#Demand for cladding systems

[wildflower-ramblings]

Surrender

You bite off more than you can chew

AKA you meet John Price at a bar and goad him into fucking you stupid

18+ MINORS DNI

This is basically porn without plot...except with plot hastily shoved in.

I just wanted to get railed by John Price 🤷‍♀️

I'm also going back to my roots - the first CoD fic I ever read was reader meeting John in a bar 🥺 it only feels right that my first full length smutty fic is the same

It's a long boi too - 5.7k

The air was thick with the press of bodies, heavy with the smell of sweat and sound of boisterous conversation. You weren’t drunk; far from it, but just tipsy enough for your inhibitions to be left at the door, rationality checked in like an unwanted coat. You weren’t even quite sure what you were celebrating any more – were you celebrating? – just that Jess had all but demand you come out and get drunk with her, and a combination of stress and frustration from your own life and worry for what she’d get up to without your presence had caused you to agree. Now, a couple of cocktails in, you were pleasantly buzzed enough that the presence of so many strangers around you brought excitement rather than apprehension. Jess seemed to agree, as she scanned the groups with an appraising eye, seemingly searching for something you were unaware of. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to find it – instead turning to you with eyes even less focused than your own, grabbing your hands and dragging you to the bar with the loud declaration that she needs another round. It’s far from packed inside, but you still have to jostle for a place at the bar, fighting not to be pushed aside by a group of barely legal lads who are clearly soon to be cut off, if they haven’t been already. Your attention is only half on them as you try to talk Jess out of ordering shots, reminding her of the what happened last time she had tequila, enough so that you don’t notice the boys getting rowdy until one is shoved straight into you. You’re unsteady already, so the slight change in balance (and your damned heels) makes you stumble right into a solid body you hadn’t noticed was there before.

“Easy there, love.” a deep voice says, something about the tone making you feel hot all over, a fact not helped by the very large hand that’s splayed across your back. You look up, mouth already open to apologise, only to be rendered speechless.

Fuck me, he’s hot.

The bar is a regular haunt for them; far enough from base to be free of the fresh-faced privates with more testosterone than thoughts in their brains, sweet-talking pretty little things with tales of bravado that never left the tarmac; yet close enough that even the most impetuous of patrons know better than to bother the men in the corner with war in their eyes. It’s a good place to decompress, to shake off the weight of the latest deployment and attempt to settle back into something more domesticated, better suited to civilian life. Each new mission weighs heavier on John, the weight of every order he receives, every call he has to make dragging him further and further from something that can be tamed. This brief respite – the low light of a dingy bar, away from the prying eyes and rigidity of base, the buzz of alcohol in his system – is the only respite he allows himself, the closest he comes to allowing his iron-clad restraint to slip.

It’s busier than usual tonight – he thinks he saw some poster advertising some band earlier in the evening, and figures these must be the remnants of that crowd, already well on their way to intoxication. He thinks he should leave, head back to his office on base and fish out the bottle he keeps for best – and worst – days, and leave the younger men to their prowl; he can already see Kyle eyeing the prospects with the same calculating gaze he uses for missions, and he knows it won’t be long until Johnny spots some pretty thing at the bar and beelines for them with the excuse of buying another round. Simon had long since disappeared; though whether he’d decided he’d had enough or simply gone out for a smoke it was always hard to tell. But somehow, John found himself dragged to the crowded bar alongside Kyle with the promise of one last round, grumbling but unwilling to deny the younger man. The sergeant is in the middle of ordering when John feels someone stumble into him, and instinctively he reaches out to steady them, arm around their waist before he looks down, only to be met with a pair of eyes that immediately has him breathless.

Yeah, he can stay for another round.

You’re not sure to be grateful to Jess or curse her for knowing you so well, as she takes one look at the man whose arms you had – literally – fallen into, and seems to be determined to set you up. Either that, she’s trying to keep you occupied so she can hook up with his friend, who smoothly introduces himself as Kyle, and invites the two of you to join their table whilst you’re still stumbling over your words. You find yourself pressed into a booth between the man whose arms you’d fallen into (“John,” he’d introduced in that same deep voice, and you’d almost melted there and then), and a friend of theirs (“Sergeant John MacTavish, ma’am, call me Johnny.” he’d said – an attempt at flirtation that may have worked if you hadn’t already met the other John first). Both Johnny and Kyle were flirts big enough to rival Jess, and conversation was easy between your group as the two younger men attempted to one-up each other with increasingly wild tales of military antics; interrupted occasionally by John’s deep, gravelly voice in your ear, either calling them out or backing up their stories, though mostly he chose to remain silent, content to simply watch his mates flirt shamelessly.

Despite the attention of two very attractive and very interested men, you find yourself drawn to their companion, the one who isn’t fawning over you, but instead sits back and watches you, eyes dark as they catalogue every movement you make, trailing over the exposed parts of your skin when he thinks you’re not paying attention. At some point, your hand had come to rest on his burly thigh, far too high to be innocent, and despite his initial shock he hadn’t moved away.

You can tell he’s interested – knew from the first moment his eyes met yours at the bar, the way his pupils dilated and his gaze lingered on your skin – but something is holding him back, keeping him from indulging in what you both want, despite your obvious flirtations. You wonder if it’s part of military training, something drilled into them about keeping calm under pressure, that gave him his iron-clad will.

You wonder what it will take to break it.

You don’t know if Jess or Johnny who suggests it – your brief interactions with the rambunctious Scotsman had taught you that he was eerily similar to your best friend in his ability to seek out trouble – but somehow you’re coerced into the shots Jess had wanted earlier. You close your eyes as you tip the shot back, not noticing the way John’s eyes follow the curve of your neck when your head tips back, the bob of your throat as you swallow, his mind going to much different scenarios. You do notice his chuckle when you grimace at the taste of the alcohol, and you pout at him.

“Not going to join us?”

“I’ll stick to whisky, thank you.” he says, tipping his glass in acknowledgement.

“Probably a good idea. This stuff is foul, I’m not sure I’ll ever get the taste out of my mouth.”

“Here.” He holds the glass of amber liquid towards you. “This’ll help.”

You’re suddenly struck with an idea – you lean in, your eyes locked on his as your lip wraps around the glass, swallowing. A stray drop catches on your lip, and without breaking eye contact you flick your tongue out to catch it, enjoying the way John’s eyes follow the motion. You think you can hear someone wolf-whistle in the background, but you can’t find it in you to care, not with the way John is looking at you – like he could devour you whole.

It’s not long before you and John are the only ones left – Johnny having made an excuse about being tired, though it’s more likely he was sick of being the third (fifth) wheel; and Jess and Kyle having not-so-subtly disappeared to the ‘bathroom’ one after the other. Not that you can blame her – you would let John fuck you in the dirty bar bathroom, if he’d only ask. Unfortunately for you, he’s too much of a gentleman, refusing to allow you to walk the five minutes to your flat alone, even amongst your half-hearted protestations that you would be fine. You can’t find it in you to be truly upset, not when every part of you is humming with need, desperate to keep him in your presence.

The walk is mostly quiet – you’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but yours is occupied with with ways to get him inside your apartment, to convince him that you want this as much as he does. You barely even notice that you’ve arrived until you spot the familiar bright blue door.

“This it?”

“Yeah.” you bite your lip, suddenly unsure. Despite the obvious attraction, and your rather blatant flirtations, he’s given you no indication that he intends to take things any further. You’re not sure how to ask.

“I’ll walk you up.” his tone leaves no room for argument, and a part of you hopes it’s because he doesn’t plan to leave. Your mind swirls with with possibilities, both of dragging him into your bed, and of him leaving you at the door without a word, never to see you again.

You’re distracted as you pull out your keys, so much so that you forget about the dodgy step – the same hole that had been there since before you moved in, and had probably been there since the nineties – and immediately stumble, keys slipping from your grip. John is beside you in an instant, deftly plucking them from the air before you’ve even noticed you’ve dropped them, his hand on your waist to steady you.

“Careful, love.” he rumbles, dangerously close to your ear. He’s once again in your space, taking up all your senses. You want to keep him there as long as possible, and you’re fairly certain he wants that too, as he doesn’t hand you the keys, and he makes no move to pull away.

“Thank you, John.” you breathe, placing a hand on his thick bicep and squeezing lightly, and you can see the effect it has on him. His eyes darken, and his grip on your waist tightens just slightly.

“Don’t do that, love.”

“Why not?” you keep your voice low, unwilling to break whatever fragile bubble you’ve built around the two of you, the one where nothing else exists but you. The one where he’s so close to giving in, to giving you both what you want.

“I’m not what you want.”

“And how do you know that?” you murmur, letting your hand brush gently from his arm, across his broad shoulders, to rest on his chest, right over his heart. You can almost imagine you can feel it hammering under your touch. “Tell me you’re not interested and I’ll stop.”

“You don't know me, love. Trust me, you don’t want me.”

“You didn’t say you’re not interested.” You say, stepping closer to him, so close you swear you can see the conflict playing out behind his eyes. You lean up, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear. “You trying to scare me off? Or are you afraid you can’t handle me?”

His jaw twitches, clenched tight. Fingers clenching around around the keys, white-knuckled.

“Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t touch you as he follows you up the stairs to your apartment, but you can feel the weight of his stare on you, heavier than any hands you’ve had on your body before. Neither of you speaks – the tension is drawn so tight that you’re afraid the slightest sound will cause it to snap, and you’re not sure if you’re more frightened or excited by the prospect.

Your hands tremble as they try to fit the key into the lock, and suddenly his hand is covering yours, steadying it; but the electricity it sends through your skin nearly causes your knees to buckle. Almost as if he can read your thoughts, his other hand goes to your hip, his body a wall of muscle behind you, so close but not touching, almost as if to say fall if you have to, I’ll catch you.

You’re only too eager to take him up on the offer.

It’s only when the door clicks shut behind him that you turn to look at him. His broad frame almost dwarfs the door, but your entire world was drawn down to just his eyes; the bright blue is gone, replaced with a dark storm that under other circumstances would be terrifying, but here in the low light of your apartment it causes a thrill to go through you, heat pooling in your belly. You feel simultaneously powerful and fragile – a siren luring the sailor in, only to find you’ve been caught his net the whole time, your voice holding no more power over him than a ship has over the ocean.

It’s then that his control snaps; stepping forwards, he grips the back of your neck like he’s scruffing a stray cat, and drags you into an open-mouthed kiss. His other hand splays across your back, pressing you close with no way to escape his grip. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, unable to do anything but surrender. All of your senses are taken over by him – the warmth of his hands even through your clothes, the taste of whisky on this tongue, the scent of something masculine and faintly smoky overwhelming you until you couldn’t think of anything but him.

When he finally pulls away you’re breathless, staring up at him with glassy eyes, leaning into his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. It might very well be; you feel so weightless you might float away, the warmth of his hands being the only things keeping you tethered. You let out a disappointed wine when he drops his hands and steps back from you, looking pleased with himself at the desperate noise. If you’d been any more lucid you might have noticed the faint growl in his voice, the only sign that he was just as affected as you were.

“Clothes off. Now.”

All your earlier bravado is gone; you can only scramble to obey with an eagerness unmatched by even the most well trained soldiers under his command. And he knows it too; there’s a knowing glint in his eyes as his lips curl in the hint of a smirk, arms folding across his chest as he watches you kick off your shoes, reaching for the zipper of your dress.

“Eager thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and you find yourself nodding reflexively, letting the dress fall to the ground, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties. His hands find your waist as you unclasp your bra, his lips at the shell of your ear, voice low and sending shivers down your spine. “Just need someone to tell you what to do, is that it?” His lips just barely brush against your skin, trailing a path across your jaw, as one hand skims up your side to your chest, palm cupping your breast, and you tangle your hand in his hair in a desperate attempt to keep his lips on your skin. “Need someone to make you behave?” He pulls back to watch your face as he gives your breast a squeeze, tugging at your peaked nipple and sending a jolt straight to your core.

“Yes.” You breathe, and his mouth is on yours again, tongue sweeping into your mouth and swallowing your gasp. His hands are everywhere, kneading at the swell of your breasts and tracing the curve of your spine, slipping beneath your panties to grip at the curve of your ass, pressing your hips against forward against the unmistakable bulge in his pants. Your hands leave his hair move to tug your underwear off, but you’re quickly stopped by his hands gripping yours, bringing them to his lips.

“Allow me.” He murmurs, sinking to the ground. His hands are delicate as they grip the waistband of your panties, dragging them slowly down as his lips follow, brushing kisses against the soft flesh of your hip, thigh, your knee; getting further and further from where you want them. He may be on his knees before you, but you’re acutely aware that he is still in control; each kiss to your bare skin perfectly calculated to bring you closer to madness, ignoring his own almost painful arousal. His lips trail back up your legs, and you can feel yourself growing wetter as he gets closer and closer to where you need him most – only to ghost right over your pussy, his lips instead moving to your hips, your stomach, everywhere but where you want them. You whine, hands tugging at his hair, try to bring his mouth where you want it. Instead, he continues up your body, until his lips brush the underside of your breast, before wrapping around a peaked nipple and sucking. You all but collapse into his arms with the jolt of pleasure it sends through your body and he chuckles lowly, standing to place a brief kiss to your lips.

“Bedroom, sweetheart.”

“Second door-” you barely have time breathe out before you’re swept off your feet, clinging to his shoulders as he swiftly locates your bedroom. Barely a beat passes between him laying you on the bed and fitting his body over yours, lips capturing your own, and fitting one large thigh in between your legs. He grips your hips and guides them over the rough fabric, his own arousal pressing into your hip. You can tell already that it’s going to be impressive, and your hand reaches down to grip him through the fabric, desperate to feel him.

With a groan he pulls away from your lips, gripping your wrist and pulling it off him as he looks down at you with pupils blow so wide they’re nearly black. For a moment you think he plans to fuck you just like this; you laid out bare, and him still fully clothed, and that just won’t do. You need to feel his skin against yours, need to be able to touch and kiss and bite. You impatiently paw at his shirt, and he separates from your lips just long enough to remove it, giving a breathy chuckle at your impatience. He doesn’t give you any time to admire him, as he moves down the bed, nudging your legs apart with his shoulders and settling between them. You think you should be self-conscious, having him so close to your most intimate parts, but the hungry look in his eyes only has you getting more worked up.

