run into you ‘by chance.’

Lucky him, he actually finds you. Well, sort of. You’re in one of the bathrooms, taking a shower. His hand is around the doorknob and he’s already turned it halfway before it dawns on him just how inappropriate that is. He can’t just walk in on you bathing… right? He just stands there, frozen with a four fingered grip on the knob.

He should leave. He knows he should. There’s no excuse for this. He’s not socially inept enough to not understand how completely wrong this is, but instead of turning and leaving, he stays locked in place, mind running through every possible scenario.

His head clicks with equal measures resolve and frustration as he comes to terms with the fact that he’s not leaving, even as he wills himself to. His mind has made it perfectly clear that he’s going in that bathroom.

It’s not to peak on you! Honest!

It’s…. your perfume! Yeah, that! He was so rude to you earlier. He was thinking of getting you a gift to apologize. But he can’t remember the exact smell. If he can just smell it one more time, he’s certain he’ll be able to find it. I mean, he could just ask you later, but that would ruin the surprise, right?

He turns his hand oh so slowly, pushing his thin form between the barely opened door and frame. He can’t alert you to the fact he’s doing this. You wouldn’t understand. You would think he’s creepy or something. Just as he expected, your pile of clothing is sitting on the floor just outside the rim of the shower. If he moves slowly enough, he shouldn’t catch your attention. He can just grab your shirt and go.

But… as he gently picks up your shirt with two fingers, he sees them. Them, in this case, being your underwear. Perfectly settled in the hips of your discarded pants. He looks back and forth between the shirt, and the undergarment.

What if it wasn’t perfume? What if it was just, you know, your natural scent that smelled enticing to him? If he took your shirt, he’d never know. Your shirt and pants get bombarded with outside factors all day. Your panties though, those sit right against the skin. Surely, that’s the best way to tell. He wouldn’t want to waste your time getting you some shitty perfume if it wasn’t necessary.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

Swiftly, he discards the shirt to the side and opts for your panties instead. You’re less likely to notice these missing anyway. It won’t ruin the surprise! At least in his mind, the way he’s warped it.

He slips out as skillfully as he came, shutting the door behind him with you none the wiser that there had been two bodies in the bathroom. As soon as he can stand up right, he shoves your intimates into his pocket and scurries off to his room like a little rat that made away with a fat piece of cheese and didn’t want to share. Once he’s safely locked inside, he throws himself down on his bed and immediately pulls the thin fabric out, inhaling point blank against his nostrils.

He can’t help the ragged shudder that racks his body. It’s so perfect he can almost taste it. The slight tang and musk of your cunt fills his nose and he can’t help but feel a little resentful at the panties for being so close to you all day.

It’s definitely not perfume. It’s just you. But he could rationalize this to himself later. He has more pressing matters to deal with.

His cock throbs painfully beneath his zipper, and he all but whines as he relents to his baser instincts and pulls it out once more. At least this time he’s in the privacy of his own sanctum. He wants to make this quick, because maybe, just maybe, once he’s finished, you’ll no longer haunt his mind.

He keeps the panties pressed firmly to his face, teasing his thick tip with a few circular motions of his thumb before gripping himself and giving a few test strokes. He’s already excited, pleasure building just from the gentle touch he’s providing.

With nothing but your scent occupying his attention, it’s hard not to imagine you riding his face. He’d give a few soft, teasing licks, enough to get you worked up and whimpering. Your legs would be twitching, so he’d let his hands rest on your wiggling hips to steady you. Then he’d move on to broad stripes, thick, slimy muscle running over the entirety of your core, getting you nice and wet. At this point, he imagines you’d be rolling your hips, working against his face for friction as he moved just a little too slowly. He wants to drag this out, wants you to beg.

Only after you’re biting your lip and pleading him will he speed things up. Immediately, he’d force your hips down further, practically smothering himself in you. His tongue would begin moving faster, flicking over your clit and occasionally fucking you, swirling and thrusting until you’re practically wailing. Your white knuckled grip on the headboard barely serves to keep you grounded as you recklessly hump his face, practically suffocating him.

Frankly, he doesn’t mind. This is a way better way to go than any he’d imagined before.

Caught up in his fantasy, he can’t help but unleash his tongue from between his dry lips, lapping at the soft fabric he holds tightly between his fingers. If he imagines hard enough, he can actually taste you. There’s low grumble in his chest as he sighs your name, fisting his cock and pumping his own hips until somewhere far away, he can hear the squeak of his bed responding to his erratic movements.

He’s so close now.

By the time he’s done, you’d be dripping, his face covered in your slick juices. You’re practically crying now, screaming his name until everyone in the fucking base knows what you two were up to. He’d twirl and suck on your little nub until your thighs clenched around his head, throwing your head back and howling your orgasm to the moon. He would see you through it, still licking until he could feel your thighs fiercely waver, and drained of strength, you’d practically fall off his face and into the bed, legs splayed in hypersensitivity. You’re ready, it’s his turn now.

“Fuck!” He hisses, toes curling and cock pulsating in his hand as his sticky seed erupts all over his hand and upper stomach. His eyes are clenched shut, seeing stars as he practically shoves your panties in his mouth, trying to suck them dry in the heat of the moment. He needs to taste you, he needs it.

He softens his thrusts as he works his way though his orgasm, chest heaving and sweating until he finally relaxes. Half-hazardously, he wipes his hand on the side of his bed before removing his shirt and cleaning his abdomen off as well.

With the peak of his orgasm, he feels the shame again. He’d stolen a pair of your panties for fucks sake. This was getting way too far out of hand. Regardless, he picks them up off the bed from where he set them and walks over to a locked drawer, placing them gently inside. They wouldn’t stay fresh long, and honestly, he wasn’t sure how long they’d suffice anyway. He had to have the real thing.

He wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to do.

Only one thing was certain though, and that’s that things couldn’t continue this way. If things kept going this way, he really wasn’t sure what he was going to do. To you, at least.

#Shigaraki #Tomura Shigaraki #Lemon #Reader x Shigaraki #I am a S I N N E R #Listen I tried I wrote this on my phone when I woke up lmao #Anonymous

291 notes · View notes

falseroar · 3 years

Text

Dog Days Part 12: On His Tail

((Abe finds that following the doctor home is a lot more difficult than he expected it to be.

Link to Part 11: First Moon.))

One week.

Seven days now, since Abe came back to the city and found Google waiting outside his office door. And, after he recovered from that storm the other night, each of the following nights had been spent sitting across the street from a clinic and watching one vampire doctor go about his business and learning next to nothing about the guy.

Sure, Abe had pretty much nailed down the guy’s routine at this point, from the time he would show up to how long before the first patients would start to arrive, and he knew when the doctor would leave each morning down to the minute. The problem was, he had no idea where the hell this Dr. Schneeplestein went after that.

For one thing, it seemed like he was going in a different direction every morning. One day he’d head to the left after he locked the door behind him, the next he’d go right, and at the next intersection Abe might as well flip a coin and guess to try and figure out which way he’d go that day. In the evenings the direction of his arrival seemed just as random, and more than once Abe had been startled to find the doctor approaching from behind his vantage point, only to walk right by the car as if he hadn’t noticed its occupant.

Except for the night of the storm, the doctor always arrived and left on foot, and with the limited number of public transport options at those hours, Abe was sticking to his suspicion that the vampire must live somewhere within walking distance of the clinic. In theory, it should have been easy to tail him long enough to figure out where he was going each day.

In practice though, it wasn’t quite as simple.

The first morning Abe planned to tail him, he left his car early and ducked into an alley, ready to follow the doctor on foot while keeping enough distance to not arouse any suspicion. Except that was the first time that Abe discovered Schneeplestein wasn’t taking the same route every day, after the sun had risen with no sign of the doctor.

The next day, Abe waited in his car, ducking down when the doctor left his clinic and waiting until Schneeplestein had reached the corner before slipping out and shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him. Hurrying but trying not to make a sound, Abe rounded the same corner and found an empty street waiting for him. The hunter slowed, eyes scanning the dark sidewalks and each side street he passed, but there was no sign of the doctor to be found even though he couldn’t have had more than a few seconds head start.

Yesterday morning, Abe decided to throw caution to the wind and just follow the doctor in his car, reasoning that if he played it right, he could at least narrow down which direction Schneeplestein was going before he was noticed and try to go from there. He made it two turns before the doctor decided today was the day to cut through a nearby park, where of course Abe couldn’t follow in his car. The hunter made the split decision to park his car and go in after him, but the trails split under the trees and there was nothing close to a hint to tell him which way he had gone.

