#(( you know. the sheer forces at play when she bites something

[royalreef]

(( I see this mistake a lot and I just want to remind people — Miranda’s nose crest is basically all bone! There’s sinus inside of it, so there are tunnels and holes wound through it, but it’s pretty dense and reinforced bone without a lot of meat on top of it.

In comparison, these are the squishiest/softest parts of Miranda’s face. Most of this is her huge jaw muscles to open and close her jaws, with a little bit of the muscle and soft tissue around her lips. They aren’t as pliable and soft as mammalian lips, closer to something like the lips of monitor lizards.

Thus, these are the hardest parts of Miranda’s face. This is where there’s very minimal tissue between the skin and the bone, so they don’t have a lot of cushioning in comparison. This is not to say they’re totally immobile, some movements of Miranda’s face can tug on the skin and make the scales bunch up over her nose crest or the like, but there’s not a lot of movement going on regardless.

[sturnioz]

♯┆fully introducing. . . shy!chris .ᐟ

shy!chris does have a big mouth, and he likes to boast about all the women that he's fucked with confidence — so why did he turn into a stuttering mess when you finally have him?

"yeah, and like, she was all over me, man — couldn't get enough of me, i swear to god... and then—"

you half-listen as chris boast about his recent hook-up to your shared group of friends, swirling your plastic straw around your drink, hearing the ice clink against the glass in a distant chime. leaning forwards, elbows resting on the table, you take a sip while glancing up at chris, watching as his hands fly through the air, punctuating his words as he tries to paint a vivid picture of his wild night.

the others around the table are completely captivated, their mouths agape, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and excitement. they gasp, laugh, and lean in closer, hanging on his every word. now and then, they playfully slap his back or shoulder, egging him on as he basks in the attention. listen in intently, mouths agape, eyes wide, gasping and laughing at his choice of words, even slapping his back and shoulder as he boasts.

honestly? you find it hard to believe him.

sure, chris is extremely attractive — his messy hair, striking smile, pearly whites, and a charm that easily draws people in. it wouldn't exactly be shocking if he was meeting girls. but the sheer number he claims to get into his bed, and the way he describes the way he fucks, it just doesn't add up.

he always blushes whenever you and the girls in your group wear revealing outfits or bikinis during beach trips, his eyes always darting away as if he's trying to hide from them. that shy, stuttering awkwardness feels worlds apart from the confident persona he projects during these apparent hook-up talks.

"who is she?" you find yourself chiming into the conversation, not missing the way chris' body seems to tense up for a moment before forcing smiling, shaking his head.

"i uh, i don't know. some girl i met at a party. i.. don't remember the names of one-night stands, y'know? doesn't.. doesn't make sense if i do, right?" chris looks around at the others for their approval, and some nod their heads with a hum. "as long as i gave her a good time, which i did, that's all the matters—"

"you went to a party?" the words slip out before you can stop yourself. you know you should ease off, especially if it risks making a complete fool out of him, but you can't stop. "when?"

"like... last weekend, yeah," chris nods, almost as if he's confirming it for himself. you hum softly, and chris fidgets in his seat, turning to face you fully, raising his eyebrow. "do you.. do you not believe me, or somethin'?"

"no, i'm just... curious," you reply with a grin, teeth biting down on the straw in your drink. chris stares at you for a moment, processing your words, before forcing out a laugh that feels a bit strained.

"curious about my sex life?" chris huffs, nudging a friend beside him with a playful elbow. "she wants proof, kid. wants to see how good this dick is—"

"actually, yeah," you cut in, your voice steady. chris freezes up, his eyes widening in surprise as the others at the table gape at you, their expressions a mix of shock and amusement.

you know you should probably stop now, but something inside you urges to push back. you want to challenge him, and playing with his little jab feels like the only way to do that.

you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, a smirk playing on your lips as you continue, "i want to know how great you claim to be in bed."

now, you didn't expect to chris to actually nod his head and go through with it — acting all smug and confident in front of your friends. it was clear he took what you said as a joke, and that irked you a little bit, so you stand up from the table, telling him to leave the diner with you right now. chris is stunned again, blinking rapidly as if he couldn't quite process your sudden demand, and a light blush creeps across his cheeks as he laughs nervously, standing up and following you out.

and what you also didn't expect was for chris to be laid out beneath you, his bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyebrows scrunched together in pleasure and plush lips parted with heavy gasps as you ride him, the blankets bunched loose around your waist. his cock does hit all the right places, and truthfully it feels extremely good, but you're pleased to see how much of a stuttering mess he is as his hands grip your thighs, jumbled words leaving his lips.

"oh ffuuuck.. jus' — ah... shit. l-like that, please. oh god... you're so — this feels — you feel... oh shit shit shit. m'sorry.. not gonna last. god, you're fuckin' amazing."

© STURNIOZ

[sphvm]

heaven and back — sophia laforteza

sophia laforteza x fem!reader

tags: g!p sophia, dom!sophia, sub!reader, sophia’s a little (a lot) mean, spanking, dirty talk, degrading

masterlist

MEN AND MINORS DNI

"hey! there’s that girl i told you about!" dani spoke as she came up beside you. "sophia, the one everyone's talking about. all the girls are obsessed with her."

you tried to play it cool, shrugging off dani's excitement. "yeah, i’ve seen her." your heart raced seeing her, but you weren't about to let on. you prided yourself on being composed, not one to fall for the charms of someone like sophia — highly popular, and let's be honest, a fuckgirl. the reputation preceded her. she was known to leave a trail of broken hearts and lingering glances in her path.

"but she's only into girls, you know?" dani whispered. "i heard she was at that frat party last weekend, making out with two girls at once."

you tried to suppress the feeling that accompanied her words, covering your reaction with a laugh. "sounds like her," you said, "definitely not my type."

but inside, you knew you were lying.

the attraction was undeniable, a knot in the pit of your stomach that you were determined to ignore. whenever you saw her, you couldn’t help but stare at her piercing eyes, her long dark hair… her lips. you thought you had it all under control until the day she approached you.

it was a friday afternoon, and you were trying to enjoy a rare moment of solitude, hidden away in an almost empty library corner with a pile of notes for your upcoming exams. just as you turned a page, her voice pierced through your concentration.

"you know, pretending you're not into me is a bit exhausting." sophia leaned casually against the bookshelf, her eyebrows raised and a smug smile on her lips.

you shot her a glare, your cheeks flushing. "what are you talking about?" you said, struggling to sound nonchalant while your heart slammed against your ribcage.

sophia stepped closer, "you're always watching me from the side. it's cute, really. but i don't bite... unless you want me to."

feigning disinterest, you rolled your eyes. "i'm busy. studying, you know."

"well isn’t it time you take a little break?" she replied, a playful glint in her eye. before you could react, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you out of the library, right in the middle of your protest.

"wait — sophia, where are we going?" you barely had time to catch your breath as she pulled you into an empty classroom, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

the room was dim, lit by a single window and dust swirling in the air. your heart was racing, both from the thrill of being alone with her and the sheer intensity of her gaze, which seemed to undress you.

sophia closed the space between you, her eyes locked onto yours, searching for something. then she leaned in closer, her breath warm against your skin. "you're playing a dangerous game, you know. every time you pretend to not like me, you just make me more curious."

before you could speak a response, her hands were on your waist, her lips were on yours, soft and insistent. there was no hesitation. it took you a second to reciprocate the kiss, but when you did, it felt like heaven.

when her lips finally parted from yours, you were left breathless, staring wide eyed at her. "what was that for?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

sophia grinned, a victorious sparkle in her eyes. "to show you what you've been missing out on."

she wrapped her arms around your waist again and pulled you closer, feeling the heat of her body against yours. she kissed you again, deeper this time. sophia’s lips were soft and full, and she tasted sweet. you ran your hands through her long hair as she forced your lips open, her tongue exploring your mouth.

sophia’s hands began to wander. she ran her fingers over your chest, making you shiver. she reached down and grabbed your ass, making you groan into her mouth, pulling you even closer to her, releasing it with a playful smack.

sophia's hands moved to your breasts again, cupping them and pinching your nipples through the fabric of your shirt. you moaned, your body responding to her touch. sophia broke the kiss, trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down your neck.

sophia turned you around, pushing you against the desk, her body pressing against yours. you could feel her bulge pressing against your ass, and you couldn't help but grind against it, causing sophia to whine straight in your ear.

"bend that pretty ass over," she whispered, one hand pressing your shoulder down and the other tightening on your waist.

sophia reached down and pulled your skirt up, exposing your ass. she spanked you hard, leaving a red mark on your skin. “that’s for being a brat.” you moaned as she spanked you again, the pain mixing with pleasure.

sophia rubbed the red spots she just smacked before cupping your ass and reaching down, pulling your panties to the side, exposing your wet pussy. she spit on her fingers and rubbed them against your clit, making you moan even louder. “you’re soaked yn, you want me this bad? tsk, shoulda told me.” she teased.

sophia slid two fingers inside you, fucking you hard and fast. the squelching echoing through the silent room. she wrapped a hand in your hair and shoved your head against the desk, keeping her fast pace. you could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your body trembling with pleasure. “nobody fucks you like this right?” she asked, quickening her fingers. the only noise you made was a quiet whimper.

“tell me, yn.” her fingers slowed. “nobody fucks you like this, fucks you so good you can’t talk? hm?” you were dazed, your vision blurry.

“mm-mm…” you finally let out. “nobody f-fucks me like.. you do…” you moaned once her fingers picked up their pace again.

sophia pulled her fingers out, a loud whine escaping your throat, “fuckin’ whore… can’t be empty for more than two seconds can you?” suddenly you felt the tip of her cock prodding into you. in one thrust she filled you up completely. you cried out as she didn’t give you any time to adjust to her large size, just fucking you harder and harder, your body shaking with each thrust.

sophia reached around and grabbed your breasts, squeezing them roughly. she pinched your nipples, making you whine even louder.

sophia reached down and rubbed your clit, making you almost scream. "you like that, don't you?" she growled, her hips slapping against your ass. "you like it when I fuck you like the dirty little slut you are right?"

you could only nod, unable to form words when you could feel every ridge and vein of her cock sliding in and out of your core. your body was shaking with each thrust, which were getting sloppier as sophia started whining, grabbing at your hips from the back. you were both so, so close.

and then, sophia reached around your body again, with one final rub of your clit, you came hard, body shaking and tensing, your pussy clenching around sophia’s cock. “f-fuck don’t do that — you’re squeezing me!” sophia couldn't hold back any longer, and she came, filling you up and painting your walls white.

she collapsed on top of you, her now bare chest heaving on top of you as she slowly slipped her dick out of your sensitive pussy.

“told you i’d show you what you were missing.”

you scoffed, watching her zip up her pants as you straighten out your skirt. “ugh, fuck you sophia.”

“but you just did?”

[brunchable]

Secret Santa | S. R.

Pairings: Steve Rogers x F!Reader Themes: Ex-lovers. Petty Revenge but Steve is just sweet ;_; Summary: You and Steve are forced to participate in your friend group Secret Santa gift exchange, and of course, you end up assigned to each other. You're determined to give him the worst gift possible, but his surprisingly thoughtful present throws you off—and leaves you questioning your assumptions about him. A/N: This oneshot is a part of my 4K follower Christmas Celebration. Also this one will be connected to Santa Baby that will be released next week. dividers by @saradika-graphics

It wasn’t your idea to do Secret Santa. You’d never suggest something so contrived, so obviously destined for disaster. No, this brilliant plan came courtesy of Nat, whose mischievous smirk while handing out the hat of names told you she knew exactly what she was doing.

The moment you unfolded the slip of paper and saw his name, you felt the universe mocking you. Steve Rogers. Captain Perfect. Your ex.

You stared at the paper as though sheer willpower might summon a new name. It didn’t. Across the room, Steve raised his eyebrows as he read his own slip, the corner of his mouth twitching. You had a sinking suspicion the universe had played a cruel joke on him, too.

“What are the odds?” Nat said, sidling up next to you with a glass of wine.

“Oh, I don’t know. Rigged?” you hissed back, crumpling the paper in your fist.

Steve Rogers had a habit of ruining things. Like relationships. Or, in this case, your plans to breeze through the gift exchange with a generic mug or a gift card. No, this was war. You were going to find the most obnoxious, useless gift imaginable. The kind of thing that screamed, I know exactly what you hate, and I’m leaning into it.

You weren’t just shopping for a gift. You were shopping for revenge.

The mall was an absolute hellscape of holiday cheer—children screaming, Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You blasting on loop, and couples holding hands like it wasn’t a battlefield. You were on a mission, weaving through the chaos, hunting for something so heinous that it would make Steve Rogers cringe.

The first store you entered was a pop-culture knick-knack shop. It was overflowing with mugs that said, “Live, Laugh, Love,” and socks decorated with pizza slices. You rolled your eyes. Too tame. Too basic. No, you needed something with bite. Something so wrong that Steve would open it and instantly regret ever existing.

That’s when you saw it. A coffee mug. But not just any coffee mug.

It was massive, comically oversized, the kind of mug that could double as a soup bowl. Bright red, with bold, white text plastered across the front:

“WORLD’S OKAYEST LOVER.”

You snorted so loudly a nearby teenager gave you a dirty look. But it wasn’t enough. Oh no. You needed more.

Two hours later, you stumbled into the most chaotic store in the mall: an unhinged combination of novelty items, offensive gag gifts, and borderline illegal paraphernalia. The walls were lined with things like glow-in-the-dark shot glasses shaped like butts and calendars full of “inspirational” quotes… all of which were expletives. And there, under a flashing neon sign that screamed, BEST GIFT IDEAS EVER, you found it.

The pièce de résistance.

A calendar. Not just any calendar, though. It was titled:

“12 Months of Aggressive Affirmations.”

The cover featured a cartoon bunny flipping the bird. Each month was worse than the last—January read: “GET UP AND FUCKING WIN,” February shouted, “STOP BEING A SAD LITTLE BITCH,” and March simply screamed, “YOU’RE NOT THE PROBLEM, EVERYONE ELSE IS JUST DUMB AS SHIT.”

You couldn’t breathe. You were doubled over, tears streaming down your face as you clutched the calendar. It was perfect. Aggressive. Vulgar. Completely unnecessary. And most importantly? It would absolutely short-circuit Steve Rogers’ clean-cut, wholesome brain.

You slapped it down on the counter, ignoring the cashier’s judgmental look as they scanned it.

“You okay?” they asked, clearly unnerved by the manic grin plastered across your face.

“Oh, I’m great,” you said, pulling out your card. “This is going to make someone very uncomfortable.”