“Look at you…” he breathes, and you’re not sure it’s meant for you to hear. You shift impatiently, desperate for some kind of touch, anything, needing him to do something. His eyes flicker up to yours, amused.

“Need something?” He says, placing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, so close but so far from where you want him.

“Please, John-” you whine, hips bucking. Slowly he kisses up your thigh until he’s at your folds, so close-

His nose brushes against your clit and you jolt, fingers curling into the sheets. He’s barely even touched you, yet you’re so wound up that the slightest touch sends electricity through you. And then his mouth is on you, tongue rolling over your clit, and you arch off the bed with an obscene moan. A broad hand is splayed out on your stomach, holding your hips still, as he other hand grips your hip with almost bruising force to keep you against his mouth. His tongue laves through your folds, dipping into your entrance just slightly before rolling over your clit, and back again, your hips rocking into his face with every stroke, frantically chasing your pleasure. It’s devastating how fast he has you reaching your peak, the warmth pooling in your belly as your hand cards through his hair, walls clenching around his tongue as he fucks it into you, your whole body on fire. And then he wraps his lips around your clit and you break, eyes rolling, screaming his name as body tries to curl in on itself, thighs clamping around his head in a way you’d think would be painful, if you’d been able to think at all. You feel your orgasm in your whole body, every inch of you drawing tight before you melt, boneless and heavy, yet still not sated.

He kisses up your body slowly, giving you time to come down from your high. His hips slot between yours as he draws you into a slow kiss, letting you taste yourself on him as he grinds his clothed bulge against you with the same languid pace as his kiss. You’ve just come, but you want more – want all of him. You need to feel him inside you.

“Want you-” you whine, hands moving for his belt, clumsily tugging at it with clumsy hands, still shaking from your orgasm.

“’m getting there, sweetheart.” he groans into your mouth, gripping both your hands in one of his to try and move them away. “Patience.”

“No.” you whine, hand slipping under the waistband of his pants, reaching down to cup his length through his underwear. His movements still immediately, head dropping to your neck as his hips buck into the warmth of your hand.

“Brat.” he nips at your jaw, before he pulls away from you and moves to stand. You open your mouth to complain but are quickly silenced by the sight of his hands at his belt, thick fingers undoing the buckle with ease before impatiently shoving his pants and underwear down simultaneously, allowing his cock to spring free. You’re not sure what happens afterwards, too focused on the image of John’s large hand gripping his flushed length. He looks big even in his own hand – you want to know what he’ll look like with your smaller ones wrapped around it. You’re not sure you’ll be able to cover it completely even with both your hands, but god do you want to try. Your mouth practically waters as you rise up off the bed, reaching towards him, but he stops you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Lay back, sweetheart.” He growls, stills fisting his aching cock as he crawls back over you, pushing at your shoulder gently to force you down. But you resist, too focused on getting your mouth on him. You want to know how he’ll taste, how heavy he’ll will feel on your tongue, how wrecked he'll sound when he comes down your throat.

“Please, John, let me-” your hands are on his shoulders as you give him your best pleading eyes, licking your lips as you try to move on top of him. “Please let me suck your cock.”

“It’s alright-” he starts, but you silence him with a kiss, tongue licking into his mouth, giving him just a taste of what you want to do with his cock.

“I want to.” you breathe when you pull away, enjoying the heady look in his eyes as he gives in.

He allows you to push him back, to settle on your knees in front of him, but his eyes never leave yours. His tangles loosely in your hair, not tight enough to pull, but firm enough to remind you who’s in charge.

Your eyes remained fixed on his as take him into your hand, giving him a few languid strokes, before leaning down and letting your tongue flick over the head.

You watch as his breathing stutters, as his jaw twitches in what you’ve learnt is an attempt to restrain himself, to keep some semblance of control, as your hand continues to work his cock, your tongue swirling over the head and lapping at the beads of precum there.

You don’t want him controlled. You want to see him break.

Without warning you wrap your lips around his cock, taking him as deep as you can. You hear him swear above you, his hand tightening almost painfully in your hair as he fights the urge to buck his hips into the warmth of your mouth. You pull back, swirling your tongue around his tip, before bobbing your head again, taking him deeper, as your hand strokes what you can’t fit in your mouth. The noise he makes is positively sinful, half way between a moan and a growl, and you want to hear him make it again. You pull off his cock with a swirl of your tongue, but this time your mouth trails down his length, eventually reaching his heavy balls, and suck.

“Fuck.” He growls. With a grip just on the right side of painful, he pulls you off him, dragging your face up to his and meeting your lips in a bruising kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, uncaring of the taste of himself as he guides you onto your back, hips slotting between yours, cock hot and heavy where it rests on your stomach. With his cock so close to where you need it, you think he might finally fuck you, but instead his hand trails down to cup your mound, fingers trailing through the arousal that’s gathered there, bringing it up tow swirl around your clit. You’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and the faint touch has you gasping, hips bucking into him, desperate to be filled.

“Have to get you ready, love.”

“’m ready now- please, John-”

“Patience.” he repeats his earlier words, thumb pressing lightly on your clit as his finger teases your entrance. “Gonna be a tight fit sweetheart, gotta stretch you out.” Just the thought of his cock bullying its way inside you has you clenching around nothing, and you think he can see it on you, as he teases a thick finger inside you, groaning at the way your walls clamp down around him. He adds a second finger, palm grinding against your clit, working you over into another orgasm with ease. You come with a cry, walls clenching around his fingers, and he groans at the sensation, imagining how you’ll feel coming around his cock. The thought alone is enough to have pulling his fingers from you, using the wetness on his fingers to fist his cock as he lines the weeping head with your slit. The feel of his tip pressing into you has you clinging to his shoulders, and he grips your leg, wrapping it over his hip, opening you further and allowing him to slip in deeper.

It’s achingly slow, the way he feeds his cock into you, as though he wants you to feel every single inch, every ridge and vein. By the time he bottoms out you’re nearly mad with anticipation, nails biting into his back as you try to force him to move, to give you some kind of relief.

“Fuck, sweetheart-” he groans at the sensation, fighting the urge to rut into with abandon, desperate to draw this out until he can feel you cumming.

You roll your hips up to meet his, desperately seeking the pleasure he’s withholding from you. But he denies you; keeping his thrusts just slow enough to keep you teetering on the edge without tipping over, driving you closer and closer to madness with each stroke, until you’re a sobbing, babbling wreck; begging him to please let you come.

“You wanna come, sweetheart?” He drawls, nosing along your jaw, his thumb just barely ghosting over where you need it.

“Yes.”

“Gonna have to ask nicer than that.” he teases, cock dragging against your walls in a way that's just shy of enough.

“Please, John, I – I’m so close – please, I –” you babble, half delirious with pleasure. Despite your previous orgasms, you need it, need him.

“Good girl.” he all but growls, thumb pressing down on your clit. That’s all it takes; you crash, white hot pleasure thrumming through every inch, clenching around his cock in attempt to drag him over the edge with you.

But he pulls out suddenly, cock slapping against your twitching, overstimulated clit as he squeezes the base to try and stave off his own orgasm. He taps it against your clit once, twice more more, enjoying the way you moan and writhe away from the contact, before he flips you over, dragging your limp and pliant body onto your knees. You can just barely manage to hold yourself up as he sinks his cock into your tight heat once more, the new angle hitting something inside you that has your eyes rolling back. The grip he has on your hips is is bruising as he sets a much faster pace, fucking into you as though you’re nothing more than a pretty little toy for him to use. It’s all you can do to grip the sheets but your head and try to keep yourself upright as he chases his own relief.

It’s not enough for John, however – if you can still hold yourself up, he hasn’t fucked you thoroughly enough. With one hand gripping your hips, his other arm against your chest and gripping the base of your throat like a collar, he drags your body up to meet his, your head dropping back onto his shoulder as his cock manages to hit even deeper inside you. Still not satisfied, he drags his fingers over your clit harshly; still sensitive, he has you on the precipice of another orgasm remarkably fast.

“I can’t- John-” Your hand goes to his where it fits over your cunt; you grip it tightly, but make no attempt to pull him away.

“One more, sweetheart. Let me feel you.” His lips ghost across your neck, his other hand kneading at your breast, and the combined sensations are enough to push you over the edge.

You come so hard you can’t even scream, your vision turning white and you collapse forward, the weight of John’s body following you, pinning you to the mattress. You barely register the feeling of John’s release shortly after, groaning as his hips stutter, as though trying to fuck his come deeper into you. He has just enough sense to roll off you slightly before he collapses fully, though his body is still a comforting weight tethering you to reality. Everything feels fuzzy, your limbs heavy. Even the brush of his breath against your neck lights up your skin like a livewire. You’re not sure how long the two of you lie there; with his warm body pressed against yours, and the gentle caress of his hands over your sweat-slicked skin, you feel lulled into an almost dreamlike state. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or hours before you feel his lips on your shoulder, his body pulling away from yours. You moan at the sensation of him slowly drags his cock from your sensitive walls, his cum already beginning to leak out. You barely even register him roll you onto your back, parting your thighs and settling between them, his eyes already dark as they fix onto your cunt.

“Fuck, that’s a pretty sight.” He says, mostly to himself, watching the pearly liquid dripping from your folds. He swipes his fingers through your folds, collecting what’s leaked out, before he stuffs them back inside of you.

“Look so pretty full of me, sweetheart.” You’re not sure if it’s the sound of his voice, his words, or his fingers inside you, but you can’t help but moan and clench down around him. He shifts his body so he can capture your lips, fingers still inside you. He kisses you languidly, tenderly, like he hadn’t just fucked your brain to liquid and left you boneless.

“You broken, love?” You can only weakly shake your head no, eyes still closed. “Don’t tell me you’ve had enough already.” You slowly open your eyes, finding him looking down at you with eyes dark, a smug look on his face like he’s won some game you weren't aware you were playing. Despite how tired you are, how blissed out you feel, you find yourself shaking your head, as if unwilling to disappoint him.

“Good. I’m not done with you yet.”

You wake in the morning with a pleasant ache between your thighs, your limbs still loose and boneless as you melt back into the mattress. You’re vaguely aware of the lack of another body in bed with you, but your limbs feel too heavy to move to check. You think you hear the sound of movement in your apartment, though it could just be your neighbours – either way, you’re too comfortable to care. It’s only when you hear the sound of footsteps approaching that you lazily open your eyes, just in time to see John, shirtless, broad chest and arms on full display as he places a steaming mug on your bedside table. You can’t help but admire him all over again in the golden morning light, eyes trailing over the expanse of his shoulders, remembering how he’d draped your legs over them whilst he buried his face in your cunt; the thickness of his fingers when he buried them inside you.

“Mornin’, love.” He leans over you, his hand gently cradling your face, and you rise up to meet his lips. It’s devoid of last night’s urgency, but still leaves you just as breathless and hungry. Your grip tightens as he moves to pull away, and you follow him, trying to bring his lips back to yours.

“Needy little thing.” He chuckles, pushing you back into the mattress and settling over you, his hand a solid weight on your throat as he tilts your head to look up at him. “Didn’t get enough last night?”

You say nothing, simply draw him back into a kiss, legs falling open as you allow him to settle between them.

[wonryllis]

HER VANILLA GREED (M) park sunghoon.

❛ 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌.

featuring. enemy!park sunghoon who gets a taste of you and now he can't get enough, consumed with greed that can never be satiated─ albeit barely just quenched for a while. directory?

warnings. smut!! kinda dom!sunghoon feeling crazy. enemies pouncing on e/o, prn with bits of plot, rough sex, unprotected (wrap your willy pls), swearing, mentions of multiple acts.

part of, hold your breath event. prompts include “that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.” & fucking someone so good that they struggle to kiss you back. ( wordcount, 944. )

JZLYN notes ╱ hope y'all enjoy it! & if you do please leave comments & feedbacks it keeps me going! & lastly please reblog!!

you loved vanilla and sunghoon loved your vanilla.

it's uncharacteristic of him to feel this way for his enemy, definitely; but after that one time he ate you out for a heated game of dare or drink, he has just gotten addicted. so so addicted that every time he catches a glimpse of you around the house he cannot help imagining the taste of you on his tongue, the waft of your scent dancing edges on him.

it was an accident─ a one time mistake if he may say. and how it turned into a regular thing? he has no recollection of it. the only thing he remembers are the spontaneous blowjobs in the kitchen to imprudently eating you out on the couch at any given chance you both got. which is whenever considering you live together.

oral had been the go to, for the past two months. no matter how turned on you both got, you just never threaded that line of linking more closely. making out and grinding against each other, sliding his cock against your panty clad pussy, jerking him off while he fingerfucked you; moaning into each other's mouth as you finished. but never hitting it in.

but tonight something changed─ something triggered.

a night together at one of the newly opened bars downtown. shots of alcohol in your systems and raging jealousy at others pawing for your attention away from each other. it was mutual, the way you both grew desperate and covetous. like you owned the other, your prized─ no, unwarranted possession.

“that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.” sunghoon rasps as he slides in, inch by inch, breath by breath. calloused hands gripping the tender skin of your waist, holding you up and pulling you closer by your hips. your legs wrapped around him like a cage of lust.

the veins in his cock throb with your warm cunt engulfing him. tight, slick─ and fuck it's full of your vanilla smearing all over his throbbing and twitching length.

mind a big mush, sweating dripping along sunghhon’s silver chain dangling between your thighs as he bottoms out. hissing out a line of curses at the feeling, his grip on you tightening.

“god your pussy’s insane─ can't believe ‘was gonna miss out on this,” sunghoon mutters out in a hushed whisper, words tumbling out in a single breath as he tries to compose himself. but it's so hard. his cock is so hard and keeping himself from completely ravaging you for his pleasure is making it even harder.

the sight of you is criminally arousing. your hands clutching at sheets above your head, dress tugged down and barely hanging low above your hips. skin flushed with sweat and your breaths coming out in soft anticipating gasps while you wait for him to start moving. it's atrocious how he does not feel disgusted at the even the glimpse of his enemy laying bare and inviting and with his cock inside her.

“park, move─” you let out a demanding whine. wiggling your hips against his balls in a futile attempt with his hands holding you still.