Dr. Schneeplestein had to know someone was trying to follow him, and Abe thought he might know who tipped him off. He had been taking pictures of everyone entering and leaving the clinic, a practice he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with, but it allowed him to notice a couple of returning faces besides the doctor. One of which was the kid in the cap Abe ran into at the other doctor’s place, the one who called himself Chase Brody.

Abe still couldn’t shake the feeling he should know the guy from somewhere else, but while he hadn’t been able to figure that one out yet, he had seen Chase return to the clinic two more times, once with a bag and another time with what looked suspiciously like Schneeplestein’s forgotten white coat. That first time he stayed half the night, while the second his run in and out was quick enough to tell Abe that he was just there to drop the coat off. Add in that Abe suspected he had been there at Dr. Iplier’s office that day to pick up the vampire’s weekly ration of blood, and it made perfect sense to the hunter to pull out of his parking spot and follow after Chase’s car.

He had a little more success there, managing to tail Chase all the way to a pet store, where the guy spent about half an hour before coming out with a couple of bags that he tossed into the front seat of his car before taking off again, Abe once again right behind him. Well, until a red light changed far too fast, leaving Abe to sit and stew as the car got farther and farther ahead of him. He was able to keep an eye on the taillights though, and he might have bent a few speeding limits after that to catch up, but he thought he had pulled it off for a solid ten minutes. That is, until the car pulled into a gas station, where the overhead lights revealed the driver was in fact an elderly woman who probably needed some help to see over the top of her steering wheel. Abe calmly kept driving, until he found a safe place to pull over and scream muffled obscenities into his hands.

Which brought him to now, about half an hour before the doctor was due to leave. While Abe thought most of the stuff in Ed Edgar’s shop was a scam he wouldn’t waste a buck on, the salesman was ready and willing to act as a middleman to help the hunter get his hands on some of the more genuine items. Shame a good chunk of Google’s down payment for the case was going toward it, but Abe figured he could write that off as an expense to bill the magitek man with later. That, and all of the coffee he was using to help get himself through these all night watches.

Assuming this stuff worked like it was supposed to, which even as Abe dabbed a bit of the colorless potion on the corner of his left eye like he was told to, didn’t seem like a guarantee.

The rest of the bottle was poured out on the small bit of ground between the clinic door and the main sidewalk where the doctor was guaranteed to step at least once on his way out. Once that was done, Abe took his car and parked it around the corner, just to have one less thing to give away his presence.

The longer he could keep the vampire thinking he had once again failed to keep up, the better.

The hunter took up a position leaning against a wall several buildings down from the clinic, in the darkness where the light from the two streetlights on either side didn’t quite reach. Just as he was fighting off the temptation to check his pockets for a spare cigarette, the door to the clinic opened and Dr. Henrik von Schneeplestein himself stepped outside and, as usual, turned and locked the door behind him.

As Abe watched, the doctor pocketed his keys and, surprise, surprise, just happened to turn and start walking in the opposite direction. But more importantly, there was no sign he had noticed the potion that Abe had spilled out on the ground or, when the hunter closed his right eye, the glowing footsteps that he left behind.

Abe waited a few seconds, watching the doctor turn the corner before he stopped leaning against the wall and began following. Just like the doctor, he turned left, only to once again find himself staring down an empty street. He closed his right eye again, expecting to see a trail of glowing footsteps in front of him, but there was nothing there.

Just as Abe was ready to start swearing and vow to get his money back from that crook Edgar, he caught a glimmer of light out of the corner of his left eye. Despite seeing with his own eyes which way the doctor went, the footsteps actually went across the street and through a small one-way drive that would be easy to miss even in the daylight.

It was vaguely disorienting, walking with one eye closed, but the footsteps led Abe on what felt like a surprisingly direct path across several blocks to a residential area. Sensing he was near the end of the trail, Abe started to speed up, his eagerness almost making him forget his usual caution.

Almost.

“There is a shadow following you.”

The words came unbidden to Abe’s mind, the sudden remembering of something he never should have forgotten hitting him almost as hard as if not more than the Host’s actual warning. The hunter slowed, both eyes open and all senses on high alert like they should have been this entire time.

He didn’t hear anything, there was nothing out of the corner of his eye, nothing to give it away except for the sudden prickle of hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He turned down the next street, abruptly and quick enough to catch a look behind him and spot it.

Not on the sidewalk, not out in the open, but there was something there in the well of darkness between two streetlights, a presence that would have been so easy to dismiss as paranoia for anyone else who didn’t regularly have various human and not human-shaped beings trying to kill him. And, as another look two streets later proved, it was following him.

Living with that kind of threat day in and day out for longer than Abe cared to recall tended to form some instincts to make sure he could keep on living, and without thinking Abe’s hand was inside his jacket, already on the grip of his concealed gun as he spun around, ready to face his stalker head on.

He saw them, just long enough to get a brief, indistinct glimpse of someone there.

And then they were gone.

Abe waited, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears as his eyes scoured the street, searching for any sign of movement, anything off at all, but as the seconds passed and his heart rate slowed, he gradually accepted that whoever it was that had been following him was gone now.

Despite his reluctance to do so, Abe slowly closed his right eye, but there was no sign of the marked footprints anywhere around him. So probably not the doctor catching on to him, then. Maybe a friend of his?

Or, maybe, someone just as interested as Abe in figuring out where exactly was the place that the doctor called home.

The third alternative was that whoever it was had been more interested in Abe himself, and it was a possibility he kept in mind as he made his way back to his car, but there was no more sign of them. Whatever the reason they had been following him, he had either managed to scare them off for now, or made them that much more careful and harder to spot.

Not a pleasant thought, which is why Abe took a roundabout drive through the city, constantly checking the rear view mirror until he decided to give it up for now and return to his office.

He wanted a chance to gather his thoughts, to try and work out what had just happened there, but Abe realized that wasn’t going to happen the second he stepped out of the stairwell and saw a familiar, red-shirted figure standing outside of his door again.

“Greetings,” Google said, suddenly moving from his “at-rest” stance to a more alert and somehow vaguely threatening posture. “I have been waiting for you, hunter.”

“I can see that,” Abe said, approaching slowly. “Care to tell me why?”

“Perhaps we could have this conversation inside of your office,” Google suggested, his eyes roaming towards the other doorways in the hall. “If you would be willing to grant me access past your wards, I could—”

“No,” Abe interrupted with zero hesitation. “Office is for clients only.”

“I am here on behalf of a client.”

“Doesn’t count. Now tell me what you’re here about, or get lost.”

Google scowled, but the expression quickly shifted back into a more neutral one even though it seemed to require a bit of effort on his part. “I have been sent to assess your progress on your half of the arrangement. It has been one week now, and my employer wishes for an update on your status.”

Abe had been expecting that, but it wasn’t something he’d been looking forward to. Still, he knew how to leverage what he did have, and maybe bluff a little.

“Yeah, I’ve been looking into your doc. Interesting guy, been registered with the city what, over a year now? But not much of a social life, considering how much of his nights he spends in that clinic of his. Makes me wonder just what his connection is to…what was it you said? ‘Someone of value to the city’?”

“Someone of value to significant persons within the city,” Google answered, the answer rapid-pace and no doubt the exact same words he had used before.

“Interesting phrase to use,” Abe said, but this time the magitek unit’s face gave nothing away. “Any chance you’d tell me who that someone is?”

“That is not within the parameters of the information I am allowed to give you,” Google answered.

“And if I figure it out for myself?” Abe asked.

“Then you would be very close to doing what you have been hired to do,” Google answered, and Abe tried to tell if there was a shift in his tone or if he was just imagining it. “Do you have any more information to offer at this time?”

“It would help if I know what I’m supposed to be looking for here,” Abe said. “More than just some half-assed ‘look for anything suspicious.’ You look at it the right way, and the entire idea of a vampire working as a doctor at a night clinic is suspicious as hell, but that doesn’t mean there’s something going on.”

“You are saying that you have yet to find anything that could be considered suspicious?” Google asked.

Immediately, Abe’s mind went to the used silver bullet he found in the doctor’s office, as it had multiple times over the past few days and nights. Not that it found anything new to go on there, besides half-baked suspicions that only seemed to get worse the more time he gave them.

“Like I said, anything can be suspicious depending on the context. Which you and your client have given me none of, by the way.”

“Was the promise of information leading you to Wilford Warfstache an insufficient incentive?”

“…What?”