————

On the day of the exchange, you could hardly contain your excitement. The calendar was wrapped in gaudy, glittery paper that shed sparkles everywhere—another little insult aimed directly at Steve. When he finally picked it up, his brow furrowed at the excessive tape you’d used to ensure he’d struggle opening it.

Everyone watched as he peeled away the layers, muttering something about how you always made things difficult. But when the calendar came into view, his face went completely blank.

“‘Aggressive Affirmations,’” he read aloud, flipping to January. “‘GET UP AND FUCKING WIN.’” His lips twitched, but he refused to give you the satisfaction of a laugh. Instead, he held it up, deadpan. “Wow. You really went for it.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, smirking.

Nat practically fell off the couch laughing. “This is… incredible.”

“Yeah, this’ll look great in his bedroom,” Bucky added, snatching it to flip through the months. “Oh, man, look at June. ‘YOU’RE HOTTER THAN A FUCKING FOREST FIRE.’ Steve, this is the kind of energy you need.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I hate all of you.”

But when you caught his eye, you saw it—a flicker of amusement, quickly smothered by exasperation.

“This is going in my gym. Where no one else can see it.” He put the calendar down carefully, shaking his head. 

“Oh no,” you said, grinning wickedly. “It’s going on your fridge. Front and center. So every morning, you can start your day with a dose of aggressive self-love.”

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know whether to be mad or impressed.”

“Oh, be impressed,” you said, raising your glass. “It’s the best gift you’ll ever get.”

And when he smiled—small, reluctant, but genuine.

Steve wasn’t good at gifts. Not because he didn’t try, but because he overthought everything. For him, giving a gift wasn’t just about handing someone an object; it was a gesture, a piece of himself. And when it came to you—well, he hadn’t earned the right to give you anything, had he?

The relationship ended because of him. That much was clear. He’d been the one who pulled away, too overwhelmed by his own insecurities and the shadow of the life he thought he couldn’t offer you. And yet, here he was, standing in front of a boutique window, staring at the dress he knew you’d wanted for months.

He remembered the first time he saw you touch it. You weren’t even shopping for yourself. You’d dragged him into the boutique while looking for a birthday gift for Natasha, weaving through the racks with easy confidence. But then, you stopped.

Just for a moment.

The dress was simple—red silk, with delicate straps and a neckline that dipped just enough to make you bite your lip in that nervous way he loved. Your fingers brushed over the fabric, and you sighed, soft and wistful.

“Beautiful,” you’d murmured, almost to yourself.

Steve had stood a few steps behind, pretending to check his phone. He remembered how quickly you moved on, like you didn’t want to linger too long. You probably thought he hadn’t noticed. But he did. He always noticed.

Now, months later, Steve stood in the same boutique, heart pounding like he was about to charge into battle. The sales associate greeted him with a warm smile, clearly trying not to gawk at the former Captain America standing awkwardly among racks of designer dresses.

“I’m looking for a gift,” he said, clearing his throat.

“For someone special?”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “Yeah. She’s, uh... she’s special.”

The associate nodded knowingly and led him straight to the dress. “This one’s a favorite. Classic, elegant.”

Steve reached out, fingers grazing the fabric just as yours had. It felt like silk against his calloused palms—soft, delicate, everything he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

“She looked at this one,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “A while ago. I don’t think she thought I noticed.”

The associate smiled gently. “Well, you noticed. That’s what matters.”

He bought it without hesitation, ignoring the price tag. The dress came in a sleek black box tied with a ribbon, and Steve carried it home like it was the most precious thing in the world.

————

That night, Steve sat at his kitchen table with the box in front of him, a pen poised over a blank card. Words had never been his strong suit, but he needed you to know this wasn’t just a gift—it was an apology, a hope, a quiet confession.

After a long moment, he began to write:

Y/N,

I’m not great at words, but you always told me it’s the thought that counts. I saw you look at this dress once, and I don’t know if you even remember, but I do. You should have something beautiful because you deserve everything beautiful in the world. I know I’m the last person who should be saying that. But maybe this can say what I haven’t been able to.

—Steve

He stared at the card for a long time before tucking it into the box.

On the day of the gift exchange, Steve handed you the box without a word. Your name was scrawled on the tag in his careful handwriting. You hesitated, eyeing him warily, but curiosity got the better of you.

As you untied the ribbon and opened the lid, your breath caught.

The dress.

The room felt smaller somehow, the chatter of your friends fading into the background. You didn’t know what to say, and Steve didn’t push. He just stood there, watching you with that quiet, earnest expression that used to make your heart ache.

Your fingers brushed over the fabric, just as they had that day in the boutique. For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

“You remembered?” you finally whispered, looking up at him.

Steve shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “I always remember.”

You froze at his words, the weight of them pressing down on your chest. It wasn’t just the dress—it was everything. All the times he’d been paying attention when you thought he wasn’t. All the moments you’d convinced yourself he didn’t care.

Your throat tightened as guilt began to creep in, sharp and relentless.

“I—” You stopped, fingers curling into the fabric. The silk felt too soft, too expensive, too meaningful in your hands. “Steve, I don’t... I don’t deserve this.”

His brow furrowed, and he took a small step closer. “Why would you say that?”

You laughed weakly, a bitter sound. 

“Because I’ve spent weeks trying to think of the worst gift to give you. Something obnoxious. Something petty. And you...” You gestured at the dress, your voice breaking slightly. “You did this.”

His gaze softened, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that. I get it. You’re angry at me. You have every right to be.”

You shook your head, the lump in your throat growing. “But I shouldn’t still be mad. It’s been months. You tried, Steve. You really tried, and I—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he interrupted gently.

But that only made it worse. Because you did—not for being angry, but for the way you’d handled it. For not seeing how hard he was trying now.

“I just—” You exhaled shakily, holding the dress tighter against you. “I thought you weren’t paying attention. That I didn’t matter to you like that. And now... this.”

Steve’s jaw tensed, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. 

“You mattered,” he said simply, the rawness in his tone cutting straight through you. “You always mattered. I just... didn’t know how to show it before.”

The room was suddenly too warm, too loud. You felt exposed, vulnerable under his gaze. His words clung to you like static, leaving no room to breathe.

You lowered your eyes, staring down at the dress in your hands. “This... it’s beautiful, Steve. It’s too much. I don’t deserve it after—”

“You do,” he interrupted, his voice firm this time. “You deserve something beautiful. Even if you hate me, Y/N.”

You glanced up sharply at that, seeing the way his eyes flickered with something like regret—or maybe hope.

“I'm sorry. I don’t—” You stopped yourself. Lying felt crueller than the truth. “I don’t hate you, Steve. I just... I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s a gift. No strings attached.”

And somehow, that made the guilt worse. Because he meant it. You could tell. And it left you wondering if maybe he’d always meant it, even when he didn’t know how to show it.

“Thank you,” you said softly, clutching the dress like a lifeline.

Steve nodded, his hands still buried in his pockets as he stepped back, giving you space. But his eyes lingered, and for the first time in months, you felt like you really saw him. Not the perfect soldier, not your ex—but the man who’d been paying attention all along.

Tags: @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @strawberrybisou @alyana-luvs-u @rogersbarber @veronicapaula

@fynnwolff @bmyva1entine @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @awaywithtime

[demonicbaby666]

Find Me Under the Sycamore Tree

One shot | Marvel Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Genre: smut

Words: 4.4k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, kidnapping (kinda), blood play, degradation, asphyxiation, fingering, oral sex, pain play, restraints, orgasm denial, overstimulation, branding, sub/dom dynamic, sub!reader, dom!Agatha, dubcon

Summary: You’re scared and alone, running through an endless forest with no idea how you got there. You know you’re being followed. You know Agatha is hot on your trail, but what you don’t know, is what she will do when she finds you.

A/n: THIS IS A DARK FIC. The themes of it can be triggering and will not appeal to some. Read at your own risk, and please avoid if you believe anything in the warnings will negatively affect you.

In the darkness of the witching hour, you find yourself hurling through an endless forest. The trees are barren of life–corpses after winter stripped them of their leaves and, with it, their colour. Branches wack against one another as though they’re trying to huddle together to stave off the cold and preserve what life force remains at the core of their brittle roots. The sound carries. It crackles and follows your every step. 

From the very start, you knew this was a battle you couldn't win. But your defiance, your refusal to accept defeat, fuels your relentless pursuit of freedom. You race through the darkness, ignoring the pain of broken twigs and shrubbery alike as they cut at the underside of your feet, each step a declaration of your unyielding rebellion.

You’re cold, shivering and praying for a miracle in nothing but a slip, its fabric sheer and virgin white, providing no comfort against the brittle bite of clouded mist. The air is thick and wet, sticking to the growing sweat on your forehead as you race against the unseen presence of powerful magic. Your lungs, straining to steal air, make a desperate plea in the silent forest. But the air is too damp to replenish the dwindling fuel left in your chest, and every breath remains a fight with no reward, a constant reminder that the struggle you now face may very well reap the same futile fate. 

You know she’ll find you if she hasn’t already. The chase excites her–watching her prey struggle as each step leads them further into her nest and closer to their death. It won’t be quick and no less painful. Agatha will make sure her eyes are the ones that haunt you in your grave. 

Scattered burrows concealed by darkness leave the earth uneven. Caution is not something time affords you, and so you are left at the mercy of the woodlands, at the divots that seek to knock you off kilter, at the tree roots that jut out of tarmac mud, angry and unruly, cruel to use their network to ensure your pace is broken by constant stumbling. 

Is this it? Is this how it ends? Only an hour ago, you were in bed, sleeping sweetly, blissfully unaware of how unencumbered your life had been. The TV is likely still on, reruns playing in the silence of a bedroom that may never see its occupant again. The candle on your bedside table is probably burnt down to its wick, the last dying embers of its flame flickering behind its glass prison. What you would do for some light now. 

Despite the sweat marking your forehead, the constant burn of your hamstrings and exertion keeping your blood hot, you bristle against the unnatural frost marking the air. It's sharp and travels up your nose like a vine, stabbing its thorns into your head till all you know is the constant ringing of a migraine. Between the cold and adrenaline, the goosebumps raised on your skin stay with you during your every move. It’s a comfort—a reminder that you are still alive and human, and your body is still fighting. 

But it's all for nothing. 

Pessimism is one thing. Rationalism is another. Logic tells you Agatha is closing in, and your best option is to hide, but your head is ringing, and you can’t make out right from wrong or left from right, so instead, you keep forward. Condensation has bruised the forest soil, forcing it into a slippery, sponge-like substance that gathers in clumps above your ankles. It weighs you down and makes navigating through uneven terrain unmanageable. You slip and slide, forcing your eyes ahead, below, anywhere but behind you, too scared you'll see the lurking figure that marks your end like a bad omen. 

A bird flies overhead, a sign of life in the desolate forest, an allying companion trying to flee. Hope. You avert your eyes upward, tuning your ears to the sound of fluttering wings and calls to freedom. You’re choking on the stench of death and moisture by the time you see a clearing. The moon’s silvery light is untouched by the forest there, peeking out from beyond tangled treetops and illuminating the dirt path to sanctified land. 

Stupidly, you freeze, awestruck by the sight. Your body betrays you for only a fraction of a second before rebooting with the intent to sprint. But it’s too late. You’ve made a mistake, and the unforgiving woodland closes in. The open walkway is drowning in darkness as branches twist, shift and interlink. It doesn’t matter that you’re running faster than you have your whole life; the exit is sealed like a vault when you make it to the end of the forest tunnel.

The last embers of hope are snubbed out from beneath you, burying themselves in the hollow pools of earth your collapsing knees create. You can feel her, smell the sandalwood clinging to her skin, but there is no adrenaline left, no fight left in you to get up, to cower, to beg. Instead, you stare at the tiny cracks between branches and freedom, biting your tongue when something blunt and heavy hits the side of your head.

“Poor thing,” Agatha cooes, crouching beside you to gently pull sticky, bloodied hair off your face. Her wicked, toothy smile is the last thing you see before unconsciousness swarms you. 

Everything that happens next comes to you in flashes. You register the bindings over your wrists and ankles, aware that no manufactured material can offer this phantom sensation, leaving magic the only culprit. The murky brown landscape around you spins, transforming into more of the same as you’re dragged forward, feet hovering above the ground. You can see Agatha. She’s about a yard away, one hand to the side, trailing ever so slightly behind with a bright cord of purple connecting your restraints to the emerging tendrils of magic gleaming off her fingers. 

Your blood is molten copper, tangy and hot on your tongue. The metallic zing that lingers over your tastebuds keeps you present for the rebinding of your limbs. Your back presses against rough bark, sap oozing through the thin cotton of your slip, and you shiver against the cold, sickly substance as it sticks to your back. An incantation is whispered into the breeze, and roots peeking out from the dirt below take on a life of their own. They wind over your body till your arms are forced behind you, around the large sycamore tree, and your ankles are spread shoulder-width apart and held close to the base of the trunk. 

A single swing of Agatha’s finger and your slip is torn clean down the middle, falling to each side of your shoulders and exposing the entire length of your body. An angry red line marks the travel of magic from your sternum to your sex, inked in red droplets. What had you expected? To be gently undressed and appraised for your naked form. No, that wasn't how this would happen. This wasn’t about you or for you. 

Agatha hums quietly, looking you up and down as her fingers dip into the scarlet liquid pouring from your wound. Around you is more of the same: dirt paths littered with fallen leaves, tree carcases disfigured, withering away to winter, and beyond the horizon, peeking through branches, is the moon. Its light does not shine down on the woodlands. This place is unworthy of anything that could contribute to the sustenance of life. It is a no man's land, and anyone unfortunate enough to wander through its endless trails will surely discover the resting place for their last breaths. 

“You’re quiet,” the brunette remarks, looking away from the gauged flesh of your stomach to your face, which she inspects speculatively. Her fingers remain focused on painting your stomach red. 

You stare at her blankly, giving nothing away. If Agatha’s goal is to revel in your fear, she will find not a lick of fright from your trained features. The pain is more challenging to mask, especially when a sharp fingernail digs into your cut, tearing the flesh anew, intent to never let it clot. You make no sound, clenching your teeth together, flaring your nostrils and forcing yourself to breathe steadily through the pain. 

Agatha tuts and, always one for the dramatics, has a sizable pout on her face, feigning upset, “You’re no fun.” 