“you don't gotta tell me,” it does not take him a second to start thrusting. pulling all the way out till the tip and pushing back in a rough, brutal and almost hurtfully bruising smack. it's always been annoying to hear you call him ‘park’ instead of his name, triggering irritation above all. but something about the way it slips and rolls off your pretty little pink tongue right now just turns him on so bad, it's sickeningly annoying. it's sickeningly lewd.

sunghoon's pace gradually increases along with his sheer desperation to somehow want you more and more even when he's balls deep in you and painfully holding in the bursts of cum threatening to gush out amid each thrust.

his hands move to cup your cheeks, squeezing your lips into a pucker before he leans down to devour them in a messy and sloppy kiss. one that you can barely keep up with. mouth falling open in wild moans and your back arching so prettily into him, he can feel the hair on your skin standing, the slight trembles passing over you and heat emanating off in quick shivers.

it drives him crazy. your drooling reflection in his eyes as he pulls away to get off at the view of you struggling to remain lucid. his thumb skimming onto your wet glossed lips and smearing it over to your cheek.

you stick your tongue out at his touch, eyes closed in a sensual lick against his fingers and sunghoon loses it. grabbing your hair to tug your head back as he starts pounding into you, crazed and frantic.

“fuck─ why do you have to be so goddamn hot, fuck fuck fuck─ this is─ fuck─ ridiculous.” he grunts out in shuddering and shaky breaths. his head thrown back and mouth fallen open alike. he still cannot believe he's fucking you, and absolutely not how fucking sinfully good it feels. his enemy and roommate, two no-zones: crossed at once. and if that was not enough already, he did not have the patience to slip on a condom. and fuck does it feel like you'll milk him out dry.

“shit i can't stand looking at you─ you're gonna make me cum so fast,” each drag, each glide so torturously pleasurable.

“then cum. fill me up,” you mumble out, managing to graze your fingers along his chest and down to his lower abs. sunghoon groans at those words, his stomach churning and clenching up at the sensations.

he's gonna turn your vanilla into vanilla whipped cream he swears.

reg taglist. @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @shawnyle @enhastolemyheart @aaa-sia @criminalyun @oddracha @satan-223 @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @jayjw16enxp @laylasbunbunny @riribelle @ancnymcnzjy

event taglist. @sickntrd @matchacake2 @heebear @lostwonderwall @sunshine-skz @engenesengenes333 @soobheehoon @isagistar @heesky @jaeyungxrl

[ozarkthedog]

𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

summary: dbf!joel video calls you during a meal with your parents.

warnings: 18+ mdni. toxic dbf!joel miller x afab!reader. unspecified age gap. daddy kink. tit play. dirty talk. male masturbation. no beta. w.c: 641

author's note: spawned from the "who's your daddy?" clip and @mrsmando mentioning toxic dbf!joel. 😘

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Doin' the right thing pickin' up," Joel praises with a velvety tone as he moves his phone to rest in front of his chest.

The video screen displays his tan, aging face, slicked-back gray hair, and trimmed silver whiskers. He's reclined in a chair wearing a white t-shirt under a gray flannel button-up like he just got home from a job. "Be a good girl 'n show me those pretty tits."

Your eyes bug at his command. Thank god you stepped out onto the deck and shut the slider.

"Joel, not now. Please." You'd been eating dinner with your parents, and now you're on a video call with your dad's best friend, who's asking to see your tits.  

Not that he hasn't already seen them and every other inch of you.

"C'mon now, show me wha's mine," he pesters with a clipped, unwavering command.

You nervously peer through the glass slider and into the kitchen, praying your parents don't come outside before lifting your top and showing the older man your bare breasts.

"Thatta girl." A deep, tinny groan spills from the tiny speakers and nestles in your lower belly. Your cunt throbs at the sound. Sticky arousal leaks into the gusset of your panties as you squeeze your breasts together between your arms, propping them up for him.

"Jus' what I needed," he praises with ravenous eyes locked on the lower part of the screen, shamelessly drinking in the image of your naked chest. "Wanna get my hands on those fuckin' pretty tits. Suck 'n bite 'em until you're cryin'."

A chilly gust blows through the trees and races up your spine, making your skin prickle under Joel's heated stare. He darkly hums as your nips pucker and stands at attention for him. "Looks like someone likes bein' a slut."

Your chest heaves, breasts lightly bouncing as an intense wave of lust sends shocks rippling through your system. His body shifts, and you hear the click of his belt before his left, flannel-clad arm begins moving up and down out of frame. A gravelly moan pours from his pouty lips and drips through the speakers straight into your quivering cunt.

"Go on, give 'em a pinch."

You acquiesce, giving into his demand and your own greedy perversion, and palm one of your breasts. Your flesh prickles as you playfully circle a pert bud and lightly pinch it, letting a soft mewl tumble into the night.

"Who's your Daddy?" He asks with a throaty groan; the muscles in his neck pulse under his freckled, tan skin as he jerks his cock.

Your cheeks flame at his words, and you can't help but pathetically whimper.

"C'mon, say it, or else I'm comin' over," he states, cocking his head with a deadly smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. "'N we both know it'd kill him to see what a lil' whore his daughter turned into."

A gasp tears from your parted lips. He wouldn't-

"Best do as you're told, pretty girl. Don' wanna disappoint me now, do ya?"

Your eyes flutter, and you nervously lick your bottom lip, making it shine under the deck light.

"Daddy."

Syrupy slick flows freely from your cunt, drenching your panties as you softly chant the word "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy" over and over to the older man. Your cunt pulses in time with his movements, wishing he was fucking his cock into you instead of his fist.

He jerks his length greedily, faster and faster, until his neck flushes like a golden sunset, his eyes pinch tight, and he comes with a hoarse growl between gritted teeth.

Ropes of white land on his heaving chest, staining his button-up. The sight makes you lightheaded, and you fall back against the side of the house, breathless.

"Next time, I'm leavin' my mark on 'em," he gruffly declares before abruptly ending the call, leaving you to stare at your pathetic, wanton reflection in the murky black screen.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[starheavenly]

Hello again! I’m so thrilled you enjoyed my ramblings! And oof, Ratchet and Drift feeling Locket’s spark go out? Hit me right in the feelings!

Okay, okay, I bring you another idea! More angst/comfort (?) I know it might not make sense, but frag it, let’s make believe for a moment.

Imagine if the alternate timeline AUs were somehow transported into the original universe? (You can decide which one, or maybe could be for Ratchet, Autobot!Locket and for Drift Decepticon!Locket. I’m not sure on how to elaborate for the individual versions)

———————————————————————

At first, no one understands what’s happening. The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible. It’s not until they see them that everything unravels.

An alive Locket.

Their sparkling—whole, vibrant, and unmistakably there. Safe, sound, and standing in their old, original colors, walking the halls of the Lost Light without a care in the world. The sight and moment shakes them all to their very cores.

————————————

[Now, let’s focus on Locket’s perspective for a second.]

Locket was having a relatively normal day aboard the Lost Light. The corridors hummed with the familiar sounds of the ship, and for once, everything felt calm. Dare they say it, but it was a good day so far.

That was, until something shifted. A strange, almost imperceptible shift settled over the air.

A flicker of unease prickled at their spark, Then they felt it—two pairs of optics burning into their plating. They froze mid-step, their servos tightening. Turning their helm slightly, their optics caught sight of two familiar mechs standing down the hall—watching them.

Drift and Ratchet.

Their parents.

But something about them wasn’t right. The way they were looking at Locket—it wasn’t the familiar exasperation or concern they usually carried. No, this was something else entirely. Their optics were wide, their frames trembling, as if they were staring at a ghost.

A cold prickle ran through Locket’s frame. Why are they looking at me like that?

Unease spiked in their spark. Their instincts kicked in. Walk away. Whatever this is, you don’t want to be part of it.

They barely managed a step before the air behind them erupted with the sound of heavy footsteps—rushed, frantic, and closing in fast.

“What the—HEY!” Locket yelped as they were suddenly tackled, engulfed in iron-clad embrace that left no room for escape. Their vents stuttered, and their frame went rigid as confusion morphed into panic.

“What’s going on?!” they demanded, squirming against the unyielding hold.

Drift was trembling, his faceplate pressed against Locket’s shoulder as he sobbed, his words tumbling out in a chaotic, garbled mess of apologies and frantic and other incoherent sentences. Locket barely caught any of it, their systems too overloaded to process the chaos. And then there was Ratchet, their carrier. The medic, the stoic backbone of their family, was crying—actually crying. His optics shimmered with unshed tears as he silently reached out to press a gentle but firm servo against Locket’s helm, as if grounding himself, as if to reassure himself they were real.

Locket gawked at them both, processor spinning. “Are you—are you crying?! Both of you?!”

Before they could even begin to process the situation, something else caught their optics. Across the corridor, another Drift and Ratchet stood frozen, rooted in place

Locket’s spark nearly seized. Wait. What?

The two mechs across the way were identical to the ones currently crushing them in their grip. Their expressions mirrored Locket’s own confusion, disbelief clear in their wide optics and rigid frames.

The original Ratchet’s jaw twitched, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Drift’s optics darted between Locket and their counterparts, his hands flexing at his sides where his swords were as though torn between confusion, unease and protectiveness.

Locket’s processor screamed, trying to reconcile what they were seeing.

Two?

Two carriers? Two sires?!

What was this!?!

“WHAT IN PRIMUS’ NAME IS GOING ON?!”

————————————————————

Overall, completely and utterly chaos.

For the alternate Drift and Ratchet, the moment was like a tidal wave, crashing over them with a force they hadn’t prepared for.

Seeing Locket alive—whole, vibrant, and standing before them—felt like a miracle they didn’t deserve. It was like staring into a dream, a glimpse of a life that could have been, a world where their greatest regret hadn’t come to pass.

In their timelines, they had failed their sparkling. They couldn’t protect the precious life they had sworn to cherish. The weight of that failure had never left them, and now, faced with this alternate reality, their spark ached with a mixture of anguish and bittersweet relief.

Knowing they couldn’t stay in this timeline only made the moment more painful.

This wasn’t their universe, their timeline.

This wasn’t their Locket.

But in some small way, there was solace—fragile and fleeting. This Locket was alive, even if things between the original Drift and Ratchet weren’t perfect, just knowing that somewhere, their sparkling was slowly thriving was enough to bring them to their knees.

It was enough to bring a flicker of peace to their grieving sparks, one they would hold onto as they returned to their own worlds, where the echoes of their loss would remain and left them with a hollow ache.

——————————————————

For the original timeline Drift and Ratchet, the initial shock and knowledge of their counterparts eventually gave way to quiet determination, especially upon learning about Locket’s fate in the other timelines. They both found comfort and huge sense of relief—in Locket’s decision to remain neutral, knowing now it was a good choice, one where they manage to avoid their demise and able to reunite them.

For next cycle or more, Drift’s protective instincts surged. He became almost inseparable from Locket, practically almost glued to their side, his overprotectiveness dialed up to an almost comical degree. Ratchet, on the other hand, took a more understated and quiet approach. Though less overt, his quiet, watchful presence was a constant, always lingering in the background.

Unsurprisingly, their behavior didn’t escape Locket’s notice. Much to their dismay, the duo’s hovering became a persistent reminder of just how deeply they cared—whether Locket welcomed it or not.

——————————————

Thanks for listening once again! Hope you like this! 👍🏻

Me swinging my feet and giggling—getting a little Locket fic, OMG! This is so good and so heartwarming! I love the idea of the alternate-dimension Ratchet and Drift getting a bit of closure for each other. It also means the main timeline gets some reassurance that their creators do care. I really wanna add over protective Drift in the Locket comics!!!

SOOOO WONDERFUL!!! Thank you so much!!!!

[keraiiszn]

ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴋ

ᴛᴇᴇ ʜɪɢɢɪɴꜱ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪꜰᴇ!ʏ/ɴ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

Sunday afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains, casting everything in that golden, lazy glow that made even the scattered toys look picturesque. Tee Higgins padded through his house in that post-practice haze – hair still damp from his shower, football shorts hanging just right, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of Dad Life Quarterly if such a magazine existed.

The house was blissfully quiet. Their toddler was down for her nap, Y/N was folding laundry upstairs, and for once, Tee had nothing to do but exist. No playbook to study, no interviews to give, no tiny human demanding he read Goodnight Moon for the fifteenth time.

But peace and quiet had never been Tee's strong suit.

His stomach rumbled, breaking the sacred silence like a fumble on fourth down. He wandered toward the kitchen, already mentally cataloging his options. There had to be something good in there – something that didn't require actual cooking or, God forbid, meal prep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pantry door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the organized chaos that was Y/N's monthly shopping haul. She was methodical about groceries – one big trip per month, everything planned, portioned, and strategically placed. It was like a military operation, and Tee had learned not to mess with the system.

Well, usually.

His eyes scanned the shelves: Goldfish crackers (empty box – when did that happen?), trail mix (too much commitment), protein bars (ugh, cardboard disguised as nutrition), and then...

There it was.

A single, pristine pack of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies™️, sitting on the toddler shelf like a beacon of sugary salvation. The package practically glowed under the pantry light, its cartoon dinosaurs grinning at him with their fruity little faces.

Tee paused. He knew the rules. Y/N had been crystal clear: Do not touch the last of anything without asking. Especially not their daughter's snacks. The kid was particular about her food in the way only toddlers could be – she'd rather starve than eat the wrong shaped crackers.

But it was just one pack. How much drama could one tiny pouch of gummies cause?

"Ain't nobody gon' notice one little pouch," he whispered to himself, glancing around like he was planning to rob Fort Knox instead of stealing from his own pantry.

Famous last words.

Tee grabbed the package with the stealth of a man who'd once been clocked at 4.54 in the forty. He tore it open with surgical precision, the sweet smell of artificial fruit wafting up like incense.

The first gummy was heavenly – perfectly chewy, bursting with that fake strawberry flavor that somehow tasted better than real strawberries. The second was even better. By the third, he was committed to finishing the whole pack.

He ate them slowly at first, savoring each little dinosaur. Then faster, like he was racing against time. Before he knew it, he was licking the inside of the foil package, chasing every last grain of sugar.

For a moment, life was perfect. He was fed, the house was quiet, and nobody was the wiser.