Google tilted his head slightly and repeated the question again, each word given a special emphasis that seemed designed to make Abe want to punch his stupid face in.

Abe resisted the temptation, barely, and eventually managed to struggle out the words, “What do you want?”

“As clearly stated before, information. My employer believed that obtaining sufficient information about the doctor’s personal and professional contacts would be enough to steer your investigation from there. Considering that hasn’t happened yet, I must come to the conclusion that you have missed an area.”

If he had said that any other day before today, Abe wouldn’t have given it more than a passing thought. He already knew he was missing something here, both with the doctor and with this mysterious client Google was working for. But after what happened earlier?

“Why didn’t you give me a home address for the doctor?” Abe asked.

“Because there was not one on file,” Google answered. “The only confirmed address of Dr. Schneeplestein is at his clinic.”

“…Do you have any unconfirmed addresses then?” Abe asked, only to get a blank stare in return. “How can he not have a home address in his registration record?”

“I am not allowed to comment on any obvious oversights that may or may not have occurred under the care of others,” Google answered, with the tone of someone who had quite a few comments on that particular matter. “Have you found his place of residence?”

Abe had been thinking about that. The potion could only last so long, but even if he hadn’t been able to pin down a place this morning, he wasn’t running completely blind. Considering the time that it took to walk to that neighborhood, plus the ticking clock to get somewhere safe before the sun rose, and he was willing to bet he had gotten close to the doctor’s place. If he was careful and patient, he could probably narrow it down without Schneeplestein being any the wiser.

“No, not a clue yet,” is what Abe said. “Guy’s hard to track for some reason, but I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“That is why my employer chose you, Abe Lincoln. He has high expectations for you.”

Abe felt a sudden chill in his chest as the second time today the Host’s words came back to him.

“Take care, hunter. Someone is expecting much of you.”

“I will return for another update when it is deemed appropriate,” Google said, although Abe barely heard him. “Should you have something of substance to share then, I can offer some information on the man that you are searching for. Until then, hunter.”

The magitek unit walked by Abe and down the stairs without another word, and by the time Abe snapped out of it he was already gone. The hunter cursed to himself in the parking lot when he realized there was no catching up to him, getting a few stares in the process that he could not care less about, before running back up to his office to grab some things. Because suddenly his plan for the day revolved entirely around learning a little more about Carla’s other regular customer, like how a blind man noticed that Abe was being followed before he did.

Or just how the Host managed to make him forget that little warning until this morning, and why.

((End of Part 12. Thanks for reading!

Link to Part 13: Communication Issues.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch @autumnrambles @authorracheljoy @liafoxyfox ))

#markiplier #fanfiction #abe the detective #monster hunter au #googleplier #dr schneeplestein #taken so long to get here I wouldn't be surprised if everyone had forgotten the host's warning #Marvin's spells are hard to get around #but not impossible

13 notes · View notes

worryinglyinnocent · 3 years

Text

Fic: Drenched

Summary: Golden Lace. Lacey’s plans to seduce Mr Gold are not at all delayed by the dismal weather. In fact, the rain might just help her along…

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling October random prompt: Taking shelter from the storm

Rated: E

Drenched

It was an absolutely miserable day, especially considering that it was supposed to be the middle of summer and the forecast had been for bright sunshine for the rest of the week. Gold looked out at the rain pouring steadily down from the slate-coloured sky, the rumbling of thunder in the distance promising further deluges before the day was up.

He wondered where Lacey could have got to. Although anyone looking at her on a day-to-day basis would call her the very epitome of unreliable, she was generally very regular in turning up to work in the pawn shop, mainly because she never wanted to lose a second of needling him. For a moment, a vision of her having slipped in the rain in her ridiculously high heels passed across his mind, but he shook it away, really not wanting to think about something terrible having happened to her. She was annoying, yes, but he would never wish any harm on her. Not at all. Quite the opposite in fact.

Gold would never admit to Lacey, or indeed to anyone, just how much he enjoyed having her around in the shop, but he really did. She was a breath of fresh air, and unlike everyone else in the town, she was not at all scared of him. She gave as good as she got, and it was always nice to have a sparring partner on his level.

“That witch!”

The pawn shop door was flung open, the wind lending perhaps a little more energy to it than intended, and Lacey scrambled inside, battling against her obviously broken umbrella before giving it up as a bad job and throwing the thing into the street outside. Once the door was finally closed against the storm, she growled at it, eyes narrowed, and Gold had to wonder what had got her so vehement.

Well, apart from the fact that she was soaked to the skin, hair hanging in tendrils around her head and her dress clinging to her.

Her white dress. Which had gone very see-through as a result of her drenching, and which was showing Gold without a shadow of a doubt that Lacey was not wearing anything underneath it.

He managed to drag his gaze away from her, looking very pointedly down at the cash register and pretending to be doing something very important to distract himself from the fact Lacey was very wet and showing off rather a lot more of herself than she probably realised.

Although, that said, Gold had never really been sure when it came to Lacey. There had been several times in the past when their banter and teasing had turned a corner into flirting, and neither of them had been uncomfortable with it. Lacey was certainly beautiful, and it would be a lie to say that he didn’t find her attractive. He’d just never been entirely convinced that it was a good idea to admit that to anyone. Especially not to Lacey.

“Who’s a witch?” he asked, as conversationally as he could, trying to pull his thoughts in a different and much more chaste direction.

“Fiona Black in her Ferrari. If she were a man I’d say that she was compensating for something; it’s so ostentatious. Anyway, I swear she deliberately splashed me. Look at me! I’m soaked! Even more soaked than I would have been without her intervention!”

Gold really didn’t want to look at her, but somehow, he found his eyes wandering in that direction again. Lacey was wringing out her hair onto the doormat and she didn’t seem at all perturbed by the sudden transparency of her clothing. In fact, as he gave her another almost-involuntary onceover, she grinned.

“I suppose I should get out of this wet dress,” she said, her voice almost sing-song. “I’d hate to catch cold.”

Gold nodded, waving abstractedly towards the back room. “Help yourself to any of the vintage stock. You can switch on the space heater to dry out your dress.”

“Thank you, Mr Gold.” She blew him a kiss as she went past, already beginning to unfasten the buttons down the front of her dress and peel it away from her skin. Once she was safely ensconced behind the curtain, Gold let out a shaky breath, leaning heavily on the counter. If he could get through the rest of the day, then it would be an utter miracle. At least the weather made it unlikely that they would get much custom, and no one except Lacey would notice his increased distraction.

He swore that she was going to be the death of him, and he still couldn't tell whether that was going to be a good thing or not.

"Hey, Mr Gold." Lacey's voice was still teasing as she called out from the back room. He took a deep breath, determined not to give in to the temptation to go over to the curtain and take a look at what was going on, lest he see something he most definitely liked.

"What?" he asked, teeth gritted against every urge.

"What do you think would suit me best?"

He took another breath. She was definitely doing this on purpose, there could be no doubt about it, and he was determined to beat her at her own game. He would not give in.

He racked his brains, trying to think about what he had in stock at the moment. Clothing was never something that sold well and was not something that he usually came into possession of; old clothes went to Goodwill, not the pawnbroker.

"It's ok," Lacey called again. "I've found something. Not exactly seasonal, but I think it looks good." There was a long pause. "Why don't you come and see?"

"I'm sure you look lovely, Miss French. Now, I believe that you have work to be getting on with."

He heard Lacey's exaggerated sigh. "You know, Mr Gold, you're really no fun at all."

The curtain was pulled back, and Lacey struck up a pose in the doorway. She was wrapped in the heavy throw rug from the cot in the corner of the workroom, its faded folds draped around her in a seductive manner that suggested more skin on show than could actually be seen.

"I know you're not completely oblivious," she said. "I know you try and act all aloof and unaffected, but I know that you're interested." Her eyes gave him a slow once over, lingering on his crotch and the bulge that was becoming apparent there. "What I don't know is why you persist in grinding your teeth and pretending not to see what's right in front of you, instead of giving in and letting us have what we evidently both want."

"I..." Gold didn't really have a response for that. In the back of his rational mind, a mind that was very rapidly being overtaken by not at all rational thoughts, he knew that it was probably something to do with the fact that he didn't believe for a moment that Lacey's attraction towards him could ever be genuine, that someone as vivacious as Lacey could want someone as old and bitter as him.

But here she was, standing in the doorway to the back room, naked but for a blanket, her hips cocked invitingly towards him as one hand reached down into the folds of fabric, disappearing in the direction of her sex.