When you remain silent, Agatha’s mock sadness shifts into something darker, curious and unexpected. Her usual victims must have all begged, cowered and cried. Alternatively, they may have responded with anger, relying on brute strength that could only take them so far in the face of the unnatural. In the end, they all gave her the same. They all showed her how fragile and fickle the human mind is. They allowed her to penetrate their defences in one way or another, letting her sink her claws into their foundations and find what lies beneath bravado and tears—fear. But anyone given too much of the same gets bored.

“There is no one but us here. What good would screaming do?” You ask, levelled and calm. It’s tricky to tame the tremors of your jaw and the chattering of your teeth, but allowing them to disrupt your question's pace and timbre would paint a less-than-idyllic picture of your already declining resolve. 

Her grin is one of triumph, and whilst the song it sings is laden with satisfaction, you can see the underlying relief trickle through the harsh bite of her smile, intrigue burning brighter behind her coral-blue eyes. 

“It speaks,” she announces to an invisible crowd, arms wide and spread. “And you’re right, sweetpea. Screaming wouldn’t do you any good.” 

In the following silence, you allow yourself to take Agatha in fully. Her plum slacks are clipped at her ankles, revealing only the tips of her black boots. A navy blue overcoat is draped over her white blouse, freshly pressed and framing her figure perfectly as it sinches her waist and falls seamlessly down her body. Her hair, wavy yet tame, is loose, falling over her breasts in layers of chestnut brown streaked with shades of dark caramel. 

Time will always know Agatha’s name. Her murderous ways are etched into the fabric of history, tales of her unique powers passed down from coven to coven, witch to witch, and for you, mother to daughter. But one thing history has failed to highlight is the beauty of her treachery. She basks in her reputation like a conqueror holding their crown, surveying fallen bodies and foreseeing their gluttonous future in the reflections of pooled blood. The power suits her, even if she fails to wear it humbly. 

There’s a pleased look on her face when you meet her eyes, and she says, “Ogle away.” 

You scoff, looking anywhere but at the witch and willing the cold to taper the heat emanating from your cheeks. The sound of leaves being mercilessly crushed under Agatha’s boot is crisp. The clean crunch sounds once, twice, and you stiffen, hating how your feet beg to scurry and hide. You’re better than the fear and the cowardice urges, but at the end of the day, you’re only human, and your body acts without the restraints of your mind in perilous situations. You reign in the jitters, force your limbs to remain still, and your face stoic. 

She’s close. Her breath is tickling your face ever so gently, her finger and thumb pinching your chin to force your gaze forward, and it’s increasingly becoming more challenging to ignore the electric sensations that are zapping about in your stomach. It was a stump of wood that knocked you out, magic that tethered you to Agatha as she dragged you through the forest and the vines that are now what keep you bound. Leaving this, the first time you’ve felt Agatha’s touch. 

“I quite enjoy the attention.” Agatha grins, staring directly into your eyes, keen to sink her nails into the steel armour that holds your tears at bay. 

It’s odd. Where her fingers should be imbued with murderous intent, they are far from roughspun on your skin. Her grip is harsh, but her thumb is feather light as it grazes the underside of your lip, and her finger soft as it brushes the length of your jaw, catching wisps of sodden hair soaked with sweat, blood and condensation. It sends another jolt of something sharp and hot down your spine.

“Don’t,” you whisper through a shaky breath.

There’s no reason the older woman should heed your command, and there are no consequences if she doesn’t. She’s in control and knows it—is unafraid to show it. 

The shivers are back with revenge, but it isn’t the cold or fear that fuels them; it’s the weight of a palm resting against your stomach, warm and heavy as it meanders over your ribs. With no preamble, her hand comes to lay over your breast, and her fingers tighten around the globe of flesh, squeezing before they move down to circle your hardened nipple. 

“Stop,” you whisper, miserably aware of how your voice is weakened by lust and holds no authority. 

It shouldn’t feel good. You know it shouldn’t. But your body disagrees, chest arching forward into the heated touch of Agatha, and much to your chagrin, there’s a trapped moan tickling the sides of your throat that you vehemently fight to keep at bay. 

Your refusal to submit only makes this more fun for her, and your submission would guarantee your imminent demise, so you’re left walking a tightrope, fine-tuning your responses in a waking effort to remain alive. It’s that awareness, that constant cycle of methodical thoughts, that helps you realise a moment too late you’ve chosen the wrong course of action. 

“I said stop,” you shout, slamming your head forward to collide with Agatha’s nose. 

The older woman’s smile corrodes with anger, momentary but fierce as fire and hotter than the blazing end of a poker stick. When you blink away your fears, the fury is gone, but its effects are lasting. Agatha grabs you by your throat, cutting off your airways with her powerful grip, and slams your head back with a quick shove that has you seeing stars. 

“That wasn’t nice.” Something is alarming about her smile. It’s plastic and appears false, but beneath its exterior, there’s some sort of maniacal truth to it, like she’s overjoyed by the prospect of seeing you dazed at her hand, which isn’t hard to believe. 

With a drawn-down motion of her free hand, another cut marks your flesh, and pain overwhelms your senses. It's blinding and oddly familiar—something you can hold onto like a crutch to keep you planted in the present. You bite down the weak urge to vocalise your suffering, swallowing down a strained cry that feels much too similar to sandpaper. 

If Agatha is unhappy with your lack of response, she doesn't show it. In fact, not even a second is spent surveying you or her work before she’s three fingers knuckle deep inside your cunt, stretching you out over and over as she pumps with both speed and vigour. 

“Tell me to stop,” she growls. “I dare you.” 

You mutter a quick, “Oh fuck,” under your breath and try to focus on the blood trickling down your stomach and dripping onto Agatha’s wrist instead of the way she’s playing your body like a fiddle. It’s all-consuming; the pleasure swarms you from every angle, turning your legs to jelly, leaving you at the mercy of the vines that hold you up and Agatha, who keeps you upright with her unrelenting grip over your neck. 

“Come on, pet. Tell me how much you hate this, and I’ll stop.” 

The wet sounds emanating from your sex seek out the deep-rooted shame that lives in the pit of your stomach. It’s the realisation that some sadistic part of you enjoys this that hits you like a ton of bricks, and you want to deny it; deny Agatha the victory points, but your mind and body are bending to her will with the curl of her fingers and another gush of arousal. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Agatha purrs, her hot breath clammy as she bites down on your earlobe. “Your cunt was practically begging for my fingers.” 

All hopes of refuting her statement are stolen by the myriad of kisses and bites Agatha trails down your neck, halt over your pulse point, where she takes the beating flesh between her teeth and marks you with a bruising imprint of her savage affections. At a loss for words, the only thing you can focus on is the maintenance of your restricted airflow. The pace at which Agatha is overturning your body makes it hard to sustain a regular breathing pattern, but you force the minimal oxygen into your lungs and heave it out through crackled gurgles. 

Slender fingers carry you to the edge till all you feel is the pent-up pressure in your abdomen, overpowering the anguish and anger directed towards Agatha. 

The distraction lasts for a brief second. 

Your release is not what floods your body. Instead, there is only searing, blistering pain. Agatha’s fingers, previously nestled within the walls of your pulsing cunt, now lay over your fresh wound, skating through the dark oozing red liquid, pressing into your abused flesh.

It’s one too many times you’ve had to hold in your agony, and this time, you can’t control your blood-curdling scream. It’s not directed at Agatha. Instead, you fling your eyes up to the sky, begging it to produce a single star bright enough to peek through the twisted branches above. 

There is nothing but darkness and gloom and no break from the constant torrent of flooding stimulation as Agatha drops to her knees. The image should have you feeling superior, yet all you feel is the steady thrum of nerves and residual pain, ghastly aware that the older woman is probably the most in control out of the two of you. Even if the way she’s staring at your slickened pussy can only be described as crazed. 

When the first swipe of her tongue glides through your slit, something breaks in you. Your crippling hold on your restraint wavers, and the foundations begin to crack. You know you can hold on, but for how long, you are no longer sure about. Your body is betraying once again, hips cantering forward to push Agatha further into your sex, moaning through your clenched jaw and humiliatingly writhing as pleasure floods every nerve ending in you. 

Agatha buries herself into you, tongue fucking your pussy with scornful ease till you’re hanging on the precipice of another orgasm. Then, she stops again, pulling back with a smug smile and rising to her feet to say, “God, you’re needy.” 

You want to cry, and you want to scream and shout and demand she touch you again. But you can’t. You can’t because that’s precisely what the older witch wants. She wants you pliant and pleading, easy to manipulate in the palm of her hand until she tires of your compliance and gifts you to death. 

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does anymore. Not until Agatha is back inside you, pulsing her fingers in and out so fast you can barely breathe, hitting spots deep inside you that haven’t been touched in years. You’re screaming, and you’re yelling and screaming and screaming from the ever-mounting pleasure that feels like it will never reach its peak, and the pain—biting, sharp and constant as your muscles tense over and over again, and your limbs wrestle to be free. The presence of your blood is everywhere, shooting through veins, racing in your ears and dribbling down your stomach. It’s heaven and hell, ecstasy and delusion, breathing and drowning all at once. It’s too much. It’s not enough. 

Your fight against the vines keeping you restrained doesn’t go unnoticed by Agatha. She’s dipping her eyes to and from your face to your wrists, trying to figure out something beyond your grasp. The witch maintains her grip around your neck, crushing your wide pipes, and oxygen deprivation is beginning to take effect, but it’s not so all-consuming that you fail to feel the pressure ease around one of your wrists. 

It’s a risk on her part and an opportunity on yours. You can feel the warm allure of your magic dance over your fingertips and the chance to strike with a closed fist and brute force. 

You do neither. 

The trees are becoming blurred, the ground beneath you clouds and your pain a lullaby to your mind's erratic pleas to resist. For once, everything is silent, and in some kind of moronic fucked up sense of gratitude, you move your hand up and curl your fingers over Agatha’s, strengthing her grip over your throat. You can feel your pulse beat between both your fingers, see the pleased smile Agatha is wearing, and hear the beauty in your unrestrained moans of pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, dying like this - after this - wouldn’t be so bad. 

“I need,” you stammer, removing your hand from Agatha’s, placing it on the back of her neck and pulling her forward. It’s bubbling inside you again—the ardent need to cum. It lives in your muscles that are tension-bruised and exhausted. “I need to-”

“Oh, sweetie,” she coos before her lips come crashing down on yours in a demanding kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. 

The roots wound around your body remain the only thing keeping you up, and at Agatha’s behest, they disappear, burying themselves back within the earth, where they belong, leaving the push of her body against yours the only thing that keeps you upright. She takes her role in earnest, removing her hold on your neck to hoist your legs over her hips and keep you steady, continuing to drive deeper into you at this new angle. 

Bark has all but torn through the thin material of your slip, and in an effort to move away from the brittle sting of microscopic splinters, you tangle your arms around Agatha’s neck and lean forward, burying your moans and whimpers into her shoulder. The position would not be far from intimate if it weren’t for the way your body bounces over the fingers fucking into you and the force at which they do so. 

The presence of a thumb is featherlight over your clit, teasing you with its potential. And, of course, nothing comes free. Not when tiny remnants of your dignity remain intact that need removing. You let free a whine, and when that doesn’t work, a meek ‘please,’ and instantly, the older woman’s touch becomes crushing. She’s rubbing quick, consistent circles over the bundle of nerves, fueling the engine that carries and dishes out sparks of pure, unadulterated heat down your spine, filtering through your veins and capillaries till it reaches your head and manifests into burning need. 

You’re being pushed back into the harsh surface of the sycamore tree, yet you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when Agatha’s hand is back over your breast, her mouth on your neck, and you’re on the cusp of a long-awaited orgasm. 

There is no interruption to your peak this time and Agatha revels in every second of it alongside you. She pulls back to watch like you’re a performer, and she’s waited a lifetime to secure a ticket to this show. Every jut of your hips, shake of your jaw and cry from your mouth is reflected back at you in her spangled eyes, drinking you in a breath of fresh air.

You’re so taken by the pull of euphoria you don’t register the heated touch over your breastbone. You can hear your skin sizzling and see the scorched initials of her name when you glance down. Still, all you seem to feel is your never-ending orgasm as the stimulation continues, throwing you headfirst into another release and even then, Agatha doesn’t stop. She’s consumed with the sight of your bliss, hungry to live in it forever as she keeps fucking into you with her fingers, circling your oversensitive clit till it stings, and you’ve got tears swimming in your eyes. 

You’re unsure how long it goes on for, how long she pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you. You’re dipping in and out of consciousness, and with the emergence of every new blacked-out spot obscuring your vision, you’re dimly aware the forest around you is beginning to take on a new life.

Branches are illuminated by the balmy glow of the emerging sun, and the frost coating their exterior thaws under its warmth, turning thin layers of ice into water droplets. Dirt paths littered in corpse leaves are no longer a muddy brown. Now, they are canvases splattered in the tawny colours of autumn. The smattered shades of honey and marigolds are a welcome sight as Agatha pushes your legs off her and leaves you to stand alone, breathless and weak. Dignity was something you lost between the baring of your skin and branding of your flesh, so you allow your knees to buckle beneath you and welcome the soft embrace of dirt. It is kinder to you than bark. 

“What will you do with me?” you ask, keeping your eyes levelled with the changed woodlands. Conviction bleeds through your demand, even if the silent wracking in your chest and the crack of your voice slightly diminishes it. 

“Come,” Agatha beckons. 

You fail to stop a full-bodied shiver from tearing through your body. Its shadow echoes in the clattering of your bones as you look up to see the older woman hovering above you. She’s staring, scrutinising you before coming to a hasty decision. She removes her jacket and crouches down so she’s at eye level, and your straining neck thanks her with a quiet crack. Then, satin material is over you and Agatha’s body heat - still embedded into its lining - sinks through the cold outer layer of your bare skin. 

“Now,” she begins with a quirked brow, slapping her knees as she rises, “up you get.” 

You cringe at the crippling pain that shoots up your legs, but you’ve swallowed your discomfort for too long now to show yourself incapable of doing something so simple as standing. 

“I don’t understand.”

Agatha smiles, delicately tracing a finger over your heart, along marred skin marked ‘A.H’, “You belong to me now, pet.”

Tags: @stayevildarling | click here to be added to my taglist

[tadpolesonalgae]

Piercings[*]

Poly!Batboys x reader

a/n: I realised you probably would have specified poly batboys if you wanted them all together rather than individually but I was feeling a little feral (and also a little tired, I’ll admit it) so I’ve written it as all of them together 🧡💛 — also we’re saying that with fae healing she only needed a week to be sorted and safe from infection

warning: piercings, slight nipple play, poly batboys

word count: 1,270

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Teeth tug at the interior of your lip as you walk into the sitting room, finding all three of them contained within the cozy chamber. 