Then, from down the hallway, came the sound that would haunt his dreams: a tiny, sleepy voice calling out.

"Daddy? Where's my dino snack?"

Tee froze mid-lick, the empty package still in his hands. Through the baby monitor, he could hear little feet hitting the floor, followed by the patter of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

Oh, shit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The toddler appeared in the kitchen doorway like a tiny, pajama-clad detective, her hair sticking up in seventeen different directions and her favorite stuffed triceratops tucked under one arm. She looked at Tee, then at the empty package in his hands, then back at Tee.

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

"You eated my dino snack?" she whispered, her voice carrying the kind of betrayal usually reserved for Shakespearean tragedies.

"Baby, I—" Tee started, but it was too late. The waterworks had started, and his daughter was crying like someone had cancelled Christmas and her birthday on the same day.

He scrambled for damage control, grabbing a banana from the counter and waving it like a peace offering. "Look, baby girl, banana! You love bananas!"

"I DON'T WANT BANANA!" she wailed, throwing herself on the kitchen floor in the kind of dramatic collapse that would make soccer players jealous. "I WANT DINO SNACK!"

That's when Y/N appeared.

Y/N descended the stairs like a prosecutor approaching the witness stand, already reading the room with the sharp eyes of someone who'd been married to an NFL player long enough to recognize guilt from three rooms away.

"Why," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "is our child sobbing like someone cancelled Bluey?"

Tee tried to play it cool, bouncing the toddler's banana like it was a football. "I don't know... maybe she's tired? You know how she gets when she's tired."

Their daughter, still sprawled dramatically on the kitchen floor, pointed an accusatory finger at her father. "He eated my dino snack!" she sobbed. "My LAST dino snack!"

Y/N's eyes moved to the empty package in Tee's other hand, then back to his face. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You ate the last snack?" she asked, each word carefully enunciated.

"I didn't know it was the LAST last one," Tee said weakly.

Y/N crossed her arms. "Tee. When have I ever let her run out of snacks? When have I ever not had backup snacks for the backup snacks? Be so serious."

"I WANT DINO SNACK!" their daughter wailed from the floor, as if providing a tragic soundtrack to Tee's downfall.

"Me too, girl," Y/N said, not breaking eye contact with her husband. "Me too."

What followed was the kind of chaos that would make his worst game day look like a casual practice. Tee had a screeching toddler pulling at his leg, a wife who was eyeing her sandal like it might become a projectile, and approximately zero solutions to his self-created problem.

"Okay, okay," he said, trying to project the same calm he used in the huddle when they were down by fourteen in the fourth quarter. "I can fix this. I got this."

"How?" Y/N asked. "The grocery store doesn't open until tomorrow, and you know she's not going to accept any substitutes."

As if to prove her point, their daughter rejected the banana, a pack of crackers, and even a cookie – the nuclear option in toddler negotiations.

That's when Tee's desperation kicked into overdrive.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Attempt #1: The DIY Disaster

Tee's first bright idea involved Jell-O, food coloring, and the dinosaur-shaped ice cube trays Y/N used for the toddler's water cups. He figured he could make homemade fruit snacks – how hard could it be?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, Tee was covered in red Jell-O, and the "gummies" looked like melted alien blobs that wouldn't hold their shape and tasted like disappointment.

His daughter took one look at his creation and cried harder.

Attempt #2: The Great Gas Station Hunt

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Tee loaded his still-pajama-clad daughter into the car, threw on some slides, and embarked on a quest to find Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies at every gas station, convenience store, and pharmacy within a ten-mile radius.

Store #1: "Nah man, we don't carry those." Store #2: "Dino whats? We got regular gummies." Store #3: "Those are a grocery store thing, dude."

By Store #4, Tee was practically bribing the teenage clerk. "Look, I'll give you fifty bucks if you got anything dinosaur-shaped in the back. Anything."

The kid looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir, this is a Chevron."

Attempt #3: The Social Media Hail Mary

Sitting in his car outside Store #5, Tee did something he never thought he'd do: he slid into the local grocery store's Instagram DMs.

@teehiggins: yo do you guys have any dino snacks in the back? Asking for a friend... (the friend is my daughter and she's very upset)

He even tried the official Dino Gummies account, the manufacturer, and approximately twelve mom bloggers who'd posted about toddler snacks in the last week.

His phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the time Tee returned home empty-handed, his daughter had cried herself into exhaustion and was now giving him the silent treatment – which, honestly, was worse than the crying. Y/N met him at the door with a look that could've benched him for the rest of the season.

"Any luck?" she asked, though his expression had already given her the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I really messed up."

Y/N's expression softened just a fraction. "Yeah, you did."

"I know you got a system. I know I'm not supposed to mess with it. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Their daughter looked up from her place on the couch, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. "No more dino snacks?"

Tee knelt down to her level. "Baby girl, Daddy's gonna make this right. I promise."

The next morning, Tee was at the grocery store when it opened, like a man possessed. He didn't just buy one box of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies – he bought ten. Plus backup snacks. Plus backup backup snacks. Plus a teddy bear shaped like a triceratops and a pack of crayons.

When he got home, he did something that would become family legend: he wrote an apology letter in crayon, complete with stick figure drawings of dinosaurs and hearts, signed "Daddy, #5."

Dear Zara, I am sorry I eated your dino snack. I will not do it again. Here are more dino snacks. I love you. Love, Daddy #5 P.S. Mommy was right

Y/N forgave him... eventually. After he promised to replace everything he'd eaten, organized the entire pantry, and agreed to ask before touching anything for the next month. The toddler forgave him faster, especially after she discovered the ten boxes of gummies and the new teddy bear.

But she wasn't taking any chances. Within a week, she'd started hoarding her snacks in a secret box under the couch, checking on them periodically like a tiny dragon guarding treasure.

Tee learned two valuable lessons that day:

Respect the snack stash

Never get between a toddler and their gummies

And maybe, just maybe, next time he'd eat the damn protein bar.

Three months later, Y/N would find Tee standing in front of the pantry, holding a pack of animal crackers and staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Those the last ones?" she'd ask.

"Yeah."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Go eat a protein bar."

"Yes, ma'am."

Some lessons, it turned out, stuck better than others. Especially when your wife had really good aim with a sandal and your toddler had an excellent memory for betrayal.

The Higgins household snack rules were now written in permanent marker on the inside of the pantry door:

Ask before you take the last of anything

Toddler snacks are OFF LIMITS

When in doubt, eat a protein bar

Love, Y/N (and she means it)

And underneath, in crayon: "No eating my dino snacks! - Zara ♡"

Tee kept those rules posted long after Zara outgrew dino gummies, because some reminders were worth keeping forever.

Sunday afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains, casting everything in that golden, lazy glow that made even the scattered toys look picturesque. Tee Higgins padded through his house in that post-practice haze – hair still damp from his shower, football shorts hanging just right, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of Dad Life Quarterly if such a magazine existed.

The house was blissfully quiet. Their toddler was down for her nap, Y/N was folding laundry upstairs, and for once, Tee had nothing to do but exist. No playbook to study, no interviews to give, no tiny human demanding he read Goodnight Moon for the fifteenth time.

But peace and quiet had never been Tee's strong suit.

His stomach rumbled, breaking the sacred silence like a fumble on fourth down. He wandered toward the kitchen, already mentally cataloging his options. There had to be something good in there – something that didn't require actual cooking or, God forbid, meal prep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pantry door swung open with a soft creak, revealing the organized chaos that was Y/N's monthly shopping haul. She was methodical about groceries – one big trip per month, everything planned, portioned, and strategically placed. It was like a military operation, and Tee had learned not to mess with the system.

Well, usually.

His eyes scanned the shelves: Goldfish crackers (empty box – when did that happen?), trail mix (too much commitment), protein bars (ugh, cardboard disguised as nutrition), and then...

There it was.

A single, pristine pack of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies™️, sitting on the toddler shelf like a beacon of sugary salvation. The package practically glowed under the pantry light, its cartoon dinosaurs grinning at him with their fruity little faces.

Tee paused. He knew the rules. Y/N had been crystal clear: Do not touch the last of anything without asking. Especially not their daughter's snacks. The kid was particular about her food in the way only toddlers could be – she'd rather starve than eat the wrong shaped crackers.

But it was just one pack. How much drama could one tiny pouch of gummies cause?

"Ain't nobody gon' notice one little pouch," he whispered to himself, glancing around like he was planning to rob Fort Knox instead of stealing from his own pantry.

Famous last words.

Tee grabbed the package with the stealth of a man who'd once been clocked at 4.54 in the forty. He tore it open with surgical precision, the sweet smell of artificial fruit wafting up like incense.

The first gummy was heavenly – perfectly chewy, bursting with that fake strawberry flavor that somehow tasted better than real strawberries. The second was even better. By the third, he was committed to finishing the whole pack.

He ate them slowly at first, savoring each little dinosaur. Then faster, like he was racing against time. Before he knew it, he was licking the inside of the foil package, chasing every last grain of sugar.

For a moment, life was perfect. He was fed, the house was quiet, and nobody was the wiser.

Then, from down the hallway, came the sound that would haunt his dreams: a tiny, sleepy voice calling out.

"Daddy? Where's my dino snack?"

Tee froze mid-lick, the empty package still in his hands. Through the baby monitor, he could hear little feet hitting the floor, followed by the patter of footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

Oh, shit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The toddler appeared in the kitchen doorway like a tiny, pajama-clad detective, her hair sticking up in seventeen different directions and her favorite stuffed triceratops tucked under one arm. She looked at Tee, then at the empty package in his hands, then back at Tee.

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

"You eated my dino snack?" she whispered, her voice carrying the kind of betrayal usually reserved for Shakespearean tragedies.

"Baby, I—" Tee started, but it was too late. The waterworks had started, and his daughter was crying like someone had cancelled Christmas and her birthday on the same day.

He scrambled for damage control, grabbing a banana from the counter and waving it like a peace offering. "Look, baby girl, banana! You love bananas!"

"I DON'T WANT BANANA!" she wailed, throwing herself on the kitchen floor in the kind of dramatic collapse that would make soccer players jealous. "I WANT DINO SNACK!"

That's when Y/N appeared.

Y/N descended the stairs like a prosecutor approaching the witness stand, already reading the room with the sharp eyes of someone who'd been married to an NFL player long enough to recognize guilt from three rooms away.

"Why," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "is our child sobbing like someone cancelled Bluey?"

Tee tried to play it cool, bouncing the toddler's banana like it was a football. "I don't know... maybe she's tired? You know how she gets when she's tired."

Their daughter, still sprawled dramatically on the kitchen floor, pointed an accusatory finger at her father. "He eated my dino snack!" she sobbed. "My LAST dino snack!"

Y/N's eyes moved to the empty package in Tee's other hand, then back to his face. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You ate the last snack?" she asked, each word carefully enunciated.

"I didn't know it was the LAST last one," Tee said weakly.

Y/N crossed her arms. "Tee. When have I ever let her run out of snacks? When have I ever not had backup snacks for the backup snacks? Be so serious."

"I WANT DINO SNACK!" their daughter wailed from the floor, as if providing a tragic soundtrack to Tee's downfall.

"Me too, girl," Y/N said, not breaking eye contact with her husband. "Me too."

What followed was the kind of chaos that would make his worst game day look like a casual practice. Tee had a screeching toddler pulling at his leg, a wife who was eyeing her sandal like it might become a projectile, and approximately zero solutions to his self-created problem.

"Okay, okay," he said, trying to project the same calm he used in the huddle when they were down by fourteen in the fourth quarter. "I can fix this. I got this."

"How?" Y/N asked. "The grocery store doesn't open until tomorrow, and you know she's not going to accept any substitutes."

As if to prove her point, their daughter rejected the banana, a pack of crackers, and even a cookie – the nuclear option in toddler negotiations.

That's when Tee's desperation kicked into overdrive.

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Attempt #1: The DIY Disaster

Tee's first bright idea involved Jell-O, food coloring, and the dinosaur-shaped ice cube trays Y/N used for the toddler's water cups. He figured he could make homemade fruit snacks – how hard could it be?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, Tee was covered in red Jell-O, and the "gummies" looked like melted alien blobs that wouldn't hold their shape and tasted like disappointment.

His daughter took one look at his creation and cried harder.

Attempt #2: The Great Gas Station Hunt

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Tee loaded his still-pajama-clad daughter into the car, threw on some slides, and embarked on a quest to find Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies at every gas station, convenience store, and pharmacy within a ten-mile radius.

Store #1: "Nah man, we don't carry those." Store #2: "Dino whats? We got regular gummies." Store #3: "Those are a grocery store thing, dude."

By Store #4, Tee was practically bribing the teenage clerk. "Look, I'll give you fifty bucks if you got anything dinosaur-shaped in the back. Anything."

The kid looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sir, this is a Chevron."

Attempt #3: The Social Media Hail Mary

Sitting in his car outside Store #5, Tee did something he never thought he'd do: he slid into the local grocery store's Instagram DMs.

@teehiggins: yo do you guys have any dino snacks in the back? Asking for a friend... (the friend is my daughter and she's very upset)

He even tried the official Dino Gummies account, the manufacturer, and approximately twelve mom bloggers who'd posted about toddler snacks in the last week.

His phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the time Tee returned home empty-handed, his daughter had cried herself into exhaustion and was now giving him the silent treatment – which, honestly, was worse than the crying. Y/N met him at the door with a look that could've benched him for the rest of the season.

"Any luck?" she asked, though his expression had already given her the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I really messed up."

Y/N's expression softened just a fraction. "Yeah, you did."

"I know you got a system. I know I'm not supposed to mess with it. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Their daughter looked up from her place on the couch, tears still clinging to her eyelashes. "No more dino snacks?"

Tee knelt down to her level. "Baby girl, Daddy's gonna make this right. I promise."

The next morning, Tee was at the grocery store when it opened, like a man possessed. He didn't just buy one box of Strawberry Banana Dino Gummies – he bought ten. Plus backup snacks. Plus backup backup snacks. Plus a teddy bear shaped like a triceratops and a pack of crayons.

When he got home, he did something that would become family legend: he wrote an apology letter in crayon, complete with stick figure drawings of dinosaurs and hearts, signed "Daddy, #5."