"I really think you liked what you saw, earlier," she continued, a purr in her voice. "Do you really think that I didn't wear that dress on purpose, knowing that it was raining cats and dogs out there? Naturally, I didn't intend on getting quite so very drenched on the way here, but that just served to speed things up. So…" She stepped away from the curtain, moving towards him, until she was so close that Gold could feel her breath against his lips. "Want to warm me up after my soaking?"

Gold took the plunge, kissing her in response and pushing the blanket off her shoulders, taking in every inch of her body. Lacey smirked, grabbing his tie, and all he could do was let himself be led back into the other room, sinking down onto the cot as Lacey straddled his lap, undoing his tie and tossing it to the floor.

"Skin to skin is the best way, don't you think?"

Gold nodded, running his hands over Lacey’s skin, coming down to grab her ass and then up to her breasts, rolling her nipples under his palms and making her wriggle on top of him.

“I can’t believe it took a rainstorm to get to this,” Lacey murmured. “I should have got splashed by a Ferrari sooner.”

She made quick work of his shirt and waistcoat buttons, diving in for another hungry kiss as she pushed them down off his shoulders, breaking away only to let them get onto the cot properly. It was an ungainly mélange of limbs and hands and lips everywhere: no finesse, only the urgency of a need long-suppressed and finally surrendered to. Lacey certainly knew what she wanted, and it didn’t look like she was going to stop until she got it – and Gold was happy enough to let her have it.

As she shoved his trousers and boxers down his legs, he wondered if this was a good idea; if finally giving into the lust that had been simmering below the surface would make the easy, more-than-occasionally flirtatious relationship they had previously shared awkward, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had always prided himself on his patience, a quality that Lacey almost certainly lacked, but now, that taut string had completely snapped, and it disintegrated altogether when Lacey grabbed his cock, pumping his length a couple of times before grinning down at him. She was in control. She’d always been in control from the moment she’d first stepped into his shop.

Lacey’s purse was on the floor beside the cot and she grabbed it up, rummaging around until she found a condom, then her glorious hands were back, stroking him once more and gently rubbing his tip along her folds, her hips rocking and writhing in rhythm. When she finally sank down onto him, he groaned with the sensation, throwing his head back against the uncomfortable mattress. Above him, Lacey laughed, a low, breathy laugh that betrayed her own loss of self-control. She was only clinging on by her fingertips, and as Gold looked up through heavy eyelids as she rode him like the goddess she was, he saw the moment she came, one hand braced on his stomach as the other rubbed frantically at her clit. There was something so wild and wanton in the image of her – hair rat-tailed and curling around her face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes – and it only took a moment before he followed her over that edge.

The silence in the back room was broken only by their panting. It had not exactly lasted long, but there was such intensity in the release of his tightly pent-up desires that it felt almost like running a marathon.

Lacey let him slip out of her and slumped down onto his chest like a cat, her smirk returning as she came down from her own high.

“Now, aren’t you glad you came out of your denial?” she purred.

Gold nodded. “That was… certainly something.”

Lacey laughed again, going in for another kiss, and Gold just let himself be swept along in her wake. He didn’t know if this would make things awkward between them, and he didn’t know if this would lead to many more pleasurable encounters of the same kind, but for now, he didn’t care. The storm was still raging outside, and it was a while before they had to get back to their usual lives and responsibilities. There was plenty of time for them to take shelter together, and as he rolled Lacey over onto her back, Gold certainly intended to make the most of it.

#A Monthly Rumbelling #rumbelle fic #golden lace #Mr Gold #Lacey French #Fic: Drenched

19 notes · View notes

dongiovannaswife · 3 years

Text

'Til you scream my name | GioLena.

CW: (in)appropriate use of stands, GER and Gio giving the real gold experience aka double penetration, mentions of safe word, oral sex (m/f receiving), everyone says GER is ugly but hahaha he makes my brain go brrrr, soft Giobaby, overstimulation, a bit of edging, implied size kink, implied creampie, stand play stand playyy.

Summary: newly weds doing something they were planning for a while */eyes emoji eyes emoji* uwuwuwuwu set right after the honeymoon.

Word count: 2499. Poorly proofreaded.

Kinda based off Adam Lambert - for your entertainment.

Fingers tracing over the edge of the silk stockings wrapped around her legs, a small groan rumbles through his chest as the sound of mouths colliding fills the room in the soft and warm glow of the low lights. The smell of candles and roses intoxicating as a breathless moan sounds —this time, coming from her and stealing a smirk from him. Humming in response, one of his legs settles between hers as Giorno bends down enough to leave a trail of kisses over her jawline and neck, stopping only to smirk everytime she arches against his touch, shuddering under his ministrations.

“Are you sure about this, love?” he whispers then, stopping to speak against her ear. He watches in delight as she opens her eyes, flipping her head softly to the side to send a wild curl behind. The blown pupils almost hide the brown irises making him twitch, a sudden rush of adrenaline that has him sucking in a breath in a mix of expectation and adoration —a dangerous mix that he knows will give them a good time.

“Yes.” a breathless laugh and she leans in, kissing his lips, fingers tracing his shoulder, noticing how his muscles flex under her touch. “Are you sure?” she asks and pulls back enough to look at him properly, eyes traveling between his pink lips, reddish from the exchange of kisses and the few bites given and received —green eyes flicking to her red lips, swollen and calling for more of his kisses.

Giorno’s calloused palms leave her legs, traveling upwards —touching her hips with temptation and almost pulling her impossibly closer when they get to her waist. It happens slowly, but oh so fast for her need. The brief moment his hands leave her body to settle into her arms feels like a breathless second, one he takes to collect his thoughts, trying to think rationally over the lust that had set in.

“Yes.” In that moment, Gold Experience Requiem’s fingers ghost over her shoulder as one of his arms circles her waist from behind, pressing himself against her —the stand’s mouth resting into the nape of her neck, expecting his master’s approval, as well as her consent. In consequence, Helena’s lips twitch upwards and her eyes close, relaxing into their touch, tentatively rolling her head back against the stand’s shoulder, and pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“Lena.” Giorno’s grave voice interrupts her, slipping a few fingers under her jaw. When their eyes meet he asks. “What’s the safe word?”

She smiles, a jolt of excitement and joy filling her, both with humor and want. “Cacao—” a laugh escapes her and both Giorno and Gold Experience Requiem seem to focus on the sound before she goes silent, glancing at his stand and then at him before she asks. “You know you can say it too, right?”

Giorno hums, locking eyes once more —the smile he gives her enchanting before Gold Experience’s hands sneak upwards, touching her chest for a moment, enough to make her bite her lip, throw her head back and whisper the nickname given to the stand in his ear.

Giorno’s hands leave her front —in fact, his presence is too sudden for her not to notice. The way his bigger form always warms her up is something she misses instantly as she opens her eyes, finding him sitting on the bed, watching with the same look he carries around his allies: the boss look, as she calls it. Cold and calculating. This time, however, it holds an unmistakable glint of lust.

“Mistress,” Goldie calls, gripping at her hips as he starts walking, effectively coaxing her into moving. She notices how the stand is walking up to his user, who waits with his hands on his thighs. “—mistress,” he says again and this time she hums, turning to look at him. Gold Experience nods when Giorno’s hand grasps around her hip, bringing her into his lap until she’s straddling him —the stand walks around the bed silently, sitting at the center of it.

“If anything hurts tell me, and we’ll stop.” Giorno’s words slip in between kisses as he turns around, laying her on the bed —Gold Experience Requiem’s lap serves as her pillow as he plays with her hair, leaning when Giorno starts to make his way down, staying at her collarbones so he can leave his mark.

“I wonder how pretty you’ll look —” he whispers and Goldie follows him. “I bet you’ll look better than you do in my thoughts.”

Helena whimpers as Gold Experience shifts the lingerie into flowers that fall into the bed before turning into the original item. Throwing her head aside, she’s met with Gold Experience’s lips.

“It’s not the moment to get shy, mistress.” he whispers, letting his palm rest over her chest, where he notices the way her breathing speeds as Giorno starts kissing her inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where she needs him the most: and when he's finally there, kissing and licking gently at first she trembles, breathing pausing for a moment before a moan falls from her lips, making the stand look down at his user, who stares back at him and then at his wife.

Both sets of eyes stare at her when Giorno’s tongue joins the equation, watching her as her back arches off the bed when Gold Experience enhances her sensations —a loud moan giving them the right signal. Pulling away so he kneels between her legs now, Giorno stands from the bed, giving her a smirk when she whimpers, trying to reach out for him as Gold Experience leaves her to leave the bed.