Three sets of eyes raise when you enter, sensing you have something to say. You shift anxiously on your feet. “Hi…” you begin, toes curling in your socks, a spark of nerves glistening beneath your skin, pulse spiking in your throat—one they can almost certainly pick out. 

It’s Rhys who takes the lead as the closest to where you are, lowering his book and setting it down, open, over one arm of the sofa, Cassian watching intently from the other end, ankle crossed over his thigh. “You look…nervous,” Rhys muses, violet eyes gleaming with satisfaction when you shift, fingers clutching the hem of your thick, purple jumper. “Did something happen?” 

Your lips part to speak, but a rush of nerves has you second guessing yourself, averting your gaze to the floor, heart pounding. “I have…” Fuck, you’re nervous. You swallow. Look back at them. “I have something to tell you…?” 

Rhys’ lips tug upward at their corners, interest sparking in Cassian’s hazel eyes, a neutral but attentive expression from Azriel. You ease in a small breath—you know them; they won’t be angry with you. You just need to show them. It’s easy to admit you’re far more scared of the attention they’ll give you rather than potential disappointment. They’re feral enough if they so much as catch a glimpse of a new set of underwear they’ll be dragging you to their bedroom, pinning you to their mattress, so this…you swallow again. Maybe it was a stupid idea. But they’re going to find out eventually. It’s already been a week, after all. 

“Maybe it would be better if I showed you,” you mumble under your breath, fingers tugging at the deep purple wool, the knit stretching as you lift it to reveal the lacy white camisole underneath—sheer enough for the metal bars to be visible as they push against the soft, creamy fabric. 

Cassian’s book slips from his grip, thudding on the floor. Pages fluttering. 

You bite the interior of your lip, folding the jumper over your arm so your have something to do with your hands. “They’ve finished healing now…” You tell them, glancing down at the individual stitches that make up the purple knitwear, picking out how the yarn wraps around itself to form a repeating pattern. 

“Come here.” Rhys’s voice is deeper; rougher. Strained, as he calls you over. 

“Why…” you ask, a note of warning in your voice, raising a brow. This is exactly what you were worried about. “I’m only telling you so you know. They’re still—”

“That was an order, princess,” Azriel murmurs from the other sofa, tension underlying the rigidity of his wings, hazel eyes piercing in on you like you’re a rabbit that’s about to turn on her fluffy tail and frantically try to hop away. 

Half reluctantly, you step closer to Rhys’ side, fingers fiddling with the jumper to try and keep your nerves soothed. 

Violet eyes look up at you, and you force yourself to remain still as he grips your hip, a sure enough sign you won’t be leaving without their permission. “Is this why you’ve been hiding yourself from us?” He inquires, and you nod. “And you’re saying they’re healed now? Properly healed?” His thumb swipes across the bone of your hip, your every sense keyed to his touch. You feel like you could get lost in his eyes. So strangely hypnotising. Like they’re luring you in. 

His lips tug upward, and then you’re being tugged forward, landing perfectly in his lap under his guidance. You squeak, squirming beneath his touch, trying to shift out of his lap—you knew this would happen. “Rhys, hold on,” you try, gripping onto his wrists as his palms splay across your stomach leisurely, fingers crawling beneath the hem of your close-fitting camisole. “Wait, they’re…” 

“What?” Rhys drawls, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Tell us what they are, darling.” 

“…they’re sensitive.” 

The pads of his fingers stutter briefly over your skin, before his lips are curving into a grin. “How perfect.” 

“Rhys, please…” you murmur, trying to glance at him. 

“Please what?” 

“Be careful?” You request, shifting in his lap. Shaky fingers lightly wrapping around his wrist. 

He hums, attention flicking to his brothers. “Should we?” 

“Rhysand!” You exclaim, trying to turn to look at him, but his grip tightens on you punishingly, reminding you to keep still. 

“Try her out first,” Azriel muses, drawing your attention, hazel eyes boring into you—hot, hungry, and adoring. It gives you a little reassurance, at least. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Az,” you mumble, a little betrayed he isn’t advocating for your release. “When you’re wearing pretty things like that? I think not,” he drawls, a hint of affection in his expression. “Besides, you know very well you aren’t permitted to keep secrets from us.” 

“I wanted it to be a surprise…” you mumble, flushing. 

“I think it’s safe to say we’re surprised, sweetheart,” Cassian drawls, “but a secret is still a secret.” 

“Cass…” 

“Do you disagree?” 

You open your mouth to do just that, but instead a startled sound squeaks from your lips, Rhys’s fingers brushing lightly over the peaks of your nipples. You gasp, trying to grapple with him to get his hands away but you can hardly manage to make him budge as he circles your breasts through the thin fabric. 

“I didn’t want you to have to wait while knowing about them,” you try, cheeks heating as thoughts begin to melt away. “Wouldn’t it have been worse if I had told you?” 

“A rule is a rule, darling.” 

“But Rhys…Rhys!” You gasp as he pulls your top away entirely, and you can practically feel their attention on your breasts. The pretty bars adorning your nipples. 

“How sensitive are they?” Azriel asks, but it’s worryingly not directed at you. 

���Let’s see…” 

A panting moan spills suddenly from your lips, breaths fluttering as Rhys brings his thumbs to lightly drag across the sensitive peaks. You squirm in his lap, nonsensical pleas whispering from your mouth as you try to squeeze your legs together, heat simmering violently and you’re worried how severely they’ll exploit this for their advantage. 

“Pretty sensitive,” Cassian drawls, and you exhale deep breaths of relief when Rhys’ fingers cease their stimulation, already practically trembling in his lap. “I suppose I can see why she wanted to keep these secret, knowing us,” he remarks, your lower lip wobbling at the comment. He grins, and your hairs rise. 

“I have different ones,” you say, trying to halt Rhys’s fingers, trying to figure a way out of his hold. “I got ones with different colours…let me show you.” Rhys laughs beside your ear, breath fanning down the side of your throat, making you shiver. “Darling, that won’t work. You’re staying with us until we decide you’ve had enough.” 

“But that can take hours…” 

“And it’ll take days if you don’t stop whining,” he counters, grazing his thumb across your nipple. “I’m sure between the three of us, we could make it last much longer.”

You squeak as shadows wrap around your ankles, wrapping around your calf, up your knee, lacing around your thighs, pulling them further apart. 

“And if we have to correct your behaviour one more time…” Azriel warns, your skin prickling at the low, raspy tone. Toes curling. Shadows creeping higher.

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence for you to understand the meaning. 

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[tojivu]

# OFFICE HOURS ‣ GOJO SATORU

✰ — author’s note i feel so guilty bc gojo is literally the only character i write for LOL anyway this is an old draft from months ago. idk why this is so long im so horrendously down bad for this fucking snowman.

✰ — cw / tags arrogant ceo!gojo x secretary f!reader, sfw, not rly enemies to lovers bc gojo has fat feelings, gojo satoru being a billionaire playboy

✰ — playing death & taxes by daniel caesar.

✰ — word count ~3k LOL

nothing about gojo satoru really strikes you as the serious type.

even in a professional environment, your boss always has a carefree demeanour. his laugh is so nauseatingly loud that you can hear it from outside the office, and you wonder how someone as busy as him manages through his day; much less with a positive attitude. you take one look at his schedule, and you want to vomit with the way you hardly see any gaps between appointments.

you suppose you could learn that from him. it's his only good quality.

you admit that he's likeable, on surface level. there's a reason why you detest him, though: as his closest colleague, you know him way more than you would prefer. most people would think such a well to do man like satoru would have a wife by his side, but that's unfortunately not the case. you almost feel more miserable than him—because now you're forced to be the listening ear and comforting hand at his beck and call.

you think he'd be just fine if he was just a little more humble. he has a nice face. it's his fault for being so stuck up. you know how many women ask him out—painfully aware, actually.

'they just aren't suited to my taste,' he would say to you. 'i need someone that makes me feel alive.'

one time, gojo even asked you to bail him out of a date—something about the way she held her fork and knife disturbed him, and you were expected to show up at the restaurant and act as if there was an emergency.

'i'm so sorry, sweetheart. i have to go, duty calls.' his disgustingly charming tone made you want to slap him then and there.

she called him again the following week, and he completely forgot who she was. he didn't even save her number.

the sheer number of people asking him out had stroked his ego so hard that gojo firmly believes no woman is deserving enough. he rambles on and on to you about how snobby some of them seem, and it takes everything in you to bite your tongue when he does. 'takes one to know one,' you would say, if not for your job at stake.

you think gojo satoru is full of himself. you are a strong believer of that. a witness, as well—it's not like he didn't try his way with you, too. unlike the women he ranted about, you turned him down every single time.

it's been a long while since any of that has happened, though. the most recent ordeal was months ago, but that didn't inherently mean that people stopped asking him out: it just meant that he was rejecting every single offer.

it's a thursday morning when you find yourself eating a sandwich you purchased on the way to work, at your desk—wondering when the big boss will finally arrive. the clock read 9 a.m., and you're expecting an extravagant "good morning!" to surprise you any moment now.

just then, you notice mr. conceited walk in: except something is different. he has no stride in his step. there was no good morning. there was no playful teasing directed at you as he walked past your desk and into his office, not that you were complaining—it was just strange.

you stand up, a mouthful of your sandwich still being chewed. you take a big sip of water and fix your skirt and blouse, making sure your hair is presentable—before swiftly making your way into his office.

──────

"i cannot believe this." he mumbles. you're standing in front of his desk, but he's not facing your direction.

gojo's chair is turned to the giant window that overlooks the business district, and he's gazing out of it thoughtfully. you think this is the cheesiest thing you've seen him do.

you can see how disheveled his hair was, even from where you were standing. you don't want to irritate him further, in case teasing you was still on his to-do list that day.

"what is it, mr. gojo?"

he swivels his chair around, and he is a mess—just what could have he been up to?

"i woke up late today."

"you're the boss, mr. gojo. you can come in any time you want—"

"not the point." he interrupts you. "i forgot my lunch. i was in the car, with the driver, on the way here already. . . and then i realised i left my donuts at home."

gojo's face is absolutely distraught. he looks like he's gone through a divorce and had his house set on fire with how he stands up dramatically—his hands now on his desk. you open your mouth to speak, but he shuts you up by talking again.

"i didn't want to inconvenience him. i'm too thoughtful, miss y/n."

you want to scoff, but you bite your tongue and hold back.

"so i got out of the car and ran back for it," gojo recounts. "i arrived home after the treacherous journey—only to discover that my donuts are gone."

you feign an expression of shock, just to humour him; he gives you an 'i know right' look, and continues his nonsensical story.

"the maids threw them away, miss y/n."

you can't help yourself: you let a small giggle slip through your lips. you quickly use your hand to cover your mouth, thinking of a quick excuse.

you cough. you pretend to, at least—but gojo satoru is not stupid.

no, maybe a little. though, not enough to be convinced of your terrible acting.

"nothing about this is funny."

you nod, looking down at the floor. "i apologise, mr. gojo, but it's just a few donuts. i'm sure someone in the office could fetch some for you."

"yes, i agree." he says, and you shift your gaze from the marble tiling of his office to his face. his hair is a mess, yes—but he still looks revoltingly handsome. his eyes are piercing through yours, and pieces of hair cover his face in just the right places.

you're staring a little too long and gojo finds his pulse quickening with the eye contact—but the spell he has you under is soon broken when he clears his throat.

you quickly look away, embarrassed that you were caught staring at your boss, by your boss.

"you'll pick some up for me, yeah?" his smooth and silky voice echoes through the empty space of his office.

you look at him again, and there's a gentle smile on his face; one you're all too familiar with.

you're aware of satoru's charismatic nature, his playboy-ish attitude, and all sorts of tricks he uses to make women fall head over heels for him. that didn't mean you were completely resistant to them, though—you find yourself playing with the sleeves of your blouse, your ears beginning to redden. "of course," is all you manage to say.

at least you were self-aware.

your mind was rational. should gojo satoru try to hit on you for the nth time—all it took was some self discipline to say no, and you'd like to think you had plenty.

you think the conversation is done with the way he doesn't speak another word, so you turn on your heels and make your way out of the office.

just as you touch the handle of the door, your boss adds: "i'll come with you."

you turn back to him, confused. you didn't need your boss babysitting you for a donut run, you knew his favourite flavours—it's all he ever insists on buying for lunch. "there's no need for that, mr. gojo."

satoru shakes his head in disapproval. "you don't even know my favourite flavours, miss y/n."

that was a blatant lie. he knew you knew. you were his personal donut grabber for a few months up until august, and it was only october. you suppose that it would've continued on if not for your complaints about the long lines in the morning.

nevertheless, you don't argue with him. gojo satoru was the type to get what he wants, when he wants, if he really wants it.

you smile at his disregard for the months you spent as his errand runner, and how idiotic the excuse he just used was. satoru knows he's lying through his teeth, and your smile makes him more nervous than your eye contact.

so nervous, in fact, that he takes back what he just said. "unless. . . you're fine by yourself."

you're surprised that gojo's confidence is dissipating, or that it could even fade at all. you can tell with the way he's avoiding your eye contact, exactly how you evaded his earlier—the red on the tips of his ears are much too obvious in contrast to his hair.

"i don't mind," you respond a bit too quicker than appropriate. "mr. gojo."

gojo curses himself mentally, thinking about how stupid he must sound. he's usually the one making people nervous, but he doesn't know why it's different when you look at him like that.

──────

the atmosphere is deafening in gojo's favourite bakery. you always knew he had a sweet tooth, so you expected his choice to be a spectacular one—and you weren't disappointed.

you had personally visited this bakeshop before, and the confectionery was truly as good as people made it out to be; it proved evident in the amount of people crammed into this small establishment. though, you can't tell if it was for the food or for your boss, with the way most pairs of eyes are turned in his direction.

you two spend a good five seconds looking at the menu before gojo states his order, which was exactly what you thought it would be—the lady at the cashier smiles a bit too long at satoru, before asking: "eating in?"

you want to open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it. "of course."

it was still very well your work day. he (or maybe you and him, considering you helped him plan seventy percent of his appointments) had a meeting in 3 hours to prepare for. you think this donut adventure is already unnecessary enough—but here he is, suggesting to waste even more time eating the donuts in the bakery itself.

"we have a meeting in a bit, though. you could eat it in your office."

he looks at you with a confused look, as if he forgot that there was a meeting at all—because he did forget. gojo gasps, turning back to the lady and retracting his previous statement.