Dear Zara, I am sorry I eated your dino snack. I will not do it again. Here are more dino snacks. I love you. Love, Daddy #5 P.S. Mommy was right

Y/N forgave him... eventually. After he promised to replace everything he'd eaten, organized the entire pantry, and agreed to ask before touching anything for the next month. The toddler forgave him faster, especially after she discovered the ten boxes of gummies and the new teddy bear.

But she wasn't taking any chances. Within a week, she'd started hoarding her snacks in a secret box under the couch, checking on them periodically like a tiny dragon guarding treasure.

Tee learned two valuable lessons that day:

Respect the snack stash

Never get between a toddler and their gummies

And maybe, just maybe, next time he'd eat the damn protein bar.

Three months later, Y/N would find Tee standing in front of the pantry, holding a pack of animal crackers and staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Those the last ones?" she'd ask.

"Yeah."

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Go eat a protein bar."

"Yes, ma'am."

Some lessons, it turned out, stuck better than others. Especially when your wife had really good aim with a sandal and your toddler had an excellent memory for betrayal.

The Higgins household snack rules were now written in permanent marker on the inside of the pantry door:

Ask before you take the last of anything

Toddler snacks are OFF LIMITS

When in doubt, eat a protein bar

Love, Y/N (and she means it)

And underneath, in crayon: "No eating my dino snacks! - Zara ♡"

Tee kept those rules posted long after Zara outgrew dino gummies, because some reminders were worth keeping forever.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ

@vintigepimpzinio, @queenofklonnie22, @tnychellee, @nanamiismine,

[rowanmutt-afterdark]

Kinktober Day 3: Chasity

(MTMTE/IDW Swerve)

Word Count: 810

MTMTE/IDW Swerve X Human GN Reader

18+ tags: chasity, dom/sub, and slight humiliation play

Read below the cut!

Swerve sat stiff, his knee joints ached as he sat with his thighs spread wide, and his helm tilted back while you worked between his quivering leg struts. You were attaching something onto his body, specifically his spike. You had called it a chastity cage, and while he was still learning human ways, he had grown interested in it.

He remembered seeing something like what was being put on him from a human holo film, according to what you called it, it's called ‘porn’. He still had no clue what it was but he trusted you over other sources.

He jolts with a whimper as the cold chastity finally clips into place and he hears you chuckle between his thighs. He feels your finger slip between the bars of the cage and stroke a small stripe down his chubby, stubbed spike. He hissed with pleasure as you teased the sensitive organ.

“So, how does it feel?” Your inquiry helped him focus again so he could get a coherent sentence out.

“Feels good, a little weird but it doesn't hurt.” He answers. He hears You hum in acknowledgment to his response before resuming your work of teasing his body. You take a finger and gently trail down his body, smirking as you trace the armoured plating that made up his chassis and stout frame. You took the trail all the way down to just above his spike, it earned a small jump from his skin growing erection.

He whined as your hands moved back up to his chassis to trace the metal, following the flow of his plating and tracing cables making your minibot lover squirm and whimper as you watched each small movement to make sure he wasn't uncomfortable.

He shuddered, his engine hiccuping as it revved excitedly, your small fingers slipped between the plating just under his chassis and teased the sensitive wiring there. He shifted with a moan of ecstasy as your fingers expertly rolled and tweaked at the wires.

His intake gaped open as his plating flared, his leg struts tensing as his hips buck forward, desperate for friction against his growing erection. His visor flaring a bright cyan as his frame leaned forward to be closer to you. His lip components parting as he gasped out a plea. “Please,sweetspark! I need it so bad!”

You looked down at his weeping tip, his caged spike was throbbing within its confines. Transfluids dribbled down the chastity, it was splattering onto his plating, and on the floor. Your tongue clicked against your teeth, tsking at the mess your boyfriend was making in his hab-suite. Your hand reached up to grab his helm, your fingers grasped a hold of the back of his helm and pulled him down closer to your own height. Only a few feet height difference made him just a little bigger than yourself.

“Only good boys get to overload, you are to address me as what?” You growl, earning a high pitched whine before you received your answer.

“Please, mistress. I need to release, it hurts!” You hum as if thinking before you lift a foot and press it against his caged spike. He makes a sound similar to a squeal of pleasure but his engine roaring covers it as your boot clad foot pressed down against his chastity. Watching as he tensed, holding back the overload that so badly wanted to be let go.

“Again, tell your mistress what you want.” You demand, the foot on his spike pressed down with a littke more pressure earning a shutter and a whine. He sounded so pathetic, it was cute~

“Overload! Please mistress, I need to overload!” He sobbed. You smirk and watch as his spike weeped for that release he so craved.

“Good boy~” You purred, with that he released. His cry was so delicious that your own arousal started to become unbearable as his transfluids painted your boot, his thighs, and the floor. You smiled, watching him as he slowly came down from his high. His visor flicked on and off as his systems roared to life to cool his frame down.

“Now look at the mess you made, we can't have your mistress wearing your fluids like this, now can we?” You didn't need to say anymore as the mech leaned down and used his glossa to lap up the spilled fluids off your boot. Your pussy clenching at the display, your hand moving down to your pants as you gropped at your crotch to try and relieve the pressure building.

“Once you are finish cleaning, I have another task for you. How does dessert sound?” Swerve moaned against your solvent covered boot as he sat up again and nodded eagerly. You didnt hesitate in taking your pants off and seating yourself against his face.

This was going to be a long night~

[sanctus-ingenium]

Dumb question but can some beafts turn their heads/necks?

yes

so stripping back the armour cladding and the vocal system (the trumpets and flexible leather windpipe) you can see that the head is attached high up and at the base. the head doesn't contain any critical equipment (aside from breath weapons sometimes) so it doesn't have a very fine or precise range of movement - up and down, side to side, controlled by tendons powered by engines in the chest which pull or relax based on demand. this will move the neck as well (head and neck don't really move independently, though the head can turn more sharply in any direction than the neck)

the neck consists of the cervical spine and its own tendons which run alongside the main nerve cord.

now. the actual limitation is of course the armour..

the armour cladding was all based off of extant horse armour so these plates do allow a relatively good degree of movement (must be frequently oiled), they are just massively heavy and tend to bog down everything else. some protection for the tendons is essential in any case because they are quite vulnerable.

taurus has the thickest armour and as you can see here the chest and neck pieces are not actually separate, so the outer armour is inflexible. but his neck does move - inside the plating, independently of it. so taurus can turn his head as well, though he is sort of constrained by this massive inflexible shell around him (he looks very funny without it)

[utilitycaster]

you know apropos of one them getting in the tag yesterday (don't respond just block) I never got the whole "you don't like TTRPGs you just like Critical Role [or more generally, D&D and Actual Play]" thing not because there aren't plenty of people for whom this is true (hell, as an AP fan who does like mechanics, we're even at a point where there's people who like AP and don't really care much about TTRPGs at all, which, while I have some specific quibbles largely more about genre than systems, it's fine) but because it's like, when it comes to AP fans who do play TTRPGs, this is just OSR vs Neotrad as a preference. These are two people in the same very broad hobby with wildly different goals and could happily coexist if some of them weren't insecure losers. I do not think D&D players with 17 multicolored Hot Topic-clad tiefling OCs are climbing all over OSR fans demanding they play with them. Honestly I suspect the issue is that people who see themselves as the OG "true" TTRPG fans are mad that no one is at their feet going "teach me, sensei" so that they can slap them in the face and call them stupid for liking actual play so they're screaming "COME OVER HERE" in the hopes someone will come over and they can pretend they are being swarmed by the Actual Play Usurpers.

I was a casual but involved comics fan prior to getting into actual play and TTRPGs, and it's just like ah it's Fake Geek Girl discourse under a different name. Those guys were sad losers who spent more time screaming about how the wrong people liked the wrong parts of their allegedly favorite stuff than actually enjoying their allegedly favorite stuff, and these people are exactly the same.

[brithefruitbat]

In Her Kiss, I Taste the Revolution

Luigi Mangione is a rule-following, buttoned-up Computer Engineering major from a wealthy conservative family in Baltimore. Raised on classical debate, private schools, and deference to institutional order, he believes in logic, compromise, and clean-cut appearances. His life is measured, polished, and painfully predictable.

Enter Serena Chávez. An unapologetically loud, lime-haired punk singer with a passion for direct action, mutual aid, and anti-capitalist theory. She's a whirlwind of radical politics, thrifted leather jackets, and tattoos that tell her story. To her, the system isn't broken. It's functioning exactly as it was meant to.

This is a romance fic about dialectical materialism.

I

Serena leaned into the microphone, breath rattling on the cusp of exhaustion and defiance. Strands of electric lime hair clung to her forehead, slick with sweat. A halo of melting neon. Her eyeliner had surrendered to the heat, pooling in streams down her cheeks. She’d just rendered her throat raw with a final, eviscerating scream. An exorcism that closed Deathwish’s set. Her voice now carried a gravelly edge. The result of the same flawed technique that once haunted Kathleen Hanna - inhaling while she sang, rather than exhaling.

“Thanks,” she rasped, her umber eyes sweeping over the modest crowd clustered near the bowling alley’s entrance. They were clad in worn band tees, battle jackets armored with patches, and boots that had seen better days. To Serena, they were signifiers of a scene stubbornly refusing to die.

The bar regulars hadn’t come for a punk show. Their participation was incidental, softened by alcohol. Still, some nodded in passive appreciation, a few even flashing the horns. It was a gesture somewhere between goodwill and apology. A subtle acknowledgment that they’d crossed into alien territory, and would try not to trample anything sacred.

“We’ve got CDs and patches at the table,” Trent announced, loosening the strap of his sticker-covered bass. “Help us survive under Crapitalism.”

Serena let out a chuckle. A whisky sour beckoned from the back of her mind.

As their audience began to scatter, a sudden and distinct force permeated the room. The doors cracked open, and in flooded a tide of volume and arrogance. Chatter collided with itself in a din of testosterone and entitlement. Voices barked fragments; “pledge,” “bro,” “shots!”

A wave of backwards caps, sweat-dampened polos, and unnecessary sunglasses. The unmistakable cacophony of Greek life.

Disdain surfaced in Serena’s brain. She stiffened. Were there girls unlucky enough to be sandwiched among them? Trapped in ambiguous situationships? Forced to humor these neanderthals?

They scattered like pests, swarming around the outnumbered punks. Pizza was procured, rounds of liquor demanded into being. A few cast curious, sidelong glances toward the leather-and-denim fringe that was the Death Wish faithful. The divide was sharp, hostile. Cultural oil meeting vinegar. No emulsification in sight.

Serena shrank into herself, suddenly hyper-aware of every stud on her top, every theatrical line of her makeup which was now melting into chaotic strokes. Laughter. Mocking, guttural, it rippled through the interlopers. Then, words flung like darts.

“Fucking freaks.”

She blinked slowly, as if processing a foreign language, and then smiled. Not kindly. Her gaze cut to her bandmates. “Let’s do ‘Sorority Girls,’” she said, voice steady but gleaming with wicked glee. The sting of insult had alchemized into mischief. Trent’s lips curled into a half-smirk. Jenny raised a bleached brow and shot a thumbs-up.

“Hey!” Serena shouted. Heads turned. Some retreating toward the door paused. Others froze mid-merch selection, their hands hovering over the Pay What You Can jar. “This one’s a cover,” she announced. A knife before the plunge. She struck the opening chords of the song. Grimy, angular, and unapologetically confrontational. Her voice, when it came, was candy-laced poison, dripping sarcasm as she sang.

“Alpha

Beta, Delta

Placenta

Zita, Smegma

Alfalfa!”

Cheers. Nervous, delighted reinforcement from the crowd that mattered. They surged forward again, forming a bulwark of grins and combat boots. Serena flexed theatrically, mocking the very machismo that now glared at her.

“Hey, hey, hey, boys let’s go to the frat party

The theme is white people

Get your roofies ready!”

Middle fingers shot upward. Boos punctuated the performance. She stood unwavering, feeding off their disapproval. Her voice climbed higher, edged with barely contained laughter, as she delivered the final verse with venom and flair.

“Brainless fucking football dudes,

Wanna puke and spew on you!”

A roar of applause overtook the space. A tidal wave of affirmation. The punks stood taller, unified. Conversation erupted as the band began to pack up. Neon-clad security hovered uneasily, fluorescent against the ocean of black jackets and faded jeans.

Serena slipped her guitar into its padded case and helped haul gear into Trent’s rusting van. She leaned against the side of the vehicle for a breath, eyes fluttering shut. Her whole body was humming, not from exertion, but from the resonance of adrenaline. The kind you only got after a set where everything came out exactly wrong and exactly right. Off-key, messy, glorious. The scent of sweat, beer, and residual reverb clung to her like a second skin. She lived for this. For the moment where the noise quieted but the ache stayed.

Once, after a backyard show in South Philly, a girl with a busted lip came up to her and said, “You made me feel like I could do anything.” Serena never forgot that. That’s what she wanted to be. A weapon people could hold when the world got sharp.

The night air bit at her sweat-slick skin, and thirst curled in her throat like smoke. She debated her options. Brave the throng for a drink, or stick to the steel water bottle waiting in her tote? Logic whispered hydration, but her craving screamed bourbon.

Head high, she marched back inside, shoulders squared, every step a statement. High-fives from fellow outcasts met her along the way. “Freak” was a badge of honor.

She waded into the crowd of frat boys like a fish swimming upstream, trampling over a Birkenstock. Its owner snarled.

“Watch it, bitch. You're just mad ‘cause you’re chopped.”

Serena didn’t flinch. She tossed cash on the bar and gave her order, letting her glare speak volumes. The guy wasn’t done. He loomed, breath sour, fists coiled.

“You think you're cool ‘cause you’re emo?” he slurred. “You look fucking stupid.”

She stared up at him, measuring. His eyes glinted with hostility. She spat.

Time slowed. His face twisted, a cartoon of shock and rage. He stepped too close for comfort. Serena inhaled sharply, ready to duck or run.

Then, cologne. Subtle, green, a hint of sage beneath the sweat and booze. A man had wedged himself between them, shoulder broad, thick brow furrowed in quiet concern.

“Is he bothering you?” he asked, voice low but clear.

His arm slid onto the counter in a gesture of protection. Jaw tight. He looked nervous, almost shy. Serena arched her brow, suspicious of hero complexes.