Switching places, Giorno sits behind her, resting his hands on her chest, where his fingers toy with her nipples in constant motions —his clothes, she notices, have been turned into flowers too.

“Baby,” the Don whispers into her ear as Gold Experience kneels between her legs, gripping himself and rubbing the head along her entrance. “Tell us, how much do you want this?”

Silent, Lena’s hands reach back and down, respectively, to pull them closer. First, she kisses and bites Goldie's lip before twisting her head to give Giorno the same kiss and bite —pulling away, she blinks slowly at Giorno and he smirks.

Easing himself inside, Goldie’s fingers sink into her thighs as he does; Lena’s mouth hangs open as Giorno draws soothing motions around her ribcage.

“Mistress, let me know wh—

“Please,” she interrupts the stand, gripping at Giorno’s arms —eyes half closed and lipstick faded, distributed between her husband and his stand’s mouths.

Giorno and Gold Experience lock eyes —when Giorno nods, Goldie starts moving, placing a hand over her stomach as he starts to speed up. Helena moans, tilting her head back looking for Giorno’s lips. He meets her midway, kissing her and swallowing her moans, hands grabbing at her chest; he’s feeling every single stroke on himself, as if it was him. It drives him wild, but he’s trying to hold back for her.

Feeling himself at the edge from the stronger sensation, he curses low, voice raspier as Gold Experience stops, breathing frantic as he stays inside, twitching, but complaining to his user’s intentions.

“Cazzo —” a moan betrays him as the waves of his and Goldie’s sensations crash, leaving him panting. “Turn around —on all fours.”

Pulling out, Gold Experience and his user switch positions again, both giving quick, lustful looks at Helena, who’s still laying down, panting.

“You good?” Giorno asks as he kneels behind her —watching as she struggles to get in position, as her legs seem to shake from the slight overstimulation from before.

“Yes,—” she answers, watching as Gold Experience sits before her —upon the sight she blushes, realizing what’s next but not complaining. “—It’s just that Goldie enhanced my senses too much, but I’m okay.”

Giorno hums, muttering something she can’t hear before he’s guiding himself in, waiting for her to give him a sign so he can keep up —when she looks back, with Gold Experience’s cock already in her hand, he pushes in, almost immediately setting a fast, rough pace as she tries to suck the stand off.

Gold Experience’s hands come down to her hair, trying to get it into a ponytail that ends up being a messy one as Giorno’s nails sink into her hips, where he grips hard enough to leave marks —both close as they keep going, encouraged by her breathy moans and low calls of their names.

And suddenly she’s gasping, moaning around Gold Experience as Giorno’s hands grip at her hips hard enough lo leave marks in the morning; it becomes too much soon but it makes her lock eyes with the stand as she arches her back, feeling the way the sensations keep building and building in her lower belly until her mouth falls open with moans escaping uncontrollably when she reaches her high: trembling and burying her face into the mattress only to be gently coaxed into glancing at Gold Experience’s eyes when she’s still deep into it even when Giorno pulls away, edging himself, but smirking at the sight.

“Gio,” she whispers between raged breaths, looking back at him still from her position. Cheeks red and eyes completely blown out. Giorno hums, a finger tracing her spine, waiting for her to talk. “Do you still want it?”

Giorno goes silent for a moment, eyes finding hers —and then studying her expression. Soft, needy. Compliant but still independent: able to consent.

“Only if you want to.”

She hums, kneeling with shaking legs —Gold Experience reaches forward, rubbing soothing patterns around her tighs as Giorno’s arm sneaks around her waist to keep her safe.

“Let’s try it.”

The Don nods, helping her off the bed —his arm tightens its hold around her waist so she can stand at his side while Gold Experience sits at the edge of the bed, gesturing to let them now he’s ready —helping her move, he sets her on his lap, leaning back so he’s laying in the bed with his legs hanging off it, flexed so Giorno can stand between them, without having to get into the bed.

“Aren’t you a bit sensitive still, mistress?”

She shakes her head, “I’m fine.”

Gold Experience hums, helping her seat herself on his cock while Giorno steps aside, retrieving a condom and lube from the nightstand. Tearing it open and sliding the condom down himself, he pumps himself a few times, enjoying the view of his wife cockwarming his stand while he gets ready to—

He grunts, snapping out of his thoughts to spread a good amount of lube on him, throwing the bottle aside. Leaning in to kiss her shoulder, his lips brush against her skin when he speaks, voice an octave deeper. “Remember the safe word, doll.”

She hums and he presses the tip in, feeling her tense —Goldie’s fingers start tracing around her hip as he reaches around for her clit, teasing it before she hums pleasantly so he pushes in more.

The process goes on and on until he’s fully seated inside, chest heaving as he tries to come to terms with the sensations of his stand and his own —he’s touching, fucking his wife with his stand: every touch feels stronger, much more pleasant. And from the way she’s panting and gripping Gold Experience’s shoulders, it might be even better.

“Tell me when you’re ready.” He whispers again, finding it hard to focus, to even get the words right —but he still tries, and it comes out better than he expected.

A moment passes before she whimpers out her approval, leaning so she’s half laying on top of Gold Experience, face hidden into his neck and arms around his neck.

Both user and stand start moving in sync immediately. Careful at first, slow and gentle as she starts to get used to the feeling. After a while she starts to buck into them, trying to follow their rhythm —said action is taken as the approval for them to go faster. Setting a new pace, not rough but not slow either, the room soon fills with the sounds of their bodies colliding and moans, pants and grunts.

“Gio—” she moans out, burying her face into Goldie’s chest as both keep moving, with Giorno going slower, as he’s busier leaving a trail of hickeys around her neck and shoulders. He grunts in a signal that he’s listening, smoothing the pain with a kiss in the last.

“I can’t— I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he grunts out, steeling himself so he can go faster, gripping at her hip with one hand and her shoulder with the other “—inside?”

She hums, throwing her head back when her orgasm hits her, shaking and bucking against them as they keep moving, closer to their own highs.

“Almost there, baby.” Giorno whispers again, watching as she lays on Goldie for support.

It doesn’t get too much before Giorno bites on his lip, closing his eyes when the strength of Goldie’s and his own release hit him, making him lean into her as his hips keep going for the last thrusts, lips attached to her shoulder.

When he feels like he can walk again, he pulls out, slowly walking up to the bathroom, where he disposes of the protection. Stepping back into the room, he finds Gold Experience already cuddling her —she’s shaking as Goldie wipes her eyes and Giorno sits down, letting his warm palm soothe her arm. His voice sounds gentler when he asks, worried he might have overstepped her boundaries. “Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, turning to look at him —he can see she was not crying. “I got a bit oversensitive, but nothing uncomfortable.” she then smiles at him, settling into the stand’s embrace once more.

Silence fills the room once more as Giorno stares at her, feeling his heart expand on his chest —pure adoration as he watches her, naked and vulnerable. Loving and soft.

She laughs suddenly, laying on her back —she frowns a little when she tries to move her legs, but it soon disappears— and the action makes Giorno smile, her happiness contagious as Goldie just watches, curious.

“You two just fucked my brains out.”

Honeypie by Johnny Utah plays from their shared playlist as Giorno flips the pancake, watching over it. His hair is still messy from the night before and slightly damp from falling asleep with it still wet from their shower, but his expressions are calm as he cooks breakfast for his sleeping wife.

A pair of arms sneak around his waist and he smiles at the feeling of her warmth pressed against his back —he recognizes the sleeves as the ones from his black hoodie she claims to love.

“Hi baby.” he greets, feeling her hum against his back in a greeting. “How are your brains? —still fucked out?”

She laughs.

#n sfw ish #GioLena

9 notes · View notes

arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

There are three kinds of dissidents: (a) anons, (b) pundits who still care what people think, and (c) outsiders who DGAF. All these groups are great; real greatness can be achieved in any of them; and good friends I have in each. But each has its problems.

…

The problem with (b) is that you are always policing yourself. Not only do your readers never really know what you really believe—you never really know yourself. In practice, it is much easier to police your own thoughts than your own words. When choosing between two ideas, the temptation to prefer the safer one is almost irresistible. This is a source of cognitive distortion which the anons and outsiders do not experience. (Though anons do suffer something of the opposite, a reflex to provoke.)