──────

gojo eats his donuts agonisingly slow and no conversation is initiated.

you're alternating between staring at both your laptops and the swirls on the wooden desk, unable to say anything because you didn't plan for such an occasion: an eating donuts with your admittedly handsome boss that makes you nervous while simultaneously planning for an important meeting occasion.

"miss y/n, you should try some."

you shift your eyes from the table to gojo, and he's holding a small piece of his donut to your lips: the powdered sugar practically calling your name.

"it's fine, i ate earlier," you decline his generous offer. "you should eat."

"i'm not asking you to eat all of them, miss y/n." he smiles at you. "just a bite. it's really good, y'know."

you sigh, reaching for his hand to take it from him—but he swiftly pulls it away and shakes his head. "open your mouth."

you feel the tips of your ears burning, blood rushing to your cheeks and you wonder how the girls he takes out manage themselves when he's like this—you've worked with him for so long, yet you can't recall a time when his gaze wouldn't make you shudder.

you think you'd stutter if you spoke one more word to him, so you save yourself from the embarrassment and bare with his request.

he feeds you the piece of sugar-coated donut, and you're sure you have powder on the corners of your lips with how it's width barely fits into your mouth.

you chew and swallow, feeling the residue of sugar on your skin.

"do you have any tissues?" you ask him, a serious expression plastered onto your face.

gojo tries to suppress the chuckle itching to escape his throat—the sugar on your lips and cheeks catch him off guard, and after a few seconds he can't help but let a small laugh slip. you stand up from your chair, scanning the room for any boxes of tissues you could lay your hands on.

he stands up as well, shaking his head—still giggling.

"it's not funny," you frown, and the smile on his face only grows wider—you're too cute for your own good when you sulk. "stop laughing."

you're not sure if you want to punch him or let him giggle to himself. for some reason, seeing you embarrassed is a great cause of joy to him. you can't bring yourself to tell him to shut up; you always imagine doing just that, it's strange how you couldn't muster the courage just when you needed it most.

"it's quite funny," gojo's laughter eventually calms down.

he leans closer to you and his right hand gently holds the side of your jaw—he uses his thumb to gently wipe the sugar off your cheek, and then your lips. "i got it."

his thumb stays on your bottom lip after dusting the sugar away. his pupils are locked onto the surface of your lips, which were glossy in the harsh light of his office: they looked so soft.

before long, they trail up your face until he's looking directly into your eyes: and this time you're not nervous, you don't look away, and your heart is completely calm.

satoru's fingers are easy on your skin. he handles you like fragile glass, as if he doesn't want to break you: and it's the same for the way he looks at you. gentle.

you're reluctant to speak because the way satoru has his thumb on your bottom lip sends shivers down your spine. you feel breathless.

you don't want this feeling to leave, not just yet.

a few seconds of tension pass. his hand moves back to your jaw, and your nervousness returns when gojo satoru leans his tall figure even closer to you; his head tilting ever so slightly.

it's a random thursday morning when you discover a few more good qualities gojo satoru possesses: his lips and his hands. maybe the way he kisses, too—it's slow and precise, unlike his attitude. he tastes sickeningly sweet and it makes you want to savour this moment even more.

you promised yourself you wouldn't fall victim to gojo satoru. yet, you just can't pull away: instead finding yourself slithering your arms around his neck and your chest pressing against his.

gojo's hands are wandering down to your waist and he's desperate to have you as close to him as possible, showing in the way he tries to close the already small gap between you two.

it takes only a fraction of a second for a small thought to form in your mind: just how many women have been in this position?

you quickly forget about that thought, though—you think it's pointless to regret it now, gojo satoru kisses you too good to be full of remorse.

gojo thinks he could stay like this: kiss you all morning, afternoon and pay you overtime if it meant he could be this close to you for just a bit longer.

there's hints of neediness in gojo's touch—as if he'd been waiting for this forever, wanting to relish it before it ends. his few seconds of bliss don’t last very long though, because you're soon pulling away—gasping for air.

he sighs mockingly, his hands sliding down from your waist to your hips. "can't last longer than 10 seconds, miss y/n?"

of course he would say some cocky shit like that—you'd forgotten for a minute that this was the same, arrogant mr. gojo you always knew, and no kiss (however heavenly) was going to change that.

"i'm sorry that i don't go on dates with every man that breathes."

gojo smirks at you after you say those words. "come on. just because i go on dates with people, doesn't mean i kiss them like this."

"sure you don't." your jealousy shows a bit too much in your reply, and he finds himself smiling even harder.

"is someone jealous?" he teases you again, rubbing circles with his thumb against the flesh of your hips.

you feel flustered, knowing that you're definitely done for now—he saw right through you. "nobody is jealous, mr. gojo."

"stop it with the formality. just call me satoru."

"it's still office hours. it's only polite."

gojo rolls his eyes, sighing in the process. you grin a little at him, knowing that this was the first thing you denied him of today—complying with the donuts and the kissing was already spoiling him enough.

"then i suppose there's only after work," there's his nauseatingly charming voice again—low and smooth. he knows exactly what he's doing to you, and you know it too. "i'm off after 6."

you think long and hard about whether you want to be mean and add this to the list of things you've declined to do for him. the ratio was starting to get really unbalanced—but you remember the way his hands touch you and how his lips greet yours so lovingly: and you think that there's no point turning back now.

"my boss doesn't let me off until after 8, though." you try to poke at his buttons—you put on a fake pout, knowing you’ll accept his invitation anyway—but gojo satoru is eternally patient when it came to things he sincerely desired.

"fuck your boss." he says, "he'll be fine with it."

you laugh at his response. you never thought you would see the day gojo curses at himself, after all, he's so self-obsessed: but you suppose you've seen—and tasted—parts of him that you never knew existed.

"then i'll see you at 6, mr. gojo."

what was the harm in discovering more?

230323 — i kinda hate this but.. wtv… anyway i couldn’t be bothered to proofread have my brainrot of gojo in a suit Mmmm yumyum

[laswells-ashtray]

Hii! First time here, but I binged your works and just wanted to say that your writings are amazing! Keep up the good work and never lose your spark🫶🏾

(P.S.-Any more ideas on sassy omega Price? I’m usually not into those kinds of things but you got me hooked.)

for the sheer kindness of this ask, I have more Omega Price. not so much in the story format and more in little tidbits because my cat just sliced open my fingertip with her claws and it's hard to type

If you like the Nik/Price/Ghost idea, personally, I am a big fan specifically in the omegaverse.

Nik is the main alpha that John goes to for everything, he deals with the bitchiness, the everything. As far as anyone's concerned, that's John's alpha. Not that it hurts Simon in any way. He likes being a part of what they've got, but they're easing him into it slowly because thrusting this entire dynamic on him at once would do more harm than good.

Doesn't stop him from snitching to Nik whenever John gets a bit, too pissy, though.

And if Nik's away and he has to deal with it himself? When has Simon Riley ever been anything but capable. He'll drag that pissy captain back to his room and scent him until John is a reluctant puddle of content against his chest and Simon makes no effort to hide that he's smug as fuck.

Price is sassy anyway, there's three games worth of content to prove that, but there's a fine line between banter and him being genuinely pissed off. All of the lads have learned the difference, and a big part of it comes from John's need to throw himself into the job with all he's got. All of them do it, but he takes it to the extreme, stuck in the office filling out paperwork and planning missions without ever asking for help because it's a barrier for him. He can't push himself past it and ask for assistance because he's so stuck in this captain persona that it draws him away from the people around him, his pack.

And that lack of interaction and closeness translates into an anger that he can't quite wrap his head around and it's only sated by being surrounded by his people.

He pushes his limits around Laswell all of once, snapping at her for something that obviously isn't her fault when she's already stressed and for a split second he sees them sending his dogtags back to Nik with a "We're sorry for your loss." He learns not to do it again. It almost becomes a reminder for him, he finds himself getting irrationally irritated at something Laswell does, and he falters because he knows he's in too deep and he needs his people.

Laswell is absolutely pack too but she's scarier than the rest of them. She has no problem putting Pissy Price in his Place. It is a part-time job that she gets paid for via Nikolai sending her bottles of expensive whisky. She has no problem bringing in the reinforcements when he bites back at her with a bit too much force. Then suddenly, he's got two rambunctious sergeants and a not so pleased lieutenant all playing squish the omega.

Although when Price is being genuinely sassy because he wants something [it's to get bent over, it's always to get bent over], Nik and Simon clock him immediately. He'll stand with one hip popped, drawing far too much attention to how those wide fucking shoulders lead down to an unreasonably small waist and Nik has the urge to fuck him senseless in the back of the heli. Simon has visions them doing it on John's desk, but he isn't sure the old thing could take the sheer amount of force he'd put behind fucking Captain John Price six ways to Sunday.

[grapejuicestyless]

Orange Juice

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: High school sweethearts, the picture perfect pair whose story crumbled as quickly as it started. All because of a reckless boy and his addictive nature and an emotional girl and her growing tiredness.(warning: Mentions of addiction(alcohol).)

“I need you!” He pleads, words broken and grass stuck to his knees as he stands from his spot on the ground where he lay face down, passed out in the front yard of the chateau once again.

He held her hands in his, pulling at her fingers until her knuckles seemed to stretch at his sheer force and determination to keep her put in place, to keep her with him.

“If that was true you would have stopped!” Her voice was shaky, tears burning into her cheeks and her throat constricting with each choked up breath. Still, she couldn’t look at him in the eyes, the same deep blue eyes that held her youth and captured her heart with nothing more than the twinkle of innocence and play.

She knew if she were to look back she would try to keep fighting it, and as much as she longed to always be there to help, it was obvious her help was nothing more than something that delayed his progress. JJ was his father’s son, whether they admitted it or not. No, he never laid a hand on Y/n’s skin, but when he drank his words shot to kill. He carried the same fire in his soul and a pent up rage that seethed through the cracks in his teeth each time he held a solo cup in his palms.

No amount of comfort or persuasion would stop the boy from sending himself six feet in the ground. He had drank them both dry and Y/n hated to admit that she had lost the fight, she had to throw in the towel. He wouldn’t get better until she was gone, and she knew it, even if he refused to admit that he needed to let the harsh slap of reality to beat him senseless for him to find his feet.

“You know it’s not that simple, baby! Please, tell me you know it, I’m trying, I really am. Please.” He cries, lips trembling all ugly as his nose runs and his cheeks become blotchy. He’s a mess, looks it and smells it too.

His boyish smell of sweet cedar and the sandy beaches covered with vanilla are masked with the stench of whatever he pours into his cup and day old cigarette smoke. His blonde hair isn’t messy in the cute way that he wore it when her hands would ruffle through each lock, but because he hasn’t made it to his bed in days, choosing to pass out somewhere from the front lawn to the living room if he ever makes it that far.

“Don’t bullshit me, Jay. You and me both know it, I’ve tried, and I’ve tried and we’ve wasted all that potential to get better and we’ve fought this before. We win the fight, but what about the war? What about me, the bed I sleep in and the pillow that doesn’t even smell like my fiancé anymore because he prefers to be face down passed out in our lawn!” Y/n rips her hand away from JJ’s like it’s poisonous, a bite that stings and slowly works its way into her blood.

Y/n’s not angry at him, her lover, her sweetheart fiancé. No, how could she ever be when even at his worst she can only ever see the good hidden deep inside of his abusive behaviors and dependence on all the wrong things.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home for so long, so long JJ and you never come back anymore. You’re too far gone to even remember that theres a warm bed waiting for you.” She cries, eyes closing and head falling into the boy’s shoulder as she sobs out sentences aimlessly.

The worst part is that it’s his own fault. His whole life he tried so hard to finally break free of his family’s name, the bitter memories of his abusive father and absent mother leaving him with a motivation to be better than they ever could have been. Yet, here he is half drunk with the same smell stuck on his breath and some half-assed apology ready to spew out at his lover.

“I’ll get better, for you, I will. I’d do anything for you.” She pulls away, looking at him with big doe eyes and a scrunched up nose. He thinks he finally has a chance to change for a second, to fix all his wrongdoings until she shakes her head, looking down at her feet and stepping away from him.

“No, no. Jay, no.” Wiping her cheeks, Y/n seems to finally let go of the innocence that once masked all of his imperfections.

“Your heart has changed, your soul has changed and you aren’t the man I love anymore.” Watching how she fiddles with the ring on her finger breaks his heart, no it absolutely crushes it. Reality is a sour taste to be swallowed down and JJ just can’t seem to get it down now that it’s all right in front of him.

“And I’ll always love you, and if you ever need me I’ll still be here-“

“No, Y/n/n, no.” He tries to follow her, the ring in his palm burning a circle on his skin. A symbol of their eternal love that seemed to redefine what ‘forever’ really meant.

“But I can’t be the one you rely on anymore, it’s not healthy for you.” She tries to reason with him, but he doesn’t want to hear it, he only wants her to hold him again.

“I love you!” JJ tries to make her see it, how his blood only keeps pumping even when he should be dead by now because in his heart he knows he’ll feel her touch against his forehead in the hot summer mornings and her hips against his in the late afternoons that seemed to always slip away far too quickly.

“You’re not your father, Jay.” She reminds him, making JJ stop in his tracks where he debates whether or not to cry or laugh in relief or anger.

“So thats it?” He decides to be angry even if he really isn’t, even if it’s his own fault for driving the girl away. Even if they both recognize that she needs to go away for some time.

“You’re just going to go ahead and carry on? Leave me here alone like I don’t even matter? What, was I pulling you down? Was it just too much?” He spits it like fire at her heart and she tries not to take it too harshly. Y/n knows he gets mean when he’s tipsy, and the empty bottles hidden in the long grass tell her that he’s well beyond that point now.

“I need you to get better.” She begs quietly, looking down as she speed walks down the old dirt roads that lead to a better part of town. She feels naked without the ring adorned on her finger or the weight of her soul hanging over her shoulders.

Y/n swears she can hear his sobs from across town, the broken cries wondering where his lover went in the late afternoon and the even louder ones in the early morning once the fog clears and he comes to terms with his faults.

It’s all in her head, their friends remind her, and they send her photos of him in the mail to tell her how he’s getting better. But the polaroids become further and farther in between, and soon the eyes she swore she never wanted to leave her life became those of a strangers, a stranger who knew everything there was to know about her.

“I haven’t drank in six months, on the dot.” He leans over the kitchen table, indents from his rings and scratches from pen evident in the wood. His hair is just the same as it was when they first met, a blonde mop of waves that sit perfectly around his tanned face. Only now he doesn’t look so tired and he doesn’t smell so sour.