“His existence is an affront to evolution,” she muttered.

It caught him off guard. He snorted and grabbed her drink as it arrived.

“Let’s go outside,” he offered, nodding toward the exit.

She eyed him warily, but the bourbon called. She followed.

Once in the cold, she snatched the glass from him. “Can I have that, or are you gonna slip something in it first?”

His expression flickered. Shocked, then solemn. “Of course not,” he said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “Just didn’t want you to leave it behind. That guy was looking to throw hands.”

He hesitated. “Wanna sit?”

With a sigh, Serena dropped into a patio chair. Her legs sang with fatigue. She took a long pull from the straw, the bourbon sliding down her throat. Liquid courage.

He joined her, awkwardly adjusting in his seat.

“So...you go to Penn?”

“Yeah. Second year. Fine Arts. Poli Sci Minor.”

“Same. Engineering. Philosophy Minor.” He paused, then smiled. “I’m Luigi.”

“Serena.”

“Good to meet you.” His grin was wide, toothy, honest. “Caught the end of your set. It was...interesting.”

She tilted her head. “You can be honest if it’s not your thing.”

Luigi ducked his gaze, lashes brushing his cheeks. “I’m more into EDM,” he admitted sheepishly. “But I listen to some rock.”

Serena leaned forward, amused. “Is that so? Which bands?”

Luigi shifted in his seat, propping an elbow on the metal table, pecan eyes flicking up as if to scan a playlist in his head.

“I mean... I like Joy Division, obviously. ‘Atmosphere’ is genius. And Nine Inch Nails. ‘The Downward Spiral’ is basically a thesis on digital alienation. Velvet Underground. Lou Reed's voice sounds like someone reading Bukowski out loud in a dive bar. Bowie’s Low is my go-to coding album. New Order, I respect the fusion. ‘Temptation’ might be their best.”

Serena’s expression didn’t soften, exactly, but something behind her eyes flickered. Not approval. Curiosity.

“Hm,” she said, swirling the ice in her drink. “Respectable. Safe answers. You do your homework.”

“Safe?” Luigi looked mildly offended. “Low is emotionally deranged.”

“You’re not wrong,” she allowed, cocking her head. “But if you really knew Bowie, you’d talk about Scary Monsters before Low. That’s when he got vicious. And Joy Division? I’ll take ‘Disorder’ over ‘Atmosphere’ any day. Rawer. Desperate. Still bleeding.”

Luigi blinked. “Okay, fair. What about New Order?”

Serena took a sip of her drink, then pointed a black-painted nail at him. “If you say Blue Monday, I will end this conversation.”

He laughed. “I was going to say ‘Your Silent Face.’”

That caught her off guard. Her eyebrows lifted. She was impressed despite herself.

“That’s... actually my favorite,” she said, slower. “Fine. You pass.”

Luigi mimed wiping sweat from his brow. “Thank God. Okay, but,” he said, leaning closer, “Radiohead.”

Serena rolled her eyes dramatically. “Thom Yorke sounds like a faulty humidifier.”

“False. He sounds like a mourning ghost.”

She laughed, despite herself. “Alright, fine. 'Weird Fishes' slaps. But only because of the drums.”

Luigi nodded solemnly. “Philip Selway is the true MVP.”

Serena smiled. Not wide, but real. She crossed her legs, boot toe tapping in rhythm with some phantom beat.

“Okay, so come on. Which one?”

Luigi blinked.

“Huh?”

Serena snickered.

“Which frat are you in?”

Luigi chuckled, sheepish again.

“I'm in Phi Psi, but I mostly joined for the house Wi-Fi and Smash Bros tournaments.”

Serena took another drink.

“Y’know, I’ve always felt the need to walk home with my keys between my fingers,” she said quietly. “I don’t go to parties unless I’m sharing my location with someone.”

Luigi’s shoulders slumped a little.

“That sucks. That’s not how it should be.”

Serena nodded.

“Broadly, it’s not just a frat problem. It’s a men problem.”

He looked pensive. She continued.

“If there’s a bowl of M&Ms, and you know 10% of them are poisoned, you wouldn’t eat a handful.”

Silence stretched. Not the awkward kind. More like letting things settle. She looked at him again—really looked. His eyes were earnest, warm. He wasn’t trying to impress her. He was just there, open. It disarmed her more than bravado ever could.

Trent walked through the door, supporting a giggling Jenny as she leaned on him. Serena’s canvas tote bag was held on his other lanky arm. “I’m DD,” he assured, beckoning for her to join them.

Serena stood. “Gotta go.”

Luigi rose to his feet with her. “Thanks for the chat.”

She pulled a magenta Sharpie out of her back pocket - the same one she’d used to scrawl the band’s setlist - then grabbed his hand without warning. “Hold still,” she commanded, writing her number across his palm in sharp, messy digits.

He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “I’ll text.”

Luigi stood for a moment in the chill air, watching her go, lime green hair a radioactive flare in the dark. Her number felt warm on his skin, like a sigil. He stared down at it, the ink already smudging.

“Broadly, it’s not just a frat problem. It’s a men problem.”

Her words stuck to him. Not guilt. A challenge. An invitation to understand more, to do more.

He opened his phone and snapped a picture of the number, just in case it faded. Then he turned toward home, humming “Your Silent Face” under his breath.

-

Serena locked the door to her apartment with a satisfying click, toes already aching to peel out of her platform Chelsea boots. The night’s adrenaline was ebbing, replaced with the slow throb of sore muscles and a stubborn, lingering tension in her shoulders. Half from the set, half from... everything else.

She tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter, and headed straight for the bathroom. The apartment was dim except for the silver glow from streetlights slicing through the blinds. Her space was small, cluttered with canvases and half-finished embroidery hoops, but the bathroom was hers. A temple.

Black tile gleamed. The walls were lined with shelves that held a careful arrangement of jars and bottles, her own modern witch’s apothecary. She pulled down a holographic pouch with lettering that read, ‘Twisted Allure: Unicorn Blood Milk Bath.’

She opened it and inhaled. Cotton candy. Sweet, synthetic, nostalgic. Like boardwalks and lip gloss and childhood whispers. She poured it in slowly. The water swirled as it filled, colors blooming into fantastical clouds of pink, lavender, and pastel blue. The surface shimmered faintly, reminding her of oil on pavement.

She lit her candles one by one, white soy wax in glass tumblers. The flames flickered against the tile, reflecting like stars caught in obsidian. When the bath was full, she sank in with a hiss of relief, the warmth stealing a groan from her throat.

For a long moment, Serena just lay there. Limbs floating. Steam curling around her collarbones. Her skin took on the tint of the water — a soft swirl of dreamlike colors. She watched a bubble drift and burst.

Then, slowly, her mind wandered. Uninvited, but not unwelcome.

Luigi.

That guy with the careful voice and the shy, crooked grin. He’d smelled clean. Green. Something herbal and grounding. Sage, maybe, or cedar. Not Axe or sweat or liquor, but...safety.

And those curls. Dark and tight. She remembered how they caught the light when he leaned forward. The slight sheen at his temples. Thick brows, low over those wide, brown eyes. The kind that crinkled when he smiled. There was kindness there. And some sadness, too.

Serena closed her eyes. Let herself picture him fully now.

A square jaw, softened by the slight flush that had colored his cheeks when she teased him about Radiohead. Long lashes, criminally long, like he didn’t even realize their impact. Lips that were neither thin nor pouty, just inviting.

She sank deeper into the warmth, water lapping at her collarbone, cotton candy scent thick in the air. The bath was making her drowsy. Her limbs, already sore, now felt boneless. She imagined tracing her fingers along the ridge of his jaw. Curling one of those dark locks around her pinky. What would it feel like to kiss him? Slow, maybe. Intentional. Or would he be the kind to surprise her, all hidden heat beneath that gentle exterior?

Her lips quirked. She didn’t usually daydream like this. Not about frat boys, certainly. But Luigi didn’t feel like one. Not really. He hadn’t looked at her like a body, or a spectacle. He’d looked at her like a person. Like someone he actually wanted to understand.

Unicorn Blood, she thought, watching the color swirl around her toes. The name felt stupidly fitting. Something rare. Maybe even magical, in a way.

Serena sighed. Let the thoughts fade. Let the night dissolve around her. There would be time to decide what Luigi meant. For now, she would soak in sugar-scented warmth and the memory of a man who stood between her and danger. Quiet, and smelling like sage.

[kikyoupdates]

Heartbreaker ⭑˚💔⭑ 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎 𝑣𝑢

bnha x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, my hero academia x fem!reader, slowburn

You awaken one day with virtually no memories. The only thing guiding you is some strange system that likes to dictate your every move, and for some reason, it insists that you make certain people fall in love with you. Desperate for answers, you decide to go along with its demands. After all, how hard can it be?

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No matter how often you found yourself here, it still didn’t make the fear any less intense.  

As always, it was pitch-black as far as you could see. Your first instinct was to scream out and beg to be released, but unsurprisingly, the system didn’t grace you with a response. Panic rushed through your veins. You had no idea how long they intended to keep you here. You couldn’t even begin to fathom how long your suffering would go on for, and if that wasn’t horrible enough, you would be unable to move for the whole duration of it.  

Wait. Actually... you could move.  

This had never happened before. When you took a few cautious steps, you found that you were able to move just fine, like in the real world. Hesitantly, you patted the sides of your face and various parts of your body. You could feel things. Something was different. But why?  

Suddenly, you remembered the last message the system had sent you.  

[“𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲. 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”]

You hadn’t the slightest clue what they meant by that, but if the past was any indication, it couldn’t be good news.  

That being said, you could actually move this time, so instead of sitting still and lamenting your fate, you decided to try and look for a way out.  

“Hello?” you called. It was probably pointless to wait for an answer. Not like there was anyone else in here but you. Still, you were choosing to believe that the system wasn’t all-powerful. If you made enough of an effort, perhaps you could find its weak spot. Perhaps you could break free of the iron-clad grip it had on your life.  

You walked and walked, for several minutes without stopping. Unfortunately, the longer you searched, the less hopeful you felt. It was way too dark and disorienting. You could have been going in circles for all you knew. 

“This isn’t fair,” you whimpered. “Please let me out of here. I’ll fix things with Katsuki. I-I'm not sure how, but I promise I will.”  

They still weren’t responding to you. Even though you’d known from a while ago that they were far from being your ally, you were slowly coming to the realization that they truly were rotten to the core.

Right as you were about to crumple to your knees and start crying, it happened.  

You saw him.  

From the distance, you couldn’t even really tell that it was a man at first. You just barely saw the outline of his silhouette, light surrounding his body in place of the darkness all around. There was a person in here. You weren’t all alone. Someone might actually be able to help!  

“Wait!” you cried out, breaking into a run. He was walking away from you, and you struggled to keep up lest you lose him altogether. “P-Please stop! I need your help! I need to get out of here!”  

He finally turned towards the sound of your voice, stopping in his tracks. His pause allowed you to catch up, and now that you were closer, you could finally get a good look at him.  

You couldn’t tell his exact age, but he was definitely older than you. A young adult, perhaps? He had dark brown hair that was short-cropped and showed off his beautiful golden eyes. They were piercing and bright, with long lower lashes that made them stand out that much more. You got the sense that he was probably quite handsome, but unfortunately, the mask he wore prevented you from seeing his full face. It was red with gold detailing, styled in the likeness of what plague doctors used to wear.  

And once again, you were faced with that nagging sense of familiarity. The sense that this wasn’t the first time you’d laid eyes on him.  

Not that his appearance really mattered. What mattered was that he was in here with you, and thus, your only means of escape.  

“I-I’m trapped,” you said meekly.  

The man didn’t so much as flinch. He gave you a curious look, tilting his head to the side just slightly. Actually, you were starting to have your doubts about this whole thing. He was eerily quiet. Was he even real, or just a figment of your imagination? Had you already lost your sanity and were now simply hallucinating?  

Hoping to put your suspicions to rest, you reached out and tried to touch him. If you could feel him, then he had to be real, right?  

As it turned out, that was a grave mistake. You didn’t realize it until your fingers made contact with the exposed skin of his forearm, and he shrunk away from you, disgust lacing his features.  

“Don’t touch me!” he exclaimed, revealing a deep and husky voice. He then glanced down towards where your hand had made contact with him. You realized that small hives had risen to the surface of his skin.  

So, he was real. But he looked upset that you’d touched him without asking.  

“I’m sorry,” you apologized. Based on how strongly he’d reacted, it seemed like the right thing to do.  

Unfortunately for you, it was too little, too late.  

“You’re a vile little thing,” the man hissed. You’d only just realized that he was wearing white cloth gloves, and you watched with a mildly perplexed gaze as he began pulling one of them off. “How dare you lay your filthy hands on me. I feel like I’m going to get sick.”  

It all happened in slow motion. You could see his ungloved hand reaching towards you, but your brain couldn’t process the information in time for you to move out of the way.  

The second his fingers touched your arm, it erupted into a bloody mess.  

You screamed louder than you’d ever screamed before. The pain was all-consuming and utterly unbearable. You were missing an arm. He’d barely touched you, and just like that, your body had been mutilated beyond repair.  

“W-Why...?” was all you managed to splutter, cheeks streaming down your cheeks. “I s-said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m just scared. I’m so scared...”  

You were losing blood at an alarming rate. Your head was all light and fluttery, to the point that it was a struggle to even keep your vision steady. So much blood. All of this... was yours?  

The man watched you bleed out, and although you couldn’t see the lower portion of his face thanks to the mask he wore, you were certain his expression was devoid of any remorse.  

“You shouldn’t have touched me,” he grimaced, carefully placing his glove back on, then shaking his head. “Good grief. Everyone is so diseased.”

You could feel your breathing getting fainter. Short, stuttering gasps left your lips. Your cheeks were drenched with tears, but you were starting to feel less and less of your body. Every part was slowly getting number by the second, and you felt as though something heavy was weighing down on your chest, slowly suffocating you.  

Your eyes rolled back into your skull. 

Just like that, you died.

But then, you were alive again.  

Air rushed into your lungs, and when you opened your eyes, you found that you were in the same position as before—lying on your back and staring up at the sky from when Katsuki had pushed you down.  