As a pundit, you sense this stress in every bone of your body; you can never show it to your readers. This creates a deep dishonesty in the parasocial relationship between writer and reader—like a marriage that can never escape some foolish first-date fib. The falsity, like the blue in blue cheese, flows through and flavors every particle of your content. Neither you nor your readers can ever be sure whether you are speaking the truth, lying to them, or lying to yourself—but you are constantly doing all three. You may still be very entertaining—enlightening, even. All your work is ephemeral, and once you die only your relatives will remember you. And it’s not even your fault.

…

From my perspective, both the anonymous and official dissidents exhibit a kind of unserious frivolity, but a very different kind. The frivolity of the anon is imaginative, surreal and playful at best, merely puerile at worst. The frivolity of the pundit has no upside; in every paragraph he is breaking Koestler’s rule, and he knows it; the best he can do is to shut up selectively about the things he cannot write about.

And his mens rea, too, is awful. He is selling hope. He is selling answers. Pity the man whose life has brought him to the position of selling answers in which he does not believe, or which he is forced to believe, or which he must force himself to believe. However sophisticated and erudite he may be, he is just a high-end grifter. His little magazine is a Macedonian troll-farm with a PhD. He is lucky if his eloquent essays about the common good don’t appear above a popup bar peddling penis pills—and in fact, I know more than one brilliant scholar in precisely this bathetic position. The frame defines the picture; the context sets the price of the text. Sad!

Worst still must be the reality that bad punditry is worse than useless—since useless strategies for escaping from a real problem are traps. When you lead your readers toward an attractive but ineffective solution, you lead them away from the opposite.

You got into this business to change the world for the better. You cannot avoid the realization that you are changing it for the worse—because your objective function is that of Chaim Rumkowski, the Lodz Ghetto’s “King of the Jews.”

You exist to convince your own followers that they neither can nor should do anything effective. The easiest way to do this is to convince them that ineffective strategies are effective. And this, as we’ll see, is exactly what you cannot avoid doing, dear pundit.

Moreover, from our present position of profound unreality, where the official narrative shared and studied by all normal intelligent people and all prestigious institutions can only be described as a state of venomous delirium, the opportunities to play Judas goat are almost unlimited. Cows, remember: there does not have to be only one Judas goat.

…

A particular favorite of the pundit is the error that AI philosophers call the “first-step fallacy.” It turns out that the first monkey to climb to the top of a tree was taking the first step toward landing on the moon:

First-step thinking has the idea of a successful last step built in. Limited early success, however, is not a valid basis for predicting the ultimate success of one’s project. Climbing a hill should not give one any assurance that if he keeps going he will reach the sky.

When a vendor sells you the moon and ships you a rope-ladder, you’ve been defrauded. Time for that one-star review.

…

Today we’ll chart the edges of the legitimate possible by looking at three recent pundit essays which have done a fine job of exploring those edges, and maybe even expanding them: Richard Hanania’s “Why is Everything Liberal?”, Scott Alexander’s “The New Sultan”, and Tanner Greer’s “The Problem of the New Right.”

…

After reading Hanania’s essay, a fourth pundit (who is out as a radical conservative) asked me: why does the right always lose? “Narcissistic delusions,” I replied.

Which was far from what he expected to hear, or what most readers will take from the essay. All three of these essays are good and true; but their inability to go far enough leaves them pointing their audience in precisely the wrong direction.

Most readers will emerge feeling that conservatives need more and better narcissistic delusions. Indeed, both pundit and politician are right there with just such a product. This meretricious frivolity, posing as seriousness, is too egregious to leave unmocked; yet the right reason to mock it is to challenge it to assume its final, truly-serious form.

Richard Hanania and the loser right

Hanania’s true point—backed up with a ream of unnecessary, PhD-worthy evidence—is that the libs always win because they just care more:

…

Since the rebirth of conservatism after the revolutionary monoculture of World War II, all conservative punditry has consisted of attempts to create more excitement around policies and values which effectively resist the power of the prestigious institutions—giving “normal people” as much to care about as their fanatical, aristocratic enemies.

Sensibly, this tends to involve raising “issues” which actually seem to affect their lives, but which also run counter to aristocratic power. Over decades, the substance of these issues changes and even reverses; the opposite stance becomes the useful stance; and “conservative values” have no choice but to change to reflect this. (If this seems like a liberal way to rag on conservatives—the cons learned it from the libs.)

…

“New Right” is not Greer’s term, but as a label I can barely imagine a worse self-own. It promises something ephemeral and irrelevant. So far as I can tell, this same cursed label has been used in every generation of conservatism to mean something different. When it inevitably fails and dies, people forget about it, and the next generation, stuck in the eternal present of a Korsakoff-syndrome movement, can reinvent it.

Who reads the conservative pundits of the ‘80s? Even those who remember them have to throw them under the bus. Every generation of National Review twinks, solemnly intoning what they conceive to be the immortal philosophy of our hallowed founders, is horrified by its predecessor, and horrifies its successor—a truly bathetic spectacle. And of course, each such generation would utterly horrify the actual founders.

…

Greer then goes deep into David Hackett Fischer territory to explain the obvious, yet important, fact that this “New Right” consists of upper-class intellectuals (inherently the heirs of the Puritans, since America’s upper-class tradition is the Puritan tradition) trying to lead middle-class yokels (the heirs of the Scotch-Irish crackers, and (though Greer does not mention this) Irish, Slavs, and other post-Albionic “white ethnic” trash, today even including many Hispanics. He even gives us a clever historical bon mot:

Pity the Whig who wishes to lead the Jackson masses!

Uh, yeah, dude, that would be called “Abraham Lincoln.”

But the point stands. Not just the “New Right” with its new statist ideology, but the whole postwar American Right, is a weird army with a general staff of philosophers and a fighting infantry of ignorant yokels. How can this stay together? How can the philosophers bring forth a mythology that creates passionate intensity in the yokels?

…

There is wisdom in this madness, of course—the problem is caused by aristocrats whose minds are wholly given over to narcissistic delusions. Doesn’t it take fire to fight fire? Doesn’t it take passionate intensity? Isn’t passionate intensity generated only by myths, dreams, poems and religions, not autistic formulas for tax policy? So the answer is clear: we need more and better narcissistic delusions. Ie, shams.

After all, any “founding mythology” is a narcissistic delusion. The flintlock farmers and mechanic mobs of the 1770s, and the Plymouth Puritans of the 1620s, have one thing in common: none of these people even remotely resembles the megachurch grill-and-minivan conservative of the 2020s. None of them even remotely resembles you.

They did live in the same places, and speak sort of the same language. Otherwise you probably have more in common with the average Indonesian housewife—at least she watches the same superhero movies.

To Narcissus, everything is a mirror; in everything and everyone, he sees himself. No field is riper for narcissism than history, since the dead past cannot even laugh at the present’s appropriations of a human reality it could not even start to comprehend.

And fighting fire with fire is one thing, but fighting the shark in the water is another. For the aristocrat, transcending reality is a core competence. The essence of leftism—always and everywhere an aristocratic trope, however vast its ignorant serf-armies—is James Spader in Pretty in Pink: “If I cared about money, would I treat my father’s house this way?” Mere peasants can never develop this kind of wild energy: that’s the point.

Yet Hanania remains right about the amount of energy that a rational, Kantian agenda for productive collective action motivated by collective self-interest, or even collective self-defense, can generate. The grill-American suburbicon is like Maistre’s Frenchman under the late Jacobins: he has defined deviancy down to rock-bottom. “He feels that he is well-governed, so long as he himself is not being killed.”

O, what to do? When you are solving an engineering problem and see the answer at last, it hits you like a thunderbolt. The conservatives, the normal people, the grill-Americans, must accept their own low energy. They must cease their futile reaching for passionate intensity, whether achieved through Kantian collective realism or Jaffaite founding mythology. They must fight the shark on land.

Conservatives don’t care—at least not enough. Yet they want to matter. Yet they live in a political system where mattering is a function of caring—not just voting. Therefore, there are two potential solutions: (a) make them care more; (b) make systems that let them matter more, without caring more.

Conservatives have low energy. They want high impact—at this point, they need high impact. After all, once you yourself are being killed, it’s kind of too late. Any engineer would tell you that there are two paths to high impact: more energy, or more efficiency.

Conservatives vote but don’t care. If we don’t have a viable way to make conservatives care more—meaning orders of magnitude more—effective strategies and structures must generate power by voting, not caring. They must maximize power per vote.

…

Interference means voters who are on the same team are working against each other. Impedance means voters resist delegating their complete consent to the team.