She can only smile at him, letting the crowd fill in around them and filter out through the door as time passes and the moon sets underneath the horizon. She still thinks about how light her finger feels without the handmade ring on her finger, the promise that was within the bent metal weighing more than any diamond any man could ever buy her.

“Can I get you a drink, to celebrate? Theres orange juice in the kitchen, bought it for our friends. It’s yours if you want it, just glad you could visit.” JJ doesn’t know about the piles of photos she keeps of him, the photos that she never had the heart to unpin in her room in the chateau. He’s acutely aware of the fact his friends had been sending the girl updates, he had even asked them to at some points, just so she wouldn’t carry so much worry and guilt as he put on her all those months ago.

“I’ve missed you.” He says it softly, hoping partly that the faint music and the dying chatter from the outside will drown out his confession of love for the girl in front of him, but the sad smile on her face tells him otherwise.

“Feel’s so empty here without you, like I’ve been waiting for you to come home.” He kicks the splintered wood, hands in his pockets and his eyes darting to the orange juice sat warming on the counter like it was placed there just for him. He knew it was, and he knew who did it too.

But Y/n started to cry before JJ could even begin to thank her for all she has done for him, for sacrificing everything just to see him get better.

Shes blubbering something about regretting how she just up and left him like that, how she keeps his memories with her and still wakes up smiling when she thinks of him in her sleep. But more importantly, she cries about how she doesn’t think that she can ever have him again.

Of course, it’s not her fault that she associates his condition with her. Each relapse happened in her company and each stage was only worsened by her staying. She had to leave for him to get better and now to her, it was evident it was for the best.

JJ knows she’s wrong, but how could she? It’s his own fault for what he’s done to her but it’s really not even his fault. Falling dependent on a substance that only ever caused harm was something he started to do for fun, he never intended to become addicted to it, to become mean. They were both just victims in an incredibly cruel situation.

“It’s like you said, Y/n/n, just like you said. My heart has changed, and my soul has changed, and this town has changed, and this world has changed!” He takes her hands in his, showering her his ring and offering a new beginning to their tangled love story.

“But I have not.” It’s so quiet when she says it, JJ almost misses it. She hesitates, flinching away from the ring and refusing to put it back on for the fear that the reoccurring nightmares she had conveniently left out of his condition would come true again.

“The last time you were drunk you were face down, passed out in our lawn.” She looks at him, closing his fingers around the ring and standing from the table.

“Theres orange juice in the kitchen, bought it for you. It’s yours if you want it, I’m just glad you could visit.” She admits softly, slipping past him as calm as she can keep herself, hoping that he can’t hear the way that her heart cracks with each inhale of air.

He whispers something about still loving her, and even though she never says it back, the fact that she’s just admitted to buying the drink specifically for him with the hopes of him showing up gives JJ hope, a hope that he secretly knows will only leave him more devastated in the long run, but one that keeps him going.

He pours himself a glass of the orange juice later that night, the crowd long gone and empty solo cups scattered along the lawn. The ring in his pocket weighs down his cargo shorts pockets and burns through the fabric to his skin, but deep down he knows that he’s changed, he’s been better.

Like she had told him the day it all came crashing down, he is not his father, so he will try and try until he can mend what he broke and the wound is nothing but a scar left behind to show his strength and resilience.

JJ prefers apple juice over orange juice, but as he takes a sip of the tangy liquid, he decides it tastes sweeter than usual, and he really likes orange juice better than any other drink.

[lost-in-beacon-hills]

I think at this point everyone has different opinions on each of the Districts and honestly I love that. It's so fun to read people's thoughts.

(I'm sure I'm not the first person to think or say this but) I have a theory on why District One/Two win so many of the games beyond just being Volunteers in a game full of people going in blind.

It's something I've thought heavily about and even incorporated into my own fanfics.

But District One, I think, they win by raising their volunteers to be pretty. They train them to fight, yes, but I think they pull sponsors by making their kids "sexy." In both the book and movie, Glimmer is heavily sexualized. In the book, she's in a sheer gown that shows everything. In the movie, they tone it down but still show quite a bit of her body during the interview. Even the two victors we get to hear a little more about (Cashmere and Gloss) are mentioned to be pretty. Despite being a sibling duo, they're incredibly popular within the Capitol.

But even after they get 'popular' they don't turn down their attractiveness. She still dresses pretty with make up and smiles like she's been taught to do. He's still beefy and hot. You would think if they had any bodily autonomy they would start to tone themselves down in order to get away from the sex slavery.

I think sex appeal is what makes them a victor. Literally. People 'sponsor' them in the hopes of getting to fuck them. They get told that these people are who they're indebted to and most likely are forced into sex as a way to 'repay' them. Everyone says if Glimmer had won she would become the next Cashmere. Which is true. But no one points out how this is planned and a tactic that one consistently uses. Once they win they realize how fucked they are. They don't know they shouldn't want to win until it's over. It's too late to back out. Part of why Cashmeres life is devastating is because Gloss knew what was coming and he wanted better for her. But it happened away. And now they're stuck repaying the Capitol with their bodies.

In Two I think they raise fighters. They put all their effort into skill, endurance and survival. Out of all of the districts I think they do the best at giving them a chance. They make sure they send the best trained, the most skilled and the smartest. Clove is such a good example of this. She never missed her target. (Except for when Katniss moved the backpack making her miss). She was brilliant. Cato too. He was strong and a fantastic fighter. They only lost because the story demanded Katniss win. Hell there's so many moments where Katniss almost dies at their hands only to **magically** get away. (Thresh owing her, tracker jacker nest, not seeing her a few feet away) all of it. They weren't stupid meat heads. They were warriors. Children raised to kill.

I think they delbrately send plain victors. They don't want want to send "pretty" kids. They tone down any sort of beauty their tributes have. One of my favorite examples is Enobaria. She's pretty. And I think that's her downfall. It's mentioned in the series that she wins by ripping another tributes throat out with her teeth. (A popular theory is she was raped and used the very last thing she had in order to get away.) But she ends up getting her teeth filed down. While a lot of people think it was the Capitol, I believe it was her mentors. They filed them down, knowing she wouldn't be able to be raped again. I mean, who would have sex with her knowing one wrong move and you could be dead? She can bite your dick off in seconds if she wanted to. (Not to say she doesn't get booked) It would sway a lot of people away. I think much like Haymitch fighting against Katniss's breast implants, her mentors fought to get her teeth sharpened.

If they're able to I believe Two will alter the victors in order to make them less desirable. One plays it up, Two tones it down winning off skill and merit alone. Any sponsors they get isn't driven by sex.

It's why they win so much, and why the other districts have such a hard time getting sponsors.

I also think that District Four, the last of the career pack, has it's own way of creating victors. They send tributes like the rest but I think they do something different from the rest. My own headcanon is that they send orphans. It's fucked up but if I remember correctly they never mention Finnick having family.

I think they take the kids with nowhere else to go and put them in a training center. Whoever scores the best goes that year. Unluckily for Finnick, he was picked at 14. He was attractive, and part of me thinks Mags played into that to give him the advantage, thinking he didn't have family to leverage. It would have been fine, but then Annie happened. They use her as a control tactic.

I also think Finnick is the reason it was a one and done on leaning into the sex appeal. It fucked him over. Annie was pretty too but she wasn't used. (No one has ever said ah yes she's crazy let's just not rape her, fuckwads do it anyways.) But I think Mags learned from her mistake and played Annie down. Made her less pretty like they do in Two.

It's fucked. The entire system is fucked. But I think each 'career' district creates winners any way they can. No one in Four would volunteer they're disillusioned unlike one and two. So why not send the kids who have nothing, no one to come back to? In Two why not train them and maim them after to keep them safer? In One why not make them fuckable to win? They won't understand until its too late?

Maybe I've overthought this. Probably have. Idk. Just a thought.

[droopycoquette]

Don't Hate The Player || Izogie x Reader

Summary: It’s time for you to finally get payback for all the times Izogie ran her mouth after her victories. 

Warnings: suggestive content, pining, established relationship, fluff

Word Count: 2.0k

a/n: requested by a lovely anon

|*|

You gazed upon her as she threw insults at the poor girls, so young, with no knowledge of combat or blood. Her muscles flexed and relaxed as she threw girl after girl onto the ground, dust flying up as a result of their sparring. You couldn’t help but feel bad for them, of course you couldn’t, you knew exactly how they felt. Memorise flashed in your head of the times you lost to Izogie in hand-to-hand combat during your nightly training sessions. Her shouting insults to you, her competitive side getting the best of her. 

You and Izogie were, first and foremost, rivals, it was wired into your relationship. When you finally became an Agojie after training under Izogie, you both began to go head-to-head in everything. Who could run faster, who could reach the top of the mountain first, who could stay hidden the longest, who could eat faster. Everything was a competition. And, despite your greatest efforts, she beat you in everything except weapons. Her size and sheer strength made her a force to be reckoned with and each time you went against her you were reminded of that. It was something that you hated, it burned against your brain every time she laughed at you, every time she threw an insult at you. You grit your teeth at the memory of losing to her the day before. 

“You say you hate the water buffalo because of how lazy they are but you are so alike,” she had sneered, holding you down on the red dirt.

That specific insult had wormed its way under your skin and embedded itself in your brain, playing on repeat inside your head. It got louder as you watched your love take down trainee, after trainee. You felt your nails digging into your arm as you bit at the sides of your mouth in annoyance. Usually, you would ogle her, her muscles, and her gorgeous ass. You would bite your lip as she oiled herself, rubbing up and down her muscles as she looked at you with a smirk on her face, watching as you got flustered. You could practically feel her nails on you, trailing the nape of your neck, teasing you, before she finally gave you what you wanted. Kissing your neck from behind, she would trail her hands down where you needed her mo-

“She’s good with them, yes?”

You snapped out of your daze, shutting your mouth before drool dripped from your chin. 

“Esi,” you stuttered. “oh yeah, she’s certainly better than I would be.”

“I know you two are together or whatever, but try not to make it obvious, we have to set an example for the trainees,” Esi chastised, smirking at you. 

“Right,” you muttered under your breath, your cheeks heating up at how easily Izogie could distract you. 

Just then an idea hit you, your anger disappeared and you could feel a smirk tugging at your lips. You crossed your arms and shifted your weight to one foot, tapping rhythmically on your arms as your eyes lit up. 

“Why are you smiling in such a way,” Esi asked, her face one of concern.

“No reason,” you smiled. “No reason at all.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, walking away. “Crazy lady.”

You shifted your gaze over to Esi and glared at her before looking back at Izogie, finding that her eyes were on you. She winked at you, smiling as you watched her show off. You smiled and gave her a small wave, feeling the love you had for her flutter in your stomach, forcing a big smile onto your face. 

“Right, Nawi,” Izogie started, turning her attention back to the trainees. “Your turn.”

|*|

“Are you ready to lose to me again, my love,” Izogie chuckled, giving you a quick kiss on your cheek. 

You watched as she jogged over to the circle you two always sparred at, your eyes crinkling at her enthusiasm. 

“I’m going to be honest,” she continued. “I’ve looked forward to this all day, you’ll actually be a challenge. I’ll still come out on top of course.”

“Do you ever stop talking,” you groaned, walking over to meet her in the circle. 

A slight breeze ghosted over your skin, the warmth of it feeling heavenly as you breathed in. Anticipation dripped from your fingers, your brain running faster than your body could handle. 

“I’ll stop talking when you actually win,” she smirked, bending down and getting in a starting position.  

You walked over to the other side of the circle and bent down too, mirroring her, arms ready to punch or block. Pushing your heels into the ground and feeling the red dust under them, you looked back at Izogie, your face showing her that you were ready. Her face changed from that of a jokester to that of a commander, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. You could feel a shiver run through your spine at the shift in her demeanor. 

“Begin,” she stated firmly. 

At that you stood abruptly, walking over to her calmly and slowly. 

“My love,” she began, confused. Standing up slowly. “What are you doing?”

You stayed silent as you made your way over to her. Watching as her face morphed into one of caution, her eyes never leaving you, following you until you were directly in front of her. You calmly wrapped your arms around her waist, feeling her abdomen tense up at the touch, before cupping her face. You raised yourself up on your toes and planted a firm kiss on her lips, one that caught her off guard. 

Izogie was taken with you, smitten. You could do anything and she would still look at you with adoration in her eyes. She immediately kissed you back, forgetting about the fight and her desire to win, only focused on you and your hypnotizing lips. She relaxed into your arms and, following your lead, wrapped her arms around your waist. Izogie loved the feeling of your warmth close to her, you’re scent filling her nose and bringing her comfort. 

“What brought this on,” she asked, still in a daze from the sudden kiss. 

“I was watching you with the trainees earlier today,” you answered, gazing at her dreamily. 

“I saw you,” she sighed, thinking back to when you waved at her. 

“Well, I couldn’t help but shiver when you lathered yourself with oil,” you said honestly. “It’s been so long since we’ve had time to just be together.”

You began to sway back and forth picking up your feet, Izogie followed you, giggling at your antics. 

“You’re right, my sweet. I’m sorry,” she apologized, tightening her grip on your waist. 

“Why are you apologizing for that? It’s not your fault,” you laughed placing your hand on her chest in endearment. “What you should be apologizing for is looking so hot while commanding the trainees harshly then coming back to our bed and being so soft with me.”

You saw how that stunned her, the way she sucked in her breath and froze and you took your chance. You planted your feet firmly, bending down to connect your shoulder with her abdomen, grabbing her arm, and finally throwing her over your shoulder. The same move she had done on Nawi earlier that day. You felt a surge of confidence at the accomplishment when you heard her hit the ground, the thud causing you to spin around and face her. 

Laughter boiled in your stomach and erupted, forcing you to hold your stomach. Your eyes gleamed, showing how entertained you were. Izogie looked up at you from her spot on the ground, ass hurting from the collision. Annoyance flooded her veins at your amusement, slightly aroused by what you were hinting at before. 

“You’re too easy, my love,” you giggled. “What was one of the first things you taught me when I was a trainee?”

Izogie stayed silent, the look of annoyance staying on her features. She pushed her tongue to the side of her mouth, continuing to look up at you. 

“Never be distracted by your opponent!”

She scoffed at that, rolling her eyes at your outburst. 

“Be glad your trainees aren’t here, they would’ve had a laugh!”

You continued to giggle in delight, jumping up and down at your victory. Your eyes never left Izogie, making sure that you squeezed every drop out of this moment, knowing you most likely never would get a chance like this again. You froze when you felt a shift in the air as she began to get up slowly. 

“Come here,” she commanded, a stern look on her face.