Instinctively, you screamed, hands darting to where your arm had once exploded into bits of flesh. Unlike before, there was no gaping wound; no indication that you were missing any limbs. There was no pain, either. At least, not to the touch. But in the recesses of your mind, it still lingered. You couldn’t forget it so easily.

[“𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”]

You shuddered and let out a disbelieving gasp. Just like when you’d been trapped in the void, tears started pouring down your cheeks. It wasn’t fair. This was too much to bear. It was just too cruel. Why did you have to endure something so horrible? Just because you’d unintentionally gotten on someone’s bad side?  

You were being tortured over something like that?  

[“𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞���𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐒𝐨. 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭?”]

You choked on your tears, clamping a palm over your mouth to keep from hyperventilating. “I-I’m—I really didn’t mean to, I was just—”  

[“𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐱. 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.”]

They were completely and utterly remorseless. Just like the man from earlier—whether he was a real person or something fictitious the system had concocted—neither of them cared about your suffering in the slightest. The system had told you from the beginning that they weren’t a human being. They probably couldn’t even begin to wrap their head around the concept of sympathy.  

Something told you that if they wanted to, they could put you through things that were much, much worse.  

Mustering up every ounce of your willpower, you clenched your fists and slowly stopped crying. A few more tears kept on rolling down your cheeks, but at the very least, you weren’t sobbing out loud anymore. 

“I... understand,” you said weakly. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.”  

For the time being, the system seemed satisfied.  

[“𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐤, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐞?”]

You nodded vacantly. It didn’t even occur to you to hate them for what they’d put you through. All you felt was terror.

As much as you wanted to say that the next few days went by normally, that would’ve been a lie.  

Even though the system didn’t punish you, the memories of the nightmare you’d been forced to experience were still fresh in your mind. You did your best to swallow your fear and pretend like everything was fine, but in the back of all your thoughts was the same question.  

What happens when I screw up next time?  

You could only imagine that each rendition would be more horrible than the last, which made it almost impossible to stay calm. You were always wondering when another one of your love interests would get upset with you and make the system lash out. For that very reason, you felt hesitant to even contact Izuku or Shouto, afraid that one misstep would ruin all your progress and put you back at square one.  

You knew you needed to be stronger. You wouldn’t be able to make it if you kept breaking down at the first sign of trouble. But you just couldn’t help it. Even when the system reassured you that they would play nice as long as you didn’t royally screw things up again, you didn’t believe them. 

After all, given everything they’d already put you through, how could you?  

The days felt long, and your exhaustion ran deep. Nonetheless, you trudged onwards. The thing you wanted most was to regain your memories. Perhaps once they slowly began to come back to you, it would make the situation a bit easier. You might even find out exactly how you ended up like this to begin with.  

You were resolved to be free of this system one day, no matter what it took.  

“That’ll be 550 yen,” the cashier said.  

You nodded listlessly and deposited your coins on the counter, then grabbed your cup of coffee. You weren’t sure if you used to be a heavy coffee drinker, but given how worn-out you were, it was the only thing that was really keeping you going. You’d hardly gotten any sleep the past few nights. You kept seeing that man with the golden eyes in your dreams, and every time, he killed you.  

You exited the store and took a gulp of your coffee, not even stopping to think that it would be incredibly hot.  

“Shit!”  

You burned your tongue, and the sharp pain made you fumble with the coffee cup and drop it onto the ground. You watched with a blank expression as the dark brown liquid spilled onto the pavement. It wasn’t even a little bit, either. You’d barely had a single sip of your drink, and now it was all gone.  

[“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝟓𝟓𝟎 𝐲𝐞𝐧.”]

It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a cup of coffee. That’s what you tried to tell yourself, but it didn’t make the tears stop. You were just frustrated. Frustrated, and beyond that, incredibly overwhelmed. You didn’t what to do, or how to do it, and your anxiety was at an all-time high. 

Sometimes, the smallest of things were all it took to push someone over the edge.  

Feeling hopeless, you slumped down against the sidewalk and buried your face in your palms, then began crying. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this. You needed to stay strong. But as hard as you tried, you just couldn’t escape the paranoia and emptiness that consumed you. Was it so much to ask that you just be normal? Did you used to be such a horrible person that you actually deserved this?  

You didn’t know, so you just kept on crying. Mercifully, the system didn’t berate you for it or chime in with any malicious remarks. They let you bask in your sadness until you’d had your fill.  

Honestly, you probably would have gone on sobbing for a while longer if not for the stranger that called out to you.  

“Hey, kid. Are you alright?”  

With a shuddering breath, you managed to lift your face and look up. There was a man standing in front of you. He had long black hair—which was admittedly rather unkempt—equally black eyes, a scruffy bit of facial hair, and wore a black jumpsuit with what appeared to be some sort of cloth piled around his neck as if it was a scarf.  

Ah. It’s happening again.

There was yet another person that was giving you some weird sense of déjà vu. But he clearly didn’t recognize you, so how could you possibly know him?  

Regardless, before you even realized it, your lips had formed a sound. 

“Aizawa?” you mumbled.  

His eyes went wide. It was completely silent, and all you could do was watch as his brow furrowed, confusion and mild worry overtaking his expression. 

“How do you know my name?”  

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💔 main masterlist ♡ oneshot masterlist

[mystical-shadows]

Essay: “The Call of the Wild Witch: Reclaiming the Fire Within” For the Women Who Are Ready to Rise Unapologetically

Listen, Sister.

Can you hear it? That soft, rhythmic thrum beneath your ribs— It’s not your heartbeat. It’s the drumbeat of your ancestral wildness, pounding like thunder from a time before shame was stitched into your skin.

There is a reason you feel a restlessness. There is a reason you dream of running barefoot beneath the moonlight, hair tangled like ivy, lips red with the taste of freedom, hands smeared not with sin but soil, ink, and spellfire.

That reason is this:

You were never meant to be caged.

The Virtue of Wildness

For centuries, they have whispered to us to be still, be good, be small. They tried to tame us with corsets, contracts, and commandments. They pressed crosses into our palms and told us to fold our hands instead of raise them.

But the witch—oh, the witch— She was never meant to be folded.

She is the woman who said no to the crown and yes to the crown of stars. She is the woman who brewed rebellion in her cauldron and kissed the wind with her spells. She is you when you finally remember.

To be a witch is to reclaim your sovereign nature. To howl when the world demands silence. To dance when they tell you to kneel. To weave beauty and fury into a tapestry of selfhood no man can unravel.

Witchcraft as Liberation

Forget what they told you. Witchcraft is not evil. It is not darkness. It is the firelight in the dark. It is power with roots in the earth and wings in the storm. It is the alchemy of turning your pain into purpose. It is the fierce grace of knowing your own body, mind, and spirit are temples, not battlegrounds.

Witchcraft says: You are not here to please the patriarchy. You are here to burn it down— With wisdom, with ritual, with the raw radiance of your truth.

Through spellwork, through intuition, through communion with the unseen, we reforge the chain of sisterhood long broken by persecution and fear. We reclaim the sacred rites of bleeding, birthing, burying, and blooming.

We return to the forest—not to get lost, but to finally find ourselves.

A Temptation You Were Born For

So let me tempt you, beautiful one.

Not with shame, but with your own sacred flame. Not with submission, but with storm-song. Not with the lie of obedience, but with the truth of your untamed divinity.

Let’s throw off the veils and dance sky-clad beneath the full moon. Let’s awaken the forgotten spells in our blood. Let’s remember that no system, no man, no scripture gets to tell you what to be.

You are wild. You are wise. You are woven from the same chaos that births stars.

And when you step into your witchhood, not just as a practice but as a rebellion, as an embrace of the sacred feminine in its most feral form— you will never need permission again.

To My Sisters: An Invitation

Come, my love. The cauldron is warm. The moon is rising. The old gods are watching. And your freedom is waiting.

Break the chains. Take up your broom. Speak your spell.

And walk into the fire that was always yours.

So mote it be.

[littlefireball]

Can you make a Werewolf Yeosang too?

Yah of course 😎 sub yeosang is here btw 😗

ʏꜱ|ꜱᴇx ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴡɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ (ᴍ)

ʙᴇᴛᴀ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ꜱᴜʙ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴏʀᴀʟ| ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ,ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ| ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴᴇᴅ|ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.5ᴋ

Masterlist

Had it not been for the poisoning incident, you would have never found yourself caught up in this questionable contest. Now, standing toe to toe with your rival, you pace anxiously, battling the discontent bubbling inside you and the "toxins" wreaking havoc on your system.

A wave of regret washes over you as you think back to your adventurous spirit that led you to sample such strange concoctions—a glass of wine laced with aphrodisiacs. With no known cure for these powerful agents, the only path back to normalcy lies in having sex with others.

A searing heat envelops your body, your heart pounds wildly in your chest, and every breath feels like a struggle. At first, you tried to withstand the agony, but the toll on your body becomes too much to bear, drastically affecting your everyday existence. In a fit of desperation, you find yourself wandering into the grim world of the slave market.

Whether it's the intoxicating haze clouding your mind or amplifying your cravings, the sight of the prized "championship trophy" stirs a fire within you that demands to be unleashed.

Yeosang—renowned as the finest sex slave in the shadowy underbelly of the black market. To be more specific, he is a werewolf slave. How unfortunate for him, as he was forsaken by his own kind. The tale is straightforward. The mate of the wolf pack's leader became infatuated with him, yet he refused to yield to her advances, leading to her slandering him. Naturally, he stood no chance against the alpha; after all, he is merely a beta.

Clad in a sleek black silk suit, he kneels within the confines of a cage, his hands and feet ensnared by heavy chains, reminiscent of a peacock deprived of its liberty. His striking beauty feels utterly misplaced in this grim reality, with his youthful visage starkly contrasting the violent chaos that surrounds him.

Yet, he remains indifferent to the impending clash, for he is merely a "trophy," and the value he offers will remain unchanged, no matter who emerges victorious.

"Oh damn, what's wrong with me…" Your gaze is irresistibly drawn to him. Yeosang bows his head, his eyes fixating on the handcuffs encircling his wrists, a look of sorrow washing over his face as he gently traces the angry red marks left by the bindings. You take in this poignant scene, but soon redirect your attention to the looming battle.

Ho, you must be crazy because of that fucking alcohol. Why do you feel pity when you kill people for a living? Why do you have to compete in person when you can obviously solve the problem with money?

Just fuck it.

You inhale deeply, centering your thoughts back on the game. Both of you stand poised, hearts racing, waiting for your foes to make the first move.

Your eyes lock in a fierce stare, each of you radiating intensity. In your mind, you strategize, plotting the perfect moment to strike and finish the duel with a single, decisive blow.

Yet, the crowd's restlessness grows, their thirst for blood palpable.

"Just fight already! Quit stalling! You two idiots!"

A voice cuts through the tension, a man shouting in frustration at the drawn-out standoff. The knights halt their fidgeting, turning their fierce gazes toward the impatient onlookers.

Seizing the moment while your adversary is momentarily distracted, you launch yourself forward, driving your sword with all your strength!

He attempts to defend himself with crossed arms, but your blow is too powerful, sending him crashing to the ground, his trident skittering away.

You stride over him, looking down at the defeated figure, and raise your gleaming blade.

In a heartbeat, his head tumbles away like a ball kicked across the field, blood erupting like a geyser, splattering your armor and weapon.

Thus, the clash concludes—an outcome devoid of tension or buildup. The audience stands in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how this "epic battle" could be resolved in mere moments.

Even Yeosang stands in shock, having never encountered such raw power in any battle he has witnessed before. A wave of terror washes over him. Panic surges in his chest, gripping his nerves and rendering him motionless. His eyes, wide with fear, lock onto yours, as if he might crumble at any moment.

You step closer to Yeosang, your face devoid of expression, unlock the cage, and reach out your hand to him. "You belong to me now," you deliberately lower your voice, ensuring that your words remain unheard by others. After a tense pause, he finally responds, trembling as he takes hold of your hand.

You draw him out of the cage, your hand resting firmly on the back of his neck, and once more you lower your voice, whispering, "You understand what you need to do, don't you?" "Yes, Sir."

You both step into the room, the door clicking shut behind you. He reaches for your armor, but you halt his hand. Confused, he tilts his head, yet you ignore his puzzled expression and pull him onto the bed.

"Listen, I'm poisoned. I just need your help to detox, and I promise I don't have any strange habits."

"But… how can I assist you?"

"You're amusing. Did you forget your role?" Leaning down, you gently lift his chin with one finger while your other hand rests on his thigh.

"What's your safe word? I don't want to cause you any harm." He blinks in surprise, having never been posed such a question, but quickly gathers himself and replies, "Gr… Green."

"Good," you say with a smile, removing your mask and letting your hair cascade down. It's then he realizes you are a woman.

Taken aback, he stares in disbelief, struggling to grasp the reality. In all the slave competitions he's been part of, it's predominantly men who compete, with only a handful of women.

"You are staring."

"You are stunning"

He can't hold back any longer, his words spilling out in a rush as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Your heart swells with affection at his charming confession, and you can't help but chuckle. You gently cradle his face in your hands, leaning in to press your lips against his.

This kiss is unlike any he has known; it's soft and tender, wrapping him in a blissful haze. There's no urgency, no nibbles—just the delicate dance of your lips, occasionally brushing against each other in sweet little pecks. You soon break the kiss, tracing your finger over his lips and softly ask, "Wanna feel good?" Confused, he nods his head.

"Words." you remind him. "Yes, sir… master." You stand up and remove your armor, leaving only your bra and underwear, then kneel in front of him.

Your hands caress his thighs as you kiss his sensuous lips again. With a hint of aggression, your tongue slides into his mouth while dancing with his and taking control. He can't help but moan shyly. The vibrations from each moan he releases gradually pushes you over the edge that makes you desire more.

"Oh fuck, your voice is so beautiful." You say between the kisses. The heat within your body burns like a flame, urging you to have sex with him. "Damn it…"

Your lips part once more as you settle onto his lap, rhythmically swaying your body back and forth, intentionally pressing against his member. The friction between your thighs sends shivers through you both, igniting a warmth that spreads rapidly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, drawing nearer, occasionally brushing against his growing arousal.