Interference is like a bunch of ants pulling the breadcrumb in different directions. To eliminate interference, point all your votes at one structurally cohesive entity which never works against itself.

Impedance is like getting married for a limited trial period, so long as your wife stays hot and keeps liking the stuff you like. As Burke pointed out in his famous speech to the electors of Bristol, the fundamental nature of electoral consent is unconditional:

To deliver an opinion, is the right of all men; that of Constituents is a weighty and respectable opinion, which a Representative ought always to rejoice to hear; and which he ought always most seriously to consider.

But authoritative Instructions; Mandates issued, which the Member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, to vote, and to argue for, though contrary to the clearest conviction of his judgement and conscience; these are things utterly unknown to the laws of this land, and which arise from a fundamental Mistake of the whole order and tenor of our Constitution.

The cause of electoral impedance in the modern world is the conventional concept of “agendas” or “platforms” or “issues.” When you vote not for a cohesive entity, but for a list of instructions you are giving to that entity, you are not voting your full power. You are voting for Burke’s opponent, who felt “his Will ought to be subservient to yours.” In effect, you are voting for yourself. Narcissism once again rears its ugly head.

When you vote an agenda, you are granting limited consent to your representative. You say: I vote for you, for a limited time, so long as you stay fit and cook tasty dinners. I am actually not voting for you! I am voting for “reforms for conservatives” (Hanania). I am voting for “a broad set of shared attitudes and policy prescriptions” (Greer). Dear, I am not marrying you. I am marrying hot sex, regular cleaning and delicious meals—till ten extra pounds, or maybe at most fifteen, do us part.

You implicitly withhold your consent for anything not on your jejune list of bullet points. Then, you wonder why your representatives have no power and are constantly mocked, disobeyed, tricked and destroyed by people who are legally their employees. This is not political sex. This is political masturbation. You voted for yourself. And instead of a baby, all you got was a wad of tissues. Nice way to “drain the swamp.”

Your vote does not work because you are not voting, delegating, or granting consent. You are like an archer with one arrow who, afraid of losing it, refuses to let go of it. Without releasing his dart, all he can do is run up to the enemy and try to stab.

So if conservatives want to maximize the impact of their votes, all they have to do is the opposite of what they’re doing. Instead of voting for the okonomi a-la-carte stupid little political menus of hundreds of unconnected candidates and their staffs, they can all vote for the omakase prix-fixe chef’s-choice of a single cohesive governing entity.

Such a power, elected, has the voters’ mandate not just to “govern,” but to rule. When no other private or public force enjoys any such consent, no other force can resist. We are certainly well beyond “rule of law” at this point! On the inaugural podium, the new President announces a state of emergency. He declares himself the Living Constitution. In six months no one will even remember “the swamp.”

Wow! What a simple, clear idea! The engineer, when he comes across so compelling and obvious a design, knows there’s a catch: he won’t get the patent. Someone else must have invented it before. People may be stupid—but they’re not that stupid.

Indeed we have just reasoned our way to reinventing the oldest, most common, and most successful form of government: monarchy. And we are setting it against the second most common form, the institutional rule of power-obsessed elites: oligarchy. And to install our monarchy, we are using the collective action of a large number of people who each perform one small act: democracy.

The alliance of monarchy and democracy (king and people) against oligarchy (church and/or nobles) is the oldest political strategy in the book. The suburban conservative, who just wants to grill, either has no idea this ancient and trivial solution exists, or regards it as the worst thing in the world—even worse, possibly, than his sixth-grader’s mandatory sex change.

And why? Ask your friendly local Judas goat, the pundit. Even the “new right” pundit—who only differs in his policies and issues. Which are, true, slightly less useless. As the top of the tree is slightly closer to the moon.

The 20th century even came up with a handy pejorative for a newborn monarchy. We call it fascism. No word on whether Cromwell, Caesar, or Charlemagne, let alone Louis XIV, Frederick II and Elizabeth I, were fascists.

But, to borrow Scott Alexander’s charming term, also not his own invention, they were certainly strongmen. TLDR: if you want to be strong, elect one strongman. If you prefer to be weak, elect a whole bunch of weakmen. Do you prefer to be weak? “If the rule you followed brought you to this place—of what use was the rule?”

The pundit reassures you that you don’t need a strongman to be strong—you’ll do fine with weakmen—so long as those weakmen have the right “shared attitudes and policy prescriptions.” By the way, here are some attitudes I’m happy to share with you. Click now to accept cookies. Did I mention that I have policy prescriptions, too? Skip ad in 5 seconds. Congratulations, you’ve been automatically subscribed! Check the box to opt out of most emails—void where prohibited by law—terms and conditions may apply…

…

An odd sort of pundit, who remains only nominally anonymous but has always very much GAF, Scott Alexander does not have Hanania’s cagey diplomatic noncommittal. As a “rationalist,” he is deeply committed to his own class status, and to oligarchy itself—which, like most, he misidentifies as “democracy.”

While the whole raison d’etre of the rationalist is the irrationality of our oligarchy, as displayed in genius moves like refusing to cancel regularly-scheduled airline flights to stop a Holocaust-tier pandemic, the rationalist’s dream is a rational oligarchy—using Bayes’ rule, which given infinite computing power will become infinitely intelligent—in Carlyle’s immortal phrase, “a government carried out by steam.”

Obviously, this is not just logical—it immunizes the rationalists from the scurrilous charge of “fascism,” or worse. And they were right about stopping the flights. So was my 9-year-old. Sadly, in a world of universal delusional delirium, rationality can get quite pleased with itself by clearing quite a low bar.

My view is that no government can be or ever has been carried out by steam—only by human beings—a species the same today as in the Old Kingdom of Egypt, if possibly a little dumber on average—and this will remain the case until some computational or genetic singularity occurs. For neither of which events will I hold my breath. This is why I find it easy to picture 21st-century America under the phronetic monarchy of an experienced and capable President-CEO, and almost hilariously impossible to picture it under a Bayesian bureaucracy of polyamorous smart-contracts.

Alexander disagrees. Here is his analysis—the same text that Hanania quotes. Let’s go through it thought by thought, and see if we can’t turn it into some delicious carnitas.

…

Let’s get back to those “elites.” Alexander conflates three quite orthogonal concepts in his use of the word “elite”: biology, institutions, and culture.

Elite biology is high IQ, which is genetic. Elite institutions are any centers of organized collective power—Harvard, the Komsomol, the Mafia, etc. Elite culture is whatever ideas flourish within elite institutions.

Destroying biology is genocide—specifically, aristocide. Destroying institutions is… paperwork. Who hasn’t worked for a company that went out of business? Same deal. And if the culture is the consequence of the institutions, different institutions (with the same human biology) will inevitably nurture different ideas.

The SS was anything but a low-IQ institution, yet it propagated a very different culture than Harvard. 21st-century Germany is anything but a low-IQ country, but the ideas of Kurt Eggers do not flourish in it. It seems that high-IQ institutions can be destroyed—and the new “elite culture” will be the culture of the institutions that replace them.

So the only target is the institutions. There is nothing “nasty” about closing an office. In the worst possible scenario, the police need to clear the building, lock the doors, and impound the servers. Such tasks are well within their core competence, and can be performed with calm professionalism. They will probably not even need their zip-ties.

…

For democracy to be effective in such a situation, it must know its own limitations. It can seize the reins—but only to hand them to some effective power. This power must have one of three forms: an existing oligarchy, a new monarchy, or a foreign power.

Also, there are three classes in an advanced society, not just two: nobles, commoners, and clients. Since clients support their patrons by definition, once nobles plus clients outnumber commoners, the commoners have permanently lost the numbers game. This is why importing client voters is a recipe for either civil war or eternal tyranny—if not both.

…

Yes. This is what happened in denazification, except with monarchy and oligarchy reversed. For example, all German media firms today are descendants of institutions created, or at least certified, by AMGOT. Nothing “organic” about it.

The essential problem with Alexander’s picture of this process is that, since like most smart people today he inhabits Cicero’s great quote about history and children, he simply cannot imagine replacing one kind of elite institution with another. Nor can he imagine high-IQ elites—human beings as smart as him—which are as loyal to a new sane monarchy as today’s elites are loyal, slavishly loyal, to our old insane oligarchy. Does he think that Elizabeth’s London had no elites? Caesar’s Rome?

If Alexander was analyzing the Soviet Union in the same way, he would conclude that elites are inherently devoted to building socialism for the workers and peasants. Since the present world he lives in is all of history for him, he cannot see the general theory which predicts this special case: elites like to get ahead. To genuinely change the world, change what it takes for elites to get ahead.