Your heart dropped, stomach almost nauseous. 

“My love please,” you begged, as you realized that the stunt you had just pulled would come with a punishment. “You know how much stronger you are than me, I just wanted to win once.”

A giggle began to sprout in your lungs as you tried to hide the smile that found its way onto your face, excited for what Izogie would do. Your feet began to feel light as you prepared yourself for a chase. 

“I said come here,” she repeated a smirk on her face, her eyes matching that of a predator. 

You ran before you could think, the threat of Izogie too great for you to just stand there. Your heart sounded loudly in your ears as you ran, little bouts of laughter leaving your lips.

“I love you,” you shouted, trying to get her to stop chasing you. 

You could hear her behind you as your breath left you in harsh fits, you always hated running. Izogie’s feet hit the red dust lightly, as if she could fly, her long legs aiding her in her pursuit. 

“I love you Izogie,” you yelled once more in an attempt to take the edge off her annoyance. 

A loud thump resounded as she collided with you, skillfully wrapping her arms around you. Effectively trapping you there. The sound of her heart beating thumped against your shoulder, her breath fanning against your neck with small chuckles entering your ears. You were, once more, reminded of her strength as her muscles held you against her chest, arms flexing while she spun you around to face her. 

“I love you,” you whispered timidly, a small smile displayed on your face. 

Izogie nodded while biting the inside of her mouth again, the desire to kiss you engulfing her. You didn’t know how much she was wrapped around your finger, she had fallen hard for your small smiles and teasings. Luckily for her, you closed the gap between the both of you first. On your toes, you placed a light peck on her cheek. 

She breathed out as your feet were planted firmly on the ground, still holding you firmly. The stunt you had pulled was still fresh on her mind. She took notice of every little movement you made, small twitches in your arms or legs, anything that might hint at a combat move. Her eyes found yours and in that moment everything was forgotten, the look of love and lust swirled in your irises and was mirrored in hers. Your breathing slowed and you took in Izogie’s beauty, how her lips always quirked up in a slight smile, how her skin always glistened no matter the lighting, how her nose scrunched up in exasperation when you or the trainees did something weird or annoying, and how her eyebrows would furrow in concentration when she fought. 

You found yourself rolling onto your toes again to kiss her before being stopped by Izogie. Her grip on you tightened as her trance was broken, holding you down and preventing you from kissing her. 

“Oh no you don’t,” she chastised. “You think you’ve earned the right to kiss me after that.”

“That’s not fair. I just wanted to win,” you pouted. 

“By playing with my feelings,” she pouted back, making fun of you. 

You rolled your eyes at her antics.

“So, my little warrior wishes for me to be rough with her,” Izogie breathed, rubbing her nails up and down your arms. 

You sucked in a sharp breath at that, another shift in the atmosphere causing goosebumps to break out on your skin. 

“That can be arranged.”

|*|

A/n: Please leave me feedback, I really want to improve so tell me something you liked or something that could be worked on <3

[elvisabutler]

I don't know if your taking requests but I had this in my head and just can't get it out.

Just Austin x reader when she is on top, I'm taking slightly mean reader with just a tiny bit of sub Austin and a lot of chest scratches+bite marks (on him)

🌹🌹

like a feral cat

summary: you and austin tend to switch for each other and it works well enough except for when you cover him in scratches and bite marks. fandom: austin butler | elvis ( 2022 ) rating: m pairing: austin butler x female reader word count: 1332 warnings: rough-ish sex. bite marks. scratches. p in v sex ( protected ). very soft sub austin. dom-ish reader. minor bit of degradation. possessiveness. author’s note: thank you for the request darling! and one day it will not take me months or a month to get to some requests. i actually really liked this one i just- holidays and kinktober and everything just made writing kind of an adventure on what i got out. and hey first thing i've really written in a week, woo. hope you enjoy!

From the moment you and Austin entered a relationship you realized that both of you liked to play with dynamics. Maybe that made you like every other couple you knew but at the same time you like to think those couples didn't understand the rush of pleasure that hearing your boyfriend whimper your name begging to cum and the look of sheer ecstasy that crossed Austin's face when you called him sir as you begged to touch yourself. It was fine though, because you both knew safe words and you both knew better than to push each other more than was necessary. Today was no real exception as you found yourself on top of Austin, your nails digging into his upper arms, earning a hiss from him.

"Hard day at work, babe?" It's not that you had pounced on him when he got home, but it was a near miss if he's being honest. Normally that sort of thing ends in you being needy and him treating you with a certain amount of tender loving care but this- this is new and more than a bit exciting.

"Did I tell you that you could talk, Austin?" Your words are almost spit out and Austin recoils just a hair before realizing that you want a more- pliant him, not a sassy one. "Should have known you'd want to run that pretty little mouth if I didn't put something in it."

Austin can't help the way a snicker escapes his mouth at your words. Despite knowing you want him in a certain way today there's something hilarious about watching you try and be mean because it's never been your forte. At least, that's what he thought until he feels the scrape of your teeth against his shoulder before you bite down. A yelp escapes his mouth unbidden as you pull away with a smirk. "Cat got my baby boy's tongue? Didn't expect me to sink my teeth into this tanned skin of yours?"

He tries to form words, tries to defend himself against your words even as your hands leave his upper arms and your nails slide down his chest, nails digging ever so slightly into his skin, forming a trail of red marks down his torso. "Y/N, babe." He can feel your pussy clenching around him just slightly, a tease of how you normally clench his cock when you cum or when you want to force him to cum first, knowing that your grip always can do him in. "I'm- I'm sorry, shouldn't- tease you. You're just taking what you need from me, aren't you?"

Another moment and he hisses at the sting of his skin almost breaking as you move your hands back up his torso more streaks of red skin following in your wake. "I am. I'm showing everyone that you're mine. That even if you have to cover all this with makeup that you're mine. Because you'd do anything for me if I asked. Just to make your mistress happy wouldn't you?"

His head lolls backward as his hips try and rut up against you, trying to gain more friction, to get you to move up and down on his cock. Your hands move to grab his hips in an effort to stop him. He groans at the bite of your nails against the skin of his hip before looking at you. "I would, but you- I need to move to give you things."

"Why would I want you to move?" You ask, moving to mouth at his clavicle before biting down, earning a sharp inhale a cry of pleasure from Austin. "Baby boy, we know when you're like this you can't use your cock. Can't push it in the way I need it to hit me. You know I need to control how this goes."

Austin growls, his hands moving to your hips, unable to stop or control himself to stop himself from doing it. "I think I'm pushing it in pretty well, ma'am."

You tilt your head and move to kiss up his jaw line, watching it tense under your ministrations before you lightly bite at the one part you always see flex when he's frustrated or trying to control himself. His inhale has you smirking as you kiss back down his neck. "Are you? Fuck me harder, baby boy. Make it so I can barely walk tomorrow. Or should I go find another better baby boy-" The words are swallowed by Austin's lips on yours as you moan into the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a battle you're not sure you want to win.

You can't help the way your nails dig in more as you keep a firm grip on his hips. If you want you could break the skin, tear little small lines against Austin's hips as retaliation for not being as pliant as you want. But you don't, you keep your scratches a little superficial but still lining his skin, the red igniting something almost feral in you. Austin Butler was yours to mark, yours to love and no one could take that away from you. No matter how much gossip you would hear otherwise, no matter how much other people might sneer at him dating someone below him, he was yours and no one else's but yours. Your pussy clenches at the realization as you start to drag your fingers against more of his skin, wanting to see him covered in your marks. You want to give him the trophies of your love as you ride him.

From the noises leaving his mouth, you're not the only one, you think he's trying to mutter something but it's muffled against your skin as he pulls you down into him, causing one scratch to actually break the skin, with you only realizing when you pull away and see blood on your torso. Finally your hands settle on his shoulder blades, clenching them and pushing Austin down into the bed as you ground down on his cock and he rutted up against you, both of you chasing your orgasm. One of his hands finally leaves your hip and moves between your legs, his fingers callused as ever from his random guitar playing rubbing against your swollen clit, earning a cry of want and pleasure from you.

You can feel him twitching inside and feel his body shaking just slightly as he opens his mouth to speak, the words slurred into some weird Californian and Southern accent. "Let me cum, ma'am. Wanna cum before you, please. I'll be-"

"Please, Aus." Because you're barely holding on yourself and the idea of his cum filling you with no worries due to your birth control has your own body shivering. He doesn't need to be told twice, his lone hand gripping your hip even tighter, his own nails making moon shaped imprints on it as he groans, cumming and rutting up into you as you follow suit. Normally you wouldn't but tonight is just different for both you, you think, especially after you flop onto him, chest heaving as you both try to catch your breath.

"You know one of them is bleeding, right babe?" He whispers as he strokes your hair, trying to remind you that you've covered him in marks.

"I need to patch you up, I know." You answer as you pull away, whining just a hair as he pulls out of you. Standing up and stepping away from him you take a second to admire your handiwork and smirk a little. You had done that to him, scratched him up like you were a feral cat.

At your smirk Austin looks at you with hooded eyes. "As hot as it is seeing you look that pleased with yourself at making me look like a scratching post, can you go grab the antibiotic cream and a bandage?"

"Sure baby boy. Won't even make you beg for it."

You do make him say please though.

taglist: @ab4eva, @butlersxbirdy, @blurredcolour, @eliseinmemphis, @purejasmine, @lindszeppelin, i really do need to organize who likes what better.

[atmilliways]

Wrong On The Money (19)

part 19 of ?? | 1018 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

He looks up from jamming a rag into a Molotov cocktail, both startled and completely unsurprised to see Eddie standing there. From the drawn look on his face, it must be time for Steve to finish that conversation from the woods.

I took a posting break on Sunday, but here's slightly more words than usual to make up for it.

19.

“Steve, a word in the RV?”

He looks up from jamming a rag into a Molotov cocktail, both startled and completely unsurprised to see Eddie standing there. From the drawn look on his face, it must be time for Steve to finish that conversation from the woods.

His eyes slide over to Robin. “You mind finishing these?”

She shoots him a flat look. “Oh, no, whatever will I do without your strong and manly assistance with these last two bottles?”

“Suffer?” Steve suggests brightly, and slaps both hands on his knees to lever himself up. The bites on his torso ache still, a constant background throb even after redressing them with a field kit from the War Zone. He waves towards the RV. “Lead the way, Munson.”

Following Eddie up the steps, he doesn't comment on the fact that Eddie’s boxers are riding up while his jeans, supported by barely any ass at all, are riding down. That would make it too obvious that he’s been looking. Noticing it a while ago while the guy was play-wrestling with Dustin doesn’t exactly help his case there.

Eddie’s energy is . . . strange, for him. He’s always a little restless, messing with his hair or fidgeting with his rings. But now there’s an unfamiliar, almost pained pinch to his mouth now, and the degree of fidgeting is astronomically high. Even for the guy who Steve once witnessed get detention for dropping his pencil too many times during a five question pop quiz.

As soon as the door shits behind them, Eddie wheels around and launches straight into it. “Why the fuck did you pay me, Steve?”

Those deep brown eyes settle on him, trying to bore into him to get at the truth by sheer force of will. Steve still has yet to decide for sure if he wants Eddie to look at him, but it’s happening now and it’s making his breath catch in his throat. (Even though he's pretty sure Eddie hates him on principle.) He fixes his own gaze on Eddie’s hands, twitching in agitation at his sides.

“I know it’s not because you didn’t want me to tell Robin where I saw you,” Eddie continues, “or because you had the money to throw around. So why?”

Steve frowns at the second part. “Who told you that?”

“Dustin said your dad cut you off a while ago. And some of the other kids confirmed when I asked.” Eddie’s hands flex, fingers curling hard into his palm. If there were more light in here, his rings would glitter in it; Steve’s never seen that before, because they’ve almost always met each other at night. “Answer the fucking question.”

“Alright.” Steve crosses his arms across his chest, which pulls at his injuries, but not so much that he can’t ignore it. “Dustin told me about your uncle being sick.”

“He. . . . He what?”

Steve meets Eddie’s shocked deer-in-the-headlights stare (fucking Bambi eyes that make him feel rooted where he stands) and shrugs. “Told you he’s a butthead. But, uh . . . yeah, he was all upset when he first found out, because he kinda lost his dad the same way.”

“You—” And there Eddie's hands go, flying up to his hair, one on top of his head as if to keep it from popping off and the other twisting into a clump of it. “You knew about that? This whole time?!”

Despite not having anything to hide, nothing he’s ashamed of in this, Steve’s first instinct is still to backpedal. Something about seeing Eddie all doe-eyed and squeaky and . . . he looks like he feels bad.

“Yeah?” Steve ventures, running a hand through his own hair, and worries a corner of his lip with his teeth. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to like the guy I was in high school, and I’m not asking you to. The bottom line is that it’s shit I’m trying to make up for now, and I knew you weren’t blackmailing me just to be a dick, so . . . yeah, I just sort of went with it.”

Eddie makes a sound of objection, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. 

“I gave you money. I helped somebody not die—" Steve ticks them off on his fingers as he goes "—and didn't even get another concussion doing it, which is a new personal record. Oh, and I figured out how to make ends meet. Which is something I really need to know, considering my job prospects since I didn’t go to college. Mutual, uh. . . .” Steve frowns, shrugs. “We both got something out of it. It’s not that big a deal.”

And the thing is, he means it. He walked into this knowing what he was getting into, accepting it right from the start.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Eddie shakes his head in disbelief and leans back against the kitchenette table like it’s a stool.

“You’re something else, Harrington,” he mutters, rubbing both hands over his face. “I can’t believe you’re a good dude, it flies in the face of everything I believe . . . and fucking yet.” Sighing, he peeks over the tips of his fingers with big, expressive eyes that, for once, aren’t glaring or squinting at Steve suspiciously.

The warmth creeps up into Steve’s face. It’s not exactly a standing ovation, but Eddie Munson isn’t known for doling out praise to jocks. 

It’s been a long day, and they’re in for an even longer night. There isn’t much time to process what’s happening. But he takes exactly one step forward, no plan in mind, only knowing that while Eddie isn’t looking he can move again—

“Steve,” Robin yells, with a bang on the side of the RV. “Your kids were playing with sharp spear-knives and had an accident, bring band aids stat!”

Sighing, he redirects to grab the first aid kit. When Eddie drags his hands down to open his eyes again, Steve offers a rueful half-smile. “We’ll finish this up after?”

He doesn’t actually wait for an answer, but it doesn’t look like Eddie has anything lined up to say, the way his jaw drops.

[vodika-vibes]

"I'm going to beat you so bad that you're going to wish I was 17."