If the elites are poets and their only way to get ahead is to write interminable reams of “race opera,” as my late wife liked to put it, the floodgates of race opera will open. If the elites are poets and their only way to get ahead is to write interminable reams of Stalin hagiography, Stalin will be praised to the skies in beautiful and clever rhymes.

…

There are two big strawmen here. Let’s turn them into steelmen.

First, “the populace uses the government” is non-Burkean. The populace (not all of it, just the middle class) installs the government. Then it goes back to grilling. So long as the commoners have to be in charge of the regime, and the commoners are weak, the regime will be weak. They need to “fire and forget.” Otherwise, they just lose.

Second, Alexander has clearly never heard of the atelier movement. No, this is not the same thing as your grandma in front of the TV copying Bob Ross.

What happens is this: every (oligarchic) art school and art critic no longer exists. Not that they are killed, of course. Just that their employers are liquidated (not with a bullet in the neck, just with a letter from the bank). They exist physically, not professionally. They were already bureaucrats—they had careers, not passions. Who gets fired, but keeps doing his job just for fun? Certainly not a bureaucrat.

And every (oligarchic) artist no longer exists—not that they are killed, of course. Just that the rich socialites who used to buy their stuff got letters from the bank, too. Libs sometimes talk about a wealth tax—a one-time wealth cap, perhaps at a modest level like $20 mil, will concentrate the rich man’s mind wonderfully on actual necessities.

Elites like to get ahead. The people who got ahead in the oligarchic art scene can no longer get ahead by doing shitty, bureaucratic, 20th-century conceptual art. Because there were so many of them, and because the demand for this product has dropped by at least one order of magnitude if not two, elite ambition is replaced by elite revulsion.

The enormous supply-and-demand imbalance for both art and artists in 20th-century styles leaves these styles about as fashionable as disco in 1996. “Paintings” that used to sell for eight figures will be stacked next to the dumpster. “Artists” once celebrated in the Times will be teaching kindergarten, tying trout flies, or cooking delicious dinners.

Inevitably, some of these people have real artistic talent. (The first modern artists had real talent—Picasso was an excellent draftsman.) They can go to an atelier and learn to draw. They will—because now, acquiring real artistic skill is a way to get ahead in art. And again, elites like to get ahead.

…

There is nothing “normal” or “natural” or “organic” about oligarchy. Does Alexander think “uncured” bacon is “organic” because, instead of evil chemical nitrates, it uses healthy, natural celery powder? He sure is easy to fool. But who isn’t?

Culture and academia is already yoked to the will of government in a “heavy-handed manner”—yoked not by the positive pressure of power, but the negative attraction of power. When the formal government defers to institutions that are formally outside the government, it leaks power into them and makes them de facto state agencies.

Power leakage, like a pig lagoon spilling into an alpine lake, poisons the marketplace of ideas with delicious nutrients. Ideas that make the institutions more powerful grow wildly. Eventually these ideas evolve carnivory and learn to positively repress their competitors, which is how our free press and our independent universities have turned our regime into Czechoslovakia in 1971, and our conversation into a Hutu Power after-school special. PS: Black lives matter.

The paradox of “authoritarianism” is that a regime strong enough to implement Frederick the Great’s idea of “free speech”—“they say what they want, I do what I want”—can actually create a free and unbiased marketplace of ideas, which neither represses seditious ideas nor rewards carnivorous ideas. But it takes a lot of power to reach this level of strength—and it requires liquidating all competing powers.

I have never been able to explain this simple idea to anyone, even rationalists with 150+ IQs who can grok quantum computing before breakfast, who didn’t want to understand it. Ultimately it reduces to the painful realization that sovereignty is conserved—that the power of man over man is a human universal. (Also, we all die.)

No surprise that nerds who think of power as Chad shoving them into a locker can’t handle the truth. PS: I went to a public high school as a 12-year-old sophomore, was bullied every day for three years, and graduated college as a virgin. Whoever you are, dear reader, you are not beyond hope. You can handle the truth.

…

And yet: Alexander’s post is about Erdoğan—and his description of Erdoğan is spot on. It also is a perfect description of Orban in Hungary; it applies to Putin in Russia and Xi in China; and it is even pretty accurate for Hitler, Mussolini and friends.

What all these “strongmen” have in common is that they are provincial. Turkey is not exactly the center of the world. Even 20th-century Germany was nowhere near the center of the world, though it could at least imagine becoming that center. If Turkey just disappeared tomorrow, no one would have any reason to care except the Turks. Who needs Turkey for anything? What would collapse—the dried-apricot market?

Erdoğan’s problem is that he cannot vaporize the oligarchy, because the institutions that matter are not in Turkey. The provincial strongman has no choice but to follow the “populist” playbook that Alexander describes so well.

Orban can kick Soros’s university out of Hungary; he cannot do anything at all to Soros, let alone to the global institutions of which Soros is only a small part. He is indeed “arrayed against” these institutions, to which his Hungarian elites (who speak nearly-perfect English) will always be loyal. The contest is unequal and has only one possible winner, though it can last indefinitely long. Even Xi, whose country can quite easily imagine becoming the economic center of the world, is a provincial strongman—in fact, he sent his daughter to Harvard. Sad!

In a global century, the only way for these provincial strongmen to develop genuine local sovereignty is to go full juche. This is simply not possible for Hungary or Turkey, both of which are firmly attached to the cultural, economic, and military teat of the Global American Empire. Indeed it is barely possible for North Korea, a marsupial nation still in China’s pouch. So Alexander is right: these “strongmen” cannot win. Their regimes will all go the way of Franco’s. It’s impressive that they even survive.

Erdoğan simply has no way to attach his best citizens to his own regime. They are citizens of the world. Elites always like to get ahead. If you’re a world-class talent in anything, why would you try to get ahead in Istanbul? Suppose you want to make a name as the world’s greatest Turkish writer. Succeed in New York, then come home. Turkey is a province; provinces are provincial.

Yet I am not a Turk or a Hungarian, and neither is Scott Alexander. The greater any empire, the more essential that its fall begin at the center. The Soviet empire did not fall from the outside in; it was not brought down from Budapest or Prague; it fell from Moscow out.

And the American empire will fall from Washington out—though that may not happen in the lives of those now living. And although nature abhors a vacuum and no empire can be replaced by nothing—and oligarchy, in the modern world, can only be replaced by monarchy—the “strongman” of this monarchy will not look anything like these mere provincial dictators.

…

The result of Alexander’s perceptive calculations, which are only wrong because their only input data is the present, is simply that our present incompetent tyranny is and must be permanent. Of course, every sovereign regime defines itself as permanent. Yet when we look at the past and not just the present, we see that no empire is forever.

Some grim things are happening in America today. These grim things have a silver lining: they expose the gleaming steel jaws of the traps that the aristocracy sets for its commoners. They remind the cattle that a goat is not a cow and a baa is not a moo.

Every pundit is a Cicero. And amidst all the greatness of his rhetoric, Cicero could not imagine a world that had no use for Ciceros—a world governed by competence, not rhetoric. By the time Caesar crossed the Rubicon, nothing had failed more completely than the whole Roman idea of governance by rhetoric—an idea many centuries old, an idea whose execution had beaten all competitors to capture the whole civilized world, but an idea that was past its sell-by date. Rome herself was no longer suited to it. The republican aristocracy of Rome no longer meant Regulus and Scipio and Cincinnatus; it meant Milo and Clodius and Catiline. Its factional conflict was the choice between Hutu Power and Das Schwarze Korps. Caesar was not a disaster; Caesar was a miracle.

In the death of the American republic, every detail is different. The story is the same. The contrast in capacity between SpaceX and the Pentagon, Moderna and the CDC, Apple and Minneapolis—between our monarchical corporations, and our oligarchical institutions—is a dead ringer for the contrast between the legions and the Senate.

The sooner we stop pretending that this isn’t happening to us, the better results we can get. Wouldn’t it be nice to get to Caesar, Augustus and Marcus Aurelius, without passing through Sulla and Marius, Crassus and Spartacus? Alas, from here and now it seems unlikely. But I can’t see why every serious person wouldn’t want to try.

#curtis yarvin #substack #long #moldbug #well worth the read #monarchy #oligarchy #scott alexander #richard hanania #tanner greer #those who just want to grill #strongman #pundits #i'm reminded at several points of jim donald's arguments about how holiness spirals are ended

3 notes · View notes