LOOOOL WOLFFE YOU JUST SIGNED YOUR OWN DEATH WARRANT 🤣

And I don’t think Fox will be forgetting about that Shiny anytime soon either . . .

Lol, poor Wolffe, luckily he can handle it. The Shiny, however, cannot.

Also, tumblr was being dumb about this post and I don't know why.

This is getting ridiculous, you decide as you rearrange the Chancellor's schedule to make room for his Physical, and flat out cancel his meeting with Anakin. It has been weeks, weeks, since you've been able to be alone with Fox.

You tap your foot on the carpeted floor, and glower at the schedule. Everytime you try, that new guy keeps redirecting you to Thorn, or Thire, or Stone and it's getting to the point where you're going to beat the Shiny to death with your datapad if he doesn't stop.

"My dear," Your gaze snaps to the Chancellor, "It appears that my meeting with Anakin has been canceled."

"He had a Jedi thing he needed to do. Something with the kid he's trying to raise." You reply honestly, for once. "So that gives you an hour of free time this afternoon, if you wish to duck out early."

"I might just." He muses, "Thank you, my dear." He pauses and looks you over, "You seem stressed, young one, why don't you take the rest of the day off."

You glance at the schedule, all the Chancellor has left for the day is a series of appointments with doctors, so you nod. "I think that might be a good idea. Thank you sir." With that decision made, you power down your datapad, and you head towards the elevator.

You hit the button that takes you to the lowest levels, and you make a beeline for Fox's office. Only to get intercepted by that one, damned, shiny.

"Welcome back!" He says cheerfully, "Commander Thorn is available if you need to speak with someone."

"I need to talk to the Marshal Commander." You reply.

"I'm afraid Commander Fox is busy." The Shiny replies brightly as he tries to herd you towards Thorn.

"Is he in a meeting?"

"No ma'am,"

Your smile twitches slightly, "On a call?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then he can make time for me." You say flatly, as you turn to head towards Fox's office. You're stopped when a firm hand wraps around your wrist.

Your gaze drops to the hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, and then you look up at him, genuine surprise on your face. "The Marshal Commander has better things to do than talk to silly little girls."

The Bullpen is totally silent for a moment, and you see Thorn and Thire heading your way, while Stone hurries into Fox's office. And you smile nicely.

"CT-9735, correct?" You power your datapad back on, and switch to a different page, "How would you like to be reassigned? Let's see, the 104th and the 91st need people-"

"You don't have the authority to do that." His grip tightens around your wrist, and you don't wince from sheer force of will.

And then another hand wraps firmly around the Shiny's wrist, "Let them go." Fox's voice is very low and very, very angry.

"She seems to think that she can reassign me-"

"They speak with all of the authority of the Supreme Chancellor. If they want to reassign you, they more than have the authority to do so." Fox interrupts, and you're finally released, "What's more, at this point I'm considering reassigning you myself."

"Commander-"

"Personal Assistant Yuu has free reign to enter my office whenever they desire." Fox says flatly, "And if you have a problem with that-"

"She's a vain, shallow girl! She has no business bothering you-"

"There is nothing vain or shallow about them." Fox bites out.

"Sir, you don't know her-"

For a moment, you worry that Fox is going to just shoot him, but then his expression clears. He turns to you, a small little grin playing on his lips.

Stars, he's so handsome, you love him so much-

And then your train of though cuts off as he crashes his lips against yours, immediately setting one hand on your hip while the other lightly caresses the back of your neck.

You stand on your toes, your arms sliding around his neck as he lightly nips your lower lip, and you whine softly.

And when Fox breaks the kiss, you let out a groan of disappointment, but he just chuckles and presses his forehead against yours. "It's about time," You breathe out.

Fox grins at you, "I'm going back to my office. I'm taking them with me. The next person who tries to bother me is getting shot. Am I clear?"

Thorn has a wide grin on his face, "Crystal clear, sir! Have fun."

[docholligay]

The Things We Find in the Minster

Big churches, by and large, do very little for me. Don’t mistake me, the architecture is astouding given the time so many of them were built in, and the sheer aesthetic brilliance of Catholic (and “Catholic-lite,” though I’m sure somewhere a C of E congregant just died at the utterance) buildings and artifacts is breahtaking, but given my time freely, it is rare that I will opt to gawk at a large building with colored panes in the windows*. 

But this, in many respects, not my vacation, but my mother’s, and the York Minster was one of the small handful of things she directly indicated as a thing she’d like to do, and so, here we were, looking at a very old and very large building with many very fancy details. This sounds very dismissive, but it isn’t, in the same way that I would expect any given person to describe a tasting menu at a Michelin star just, “eating two bites of a lot of things but it takes three hours at least”. It’s not wrong, when you arent’ the audience. 

Anyhow, I have long been a believer that mostly only boring people are bored, or find things totally irreedeemable. There are a dozen games you can play with yourself, to force yourself to engage with a place on your own level, to make it have meaning to you. I determined myself to do that, to find the human at the core of it all, which is generally how things tend to appeal to me. 

Luckily, I actually didn’t have to work hard at all. To say I worked at it would be giving me more credit than I am due. 

Because the minster had Christmas trees, sponsored or decorated or both by local businesses and schools, each decorated a different way. Little paper plate doves by children, paper chains by travel agencies, bright brass ornaments from a local metalworks. And then my eyes fell on a simple tree with a few baubles and lights, but mostly a huge number of tags over the entire thing, with writing on them. 

It was from a funeral home. 

My mother loves me very much, and from time to time I also annoy her, in the way that love often allows another person to do, and I think I was tap-dancing on her last nerve as I sat there for twenty minutes, reading these tags that people had written to their loved ones now gone. 

What do we confess to the dead? What do we wish for them? What can you to someone that goes on a gift tag, that might be read by others, but, by my measure, will mostly be passed by? What would you say about the person you loved to the strange American picking through the boughs? 

“I hope they have whisky up there, Dad.” “We went to the Christmas fair without you, and it felt wrong.” “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last Christmas.” “I don’t know if I’ll ever love Christmas again.” “I put up the lights this year, because you would want me to.” “I promise to drink two mulled wines this year.” “I’ll lay a place at the table.” 

“I miss you.” 

I filed all these little things away, these sentences or two that hold a lifetime of love and pain and expectation. These moments that show what a teardrop migt look like in the glow of a Christmas light. 

What would I say, if I could say something to any of them? Would I? Could I be so brave as to leave that bare sentence out for anyone in the world to read? I knew what I would say, but not if I had the strength to say it.

I had a moment where I felt my heart in my throat, and pulled back to make a very intense study of a stained glass Jesus in the small chapel behind me. So I suppose the answer is no--I am, as ever, an emotional coward. 

I didn’t want to leave that little tree. I wanted to read it again, I wanted these people to know someone heard them, and felt that with them, if only for a moment. That they weren’t alone in this, that these things we confess to the dead are the most human thing of all, that death never feels settled no matter how long they’re gone, but also that it stops feeling quite so wrong to do something, or not do something, sometimes both at the same time.  Summer comes. It stops being so dark. 

All the monuments to queens and saints could not move me as much as the sad little tree that barely met my height. 

The benefit of remembering things in the strange and scattered way I do, with moments of intense clarity, is that I rarely worry about forgetting the feeling of a place. I will remember this tree, and the words they said. I don’t know if there is a way the people these messages were meant for can ever hear them, but I know they did not go out into the world for nothing. I, and the writers, were together for a moment. They sat across from me and told me an open secret. 

But Mom wanted to see the Roman crypt. We live our lives on the move. We touch each other through these words like the tip of a finger to a flame, drawn back quickly but the feeling remains. I clipped down the stairs to see some old rocks, because sometimes you put up the Christmas lights out of love, even if you don’t like them. 

*This is, actually, one of the reasons I truly love tour guides, is, if you find someone passionate about the time or space, they can make things you might not care about fantastically interesting to you. I was more interested in the Minster itself in the mere moments I overheard the guide speaking to schoolchildren than I was at any of the other spectacle. 

PS I bet this is not the kind of travel writing fucking anyone signs up for and I suppose for that I apologize. This is, in truth, the way I see the world, and it doesn’t do much to inform you about a place. York is a very neat city, with extreme “Ye Olde Angland” vibes, and the people in York are so kind that if you get lost, all you probably need to do is identify a Yorkshire accent and they will probably fucking TAKE you to your hotel. We had like three people ask what our bus stop was, or where we were going, because they were worried we wouldn’t know where to get off. The Minster is a very impressively large church and they are doing some fantastic restoration there. My favorite place in York was the Sam Smith’s pub where we got to having a whole conversation with this gal and her friends, one of whom, she warned us, was, “a total chav but harmless” and she actually knew where Montana was, and as we were all chatting, told one of her friends, “oh you could fit the whole country in it” so I have no idea why she knows that but I was impressed, first time I’ve encountered someone who both knew where it was and the fucking SCALE of it. She was great, her friends were fun, I was annoyed and embarrassed by the older American couple in our “pub pod” for lack of a better word that didn’t seem to want to engage with their warmth and friendliness. (But it gave us all a good topic of conversation about where in America is like North England and where is like South after they left ahaha)

[wrathofrats]

I blacked out in @divine-misfortunes DMs as usual because one of us mentioned the idea of murder Zeph so im here to bless you all with 1k of just zephyr being unhinged

Content warning for gore, body horror and graphic depictions of violence. This is just a description of zephyr killing someone, please be aware of what this is before you proceed

Anyways, hope you all enjoy <3

-

Zephyrs body has never worked correctly.

Their joints ache and scream when they move, their back burns some days when they use their cane to hobble through the halls. They feel pathetic and helpless on their bad days. Left to rely on ifrit for simple tasks even though it gnaws and pulls at them to be so practically helpless.

Zephyr gets somewhat pent up, over it. A sick craving for blood and gore that goes beyond making their stomach full. A carnal rage to rip into something, to play god with the life of something beneath them.

They want to see the life in someone’s eyes die, the fear as they beg them not to. They want to feel powerful and in control. Can’t help but to play with their food and draw it out for as long as possible.

They don’t often get prey in their grasp with no way for them to wriggle free, zephyr might as well have their fun with it.

It’s almost laughable how easy it is for them to find their victim.

They’re unassuming. Zephyr knows their reputation in the halls of the abbey, always has a bark harsher than their bite. With the cane or having to lean on ifrit to get through the corridors it’s really no surprise that they’re not seen as a threat.

It just makes it easier for them.

It’s really almost too easy.

Zephyr stands in wait in one of the halls late at night, paces a bit to seem like they’re busy. It’s almost entirely empty at this hour, they walk up and down for what feels like hours. Their mouth waters as they think about their plan, the metallic taste tingles in the bottom of their fangs.

The click of a sisters heels startles Zeph out of their crimson fantasies.

“Zephyr? What are you doing out at this hour?”

They don’t recognize her, almost feels bad but at their age the constant rotation of devotees for their cause makes it impossible to keep up. It won’t matter in a bit anyways.

“Can you help me push this door open? It’s just too heavy for me today”

The sibling smiles and gives a look that’s a bit too close to sympathetic. Pity almost, if it wasn’t for the nature of the interaction zephyr may be a bit more forgiving but it only really fuels their desire. It becomes a show of power rather than the need to feast.

She pushes open the door, standing in front of it to make sure it stays open while Zeph makes a show of hobbling through. She even asks if there’s anything else she can do while she’s still there. It’s a shame she’s so polite, zephyr almost feels bad.

The oxygen is soon ripped from her lungs so fast that she collapses to the floor in a vain attempt to force it back inside. She looks up in shock, mouth agape gasping for air.

It’s not enough to make her unconscious, just enough to incapacitate her because oh it wouldn’t be much fun if she wasn’t awake would it be?

The sibling tries to fight against zephs power to gulp in the oxygen. It doesn’t work, painful and useless and she struggles against herself not to panic completely when they see Zeph staring at them with a claw raised. Their eyes glaze over in black, a bloodlust invading their senses as their pupils blow wide.

She can’t fight, the lack if air combined with the sheer primal panic of not being able to breathe is enough to have her incapacitated, not able to do much more than writhe on the ground like a roach.

It’s entertaining to watch them struggle while she still doesn’t know what’s going on. The lack of oxygen isn’t enough to kill the poor prey, sadly enough for it, but it’s enough to finally steal away their consciousness as zephyr prepares to go in for their kill.

Again, it’s almost too easy.

A sharp claw runs down her sternum, digging in just enough draw blood, the sharp sensation enough to jerk her awake.

Zeph quickly rips away the air from their prey’s lungs again once they start to scream. It’s loud, piercing, almost annoying. Much easier to have them silently mimic trying to gasp for the air it must know it won’t receive.

The claw sinks deeper on the way down. Past the hard bone of the ribcage and truly ripping through the soft flesh of the stomach. Its face contorts violently as they slash through the fat and muscle. Can’t fight, only can watch and thrash their head as if maybe if it turned at the right angle it would be able to breath again.

The white hot searing pain that comes from its abdomen would take its breath away anyways, its lungs fight to expel the air from the feeling of being flayed open but desperately tries to open to take in the oxygen it hasn’t had in minutes now.

Zephyr completely disembowels the prey, something sickly powerful about seeing an organ work in a still living body. The way its stomach moves or seeing the underside of the bottom of its ribs move with each breath they’ve now allowed them to have back.

Their mouth starts to water again. They debate tasting their meal as they prepare it.

Zephyr clots their wounds closer so the steady river of blood stops trying to tempt them into losing the control they’ve fought so hard for.

The state of being in and out of consciousness is gagging torture, being in so much pain that it passes out before being brutally forced back into the hell state by zephyr allowing it to breath again.

It’s a horrific realization after a couple passes that zephyr is eating it alive.

The ghoul just stares at it low from its abdomen, covered in blood and entrails in their mouth, shredded at the ends from where they had been forcefully ripped from their confines. The blood that they haven’t clotted drips down their chin and over the skin that has yet to be cut open wide.

This is the best part, a true delicacy. Fleshy and easy to access but not enough to kill the prey in any fast amount of times it’s enough to savor it, really take in everything while it’s still alive.

The mercy only comes when Zeph is done eating. A slash to the throat is fastest, leave it wide open to lap up the blood until it stops twitching.

Zephyr is a contradicting sight. Prim and proper, all pale and delicate but covered in blood with a wild look in their eyes. Soaks through their shirt and drips down their arms and wrists from where it coats their hands.

Properly unhinged and brimming with a sick sort of glee.

A dark power, being able to kill and covered in their pretty blood.

proud and hungry.