Even through the fabric, the friction sends waves of excitement coursing through Yeosang. He can feel himself growing harder as the tip of his cock brushes against your lower core. A rush of heat envelops him, concentrating on his manhood, while the pre-cum seeps out, dampening his underwear, leaving him with a chill from the wetness.

With a firm grip, you pin him down, and he submits willingly to the bed, your lips locked together, creating an embarrassingly wet sound with each kiss. Breaking away from his lips, you begin to suck and lick at his neck, expertly targeting his sensitive spots. Your playful teasing elicits deep, satisfied moans from him.

"I have never used the word beautiful to describe a man." You whisper in his ears before planting a kiss on his lips. "Oh… gosh…" Yeosang has never experienced such pleasure before. For him, sex is always about service rather than enjoyment.

"Sounds good" Smiling, your hand trails down to the hem of his panties, pulling down enough to free his cock. You hold his member, feeling his hardness beneath your palm. Moving up and down slowly, you make sure he feels every move of your fingers. "Goodness…" The itchy feeling sends shivers down his spine, especially your finger rubs against his tip while giving it a hard press.

He never thought he could be so eager to have sex with anyone. Even you can say, he hates it. But you are different. Each of your movements sends a thrill through him, his desire rising like a tide of ecstasy. He craves you deeply, yearning to feel your warmth wrap around him, guiding him to the ultimate climax.

"Hmmm… I wanna enter you. Please." His beg makes you let out a low chuckle. "You're more impatient than me. Are you the one who was poisoned?" You release his handcuffs and pull him towards the headboard, where he clasps his hands onto it. Taking off all his clothes, his semi-hardened cock is revealed with precum covered on it.

"So horny, aren't you?" "Yes, yes. Please let me have you, master." You are hesitant from his words, wondering if it is education in the black market. He is supposed to be strong, brave, but not beg from others. 'What they did for him.' You think, an inexplicable anger ignites in your heart.

You will kill for him after this encounter ends. You promise.

"Be patient, little wolf." You kneel down before sinking down your face between his thighs. "Let me have a taste first." Gripping his cock, you guide it to your mouth and lick it from the bottom to the top. "Oh god." He arches his back as the numbness and the pleasure crush within his body, a long-throaty moan leaving his lips as you continue to please him with your tongue.

"Open your legs wide or I will stop," you command. "Yes, master. I am sorry." His legs wide open again as you prop against his thigh as support, moving up and down quickly while teasing his ball. Your tongue circled the head of his shaft, sucking hard, leaving a reddish mark. He rolls his hip to thrust deeper; his cock twitches each time the tip reaches your throat, and you know he is about to reach his peak. But you pull out before he comes undone in your mouth.

"Why…master…I want to cum." He cries out, tears dripping down because of delightful. "Only a good boy can cum. Will you promise? Little wolf." "Yes! I will! I promise." His begging satisfies your ego and makes it grow. Maybe the beast called desire inside you is finally breaking out of its cage.

"Then help me." Removing your panties, you throw it away before aiming at his erection, sinking down slowly. You can feel every vein of his cock as your wall tightens around it, making you carve for more. "Master, it feels so good!" "Yah, fuck!" His sperm keeps flowing out, wetting your velvet wall.

"Tell me if you can't bear it." He remains in disbelief at the words that reached his ears. You actually care for him? Is that true? What could possibly motivate that? Even if he's merely a means for your own cleansing, there's no obligation for you to feel anything for him. Yet, before he can delve deeper into his thoughts, you begin to bounce, rhythmically rising and falling after adjusting his size and the sensation of being enveloped.

Your hands press firmly on his shoulders, your nails piercing his skin just a touch too deeply, drawing blood and inflicting a sting. But he feels excited instead of painful. Your breasts bounce up and down from your movements, making him lost in this alluring sight. God, he can just watch how you bounce on him for an hour.

"Ahhh…master…gosh!!" Each time you descend, his tip brushes against your tender skin, eliciting a symphony of moans from both of you. Your rhythm accelerates, and the power behind your thrusts grows stronger. It feels as though you've drained every ounce of energy, leaving a hollow sensation in your lower body that is increasingly uncomfortable.

He yearns to explore your body, to savor every curve and contour of your skin. However, he remains immobilized, his hands bound at the head of the bed. The relentless tugging creates faint red lines on his wrists, while his palms grow slick with sweat from the tension of his clenched fists, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

Your right hand finds its way to his throat, applying pressure that steals his breath and brings dark spots to his vision. He attempts to lift his head for a gasp of air, but you have no intention of granting him a moment's relief. Your rapid up-and-down movements force him to hold his breath. The overwhelming stimulation leaves him dizzy and pushes him to the limit.

"Ahh! Ahh!! Green!!" The moment he speaks the safe word, you instantly cease all movement, loosening your hold on his throat. "Are you alright? Is there any pain?" you inquire gently, a trace of worry lacing your tone. He hesitates, words escaping him as he simply gazes into your caring eyes. You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, your fingers gliding over his delicate skin until they rest on the vivid red birthmark.

Throughout his life as a slave, comfort has been a foreign concept, with no one ever caring for his well-being. In stark contrast to your indifference towards life in the heat of battle, you show genuine concern for him, striving to bring him joy. How could he possibly resist falling for you? Perhaps he's been ensnared by a different kind of poison, one known as "love at first sight." You lean closer, brushing your lips against his, captivated by the magic in his eyes.

"I can stop if you want." You remark. "No, please. I want you, master. I want my cock deep inside you again. I want to touch you. And has your poison been cured?"

Responding to his beg, you pull out from his body and free him from his bindings. Your gaze falls upon the bruises encircling his wrists, and you gently stroke them with your thumb.

"It appears my poison still lingers. Come and help me."

In an instant, he straightens up, his hands finding their way to your shoulders as he leans over you, pinning you down. Shock flickers in your eyes at his abrupt action, but you swiftly gather your calmness and align yourself with his intentions.

"Let me serve you, my lord." His face falls into your neck, sucking and biting your skin to leave a crystal clear red mark. He is really skilled at turning others on harder;the wet muscle trails down to your breast, licking your left nipple while squeezing another with his hand. His thumb circles it along the curve, giving a hard press to make you moan and throw your head at the back.

Guiding his cock to rub against your clit, he thrusts your cunt once again, hitting your sweet dead on. "Here, right?" He smirks with a sense of pride. "Ye..yah!" Not waiting for you to finish your words, his tip hits the same place once again. The waves of numbness make you squirm, and your screams are not as high-pitched as before, but with a shy feeling.

"I love your moaning, master." You let out an exasperated sigh, feeling a surge of warmth envelop you completely. Yeosang leans in, planting soft kisses along your neck while maintaining a steady rhythm. His shaft glides against your slick walls, creating a sound reminiscent of flowing water. With each thrust, he quickens his pace, closing the gaps between each tantalizing connection to your G-spot.

Your breath becomes shallow, and your heart pounds wildly as he maps out every curve of your body with his lips and hands, as if he were intimately familiar with every secret you hold. You wrap your arms around him, your nails digging into his back, leaving a trail of marks on his skin.

Yeosang buries his head in your chest, groaning against it. You are so perfect for him, from head to toes. Just everything. Although he doesn't even know your name, your personality, he ensures you are the one he is looking for. Someone who cares about him, someone with whom he can enjoy sex.

He loathes the idea of sex, viewing it as a repugnant transaction. He has grown weary of the way others have treated him, often rough and unkind. Each encounter left him battered to some extent, reduced to nothing more than a plaything. Yet, when he sees you, everything changes. You bring him joy and tenderness, showering him with genuine care.

It may seem almost humorous, but deep down, he realizes that you are the only one he desires, and his body confirms the truth of his feelings.

He places your leg on his shoulder and thrusts as fast as possible. "Ah!Fuck!" "Please say my name, my lord. I want to hear you say it." "Oh…yeosang ar…" Shit! He is unable to control himself anymore. He withdraws a bit and pushes into your cunt in a powerful motion over and over again.

"I'm cumming, master." He feels his cock twitches as you keep sucking him in. "Cum…cum inside me." Yeosang's thrusts become rushed and lose his rhythm; you grab his shoulders, making an "O" shape with your mouth, panting as if you are about to run out of oxygen.

"Oh! Oh! God!" After a few more thrusts, you both reach climax; your hot juices cover his cock and his sperm creams your wall. He thrusts forward twice before pulling out, lying down beside you. After a short rest, the hot feeling in your body has finally dissipated, you get up and put your clothes back on, ready to leave.

"My body is already healed, thanks." You say without noticing his sadness.

"Aren't you staying?" Yeosang asks with confusion.

"Staying? Why? Didn't I tell you that I'm just here to detoxify? Also, I have work." Yes, you have to 'deal with' those people who treated Yeosang badly.

"Will you come back then?"

"Nope." You observe him bow his head, gently stroking his wrist before hesitantly reaching to the nape of his neck. Even in his silence, you can sense the thoughts swirling in his mind. "No worries. I'm gonna kill those people who treated you badly and you can be free."

"What? No…I…"

"Isn't this what you wanted? To leave the cage and no longer be bound by anyone."

"But I don't know where to go or what to do…I'm just a reward…"

"Then go find out, go explore what you want to do."

He lowers his head in silence, deep in thought. Suddenly, he tightens his embrace around you.

He bows his head, enveloped in his thoughts, and then suddenly tightens his hold around you, as if fearing you might slip away.

"Will you stay…? That's all I want. Please… don't leave me alone. You're the only one who cares for me. I'm yours, and I'd do anything for you. Just don't go."

You can't help but giggle at his endearing gesture, stroking his hair softly as you respond, "Are you really sure? I'm a knight, and my profession is to take lives."

"Yah!I'm yours! Just let me stay with you. I'll even give you a written promise, if that's what you want!""

Maybe he sees you as a lifeline. Although you have never thought about buying a slave, it seems that if you reject him, he may feel sad. Also, you don't want him to serve anyone else.

"Umm…fine."

"Really?" A radiant smile spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling with excitement. You give a nod in response.

"Can I cuddle you?" It's the first time he's asked this as a servant, and he can hardly believe he's free to follow his heart's desire. You nod again, and he gently pulls you down onto the bed, nestling his face against your chest.

"Just like a little puppy."

"Perhaps I know your name? My lord."

"Y/N."

"It sounds like a name for a genuinely good person."

"You're being overly dramatic." You chuckle softly, allowing him to wrap his arms around you as you both drift into a peaceful slumber.

Well, maybe this aphrodisiac isn't so terrible after all. And of course, you make your promise ─ kill others for him, only.

[invidioso-dogma]

After coming across this excerpt, and having read 2 of Eisenhorn's short stories I started noticing, and dare I say. Seen a pattern in the people he chooses to surround himself with.

An old man that kickstarts the adventure into gear.

A sexy lady, probably clad in something skin tight or a corset. Yes you will have a full description of her in the outfit.

A caveman with big gun.

A sneaky caveman with small gun.

A caveman caveman the comic relief caveman, the cave jester of the cave system.

The caveman that says bitch, pussy and other gentlemanly words but god forbid someone says fuck. This is where we draw the line...

The number of cavemen fluctuates between 4 and 6 depending on the demands of the mission. But there can only be one sexy lady.

One day I will read the first book. And I swear if the pattern keeps on going there I will make a bingo game for Greg.

[witchcultdeactivated]

WANDS

I.

a Witch is a Priestess you don't like.

II.

a Lesbian Witch is coming to get you—

III.

unless you are one.

IV.

a Lesbian is a HOMOSEXUAL FEMALE

V.

—NOT a feminist separatist

VI.

nor a bisexual woman with good taste,

VII.

regardless of her sexual history, sexual trauma

VIII.

intersexuality or trans/masculinity—

VIV.

a Lesbian is NEVER a trans “woman”

X.

or any woman who fucks them;

PAGE

Lesbians are NOT “non-men” and are NOT “men lite”. We are LESBIANS!

KNIGHT

regardless of our defeminization under patriarchy and its consequence, our “third gender” status;

QUEEN

a Lesbian is a homosexual human female—a confession of Witchcraft, and that's alright!

CUPS

I.

There are no other books about Lesbian Witchcraft.

II.

In the tradition of Lesbian Feminism, it is “non-linear, poetic and obscure”;

III.

not in the tradition of Lesbian Feminism, it has actual Lesbians in it.

IV.

This work is the flower of consciousness raised within the Dianic tradition, of Lesbians as born homosexuals within the sex class that is Woman;

V.

where Dianic Witchcraft is female-only, we are Lesbian-only; where Dianic witchcraft has failed to accommodate Lesbian practitioners, we will center them(us), and especially the gender-defiant.

VI.

The Lesbian Witch has been erased. Lesbian recognition of ourselves in the Goddess has been interrupted by the feminization of the Witch archetype.

VII.

Where Dianic Witchcraft is Cultural Feminism, this is Counter-Cultural feminism; Cultural Feminism finds divinity in femininity and we find divinity in trampling it.

VIII.

in second-wave parlance, this is a work of Androgynous Libertarian Radical Feminism— and since we're doing this with real dykes this time, we can cut the "too butch for androgyny" shit too.

VIV.

The philosophy herein represents Lesbians' greatest political interests as a class, we just got really weird about it.

X.

Religion is the vehicle by which social systems are perpetuated, and Lesbian politics require the driving force of a Lesbian religion;

PAGE

and Lesbian religion could only be Witchcraft;

KNIGHT

and so we approach the Horned One in the aspect of Bulldagger, Lucifer as Divine Androgyne, the Devil in the Shape of a Woman—

QUEEN

and the Goddess knows her, is her, and is madly in love with Her.

PENTACLES

I.

Lesbians have NOTHING;

II.

no spaces, no platforms and no class consciousness.

III.

Lesbian-exclusive spaces have never been truly permitted to exist; male interlopers and their champions have presented a threat since the first homosexual women were known to gather.

IV.

But there is nowhere to hide in the eyes of the Goddess.

V.

Whether you are truly Of Us is between you and Her.

VI.

this is a lonely, crooked path;

VII.

a closed tradition

VIII.

with an open book;

VIV.

a digital subversion of the Book of Shadows, published for transcription by hand into individual grimoires...but only as so inclined;

X.

to put language to the timeless Lesbian Current,

PAGE

a Deed Without a Name

KNIGHT

and a Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

QUEEN

nameless here, forevermore.

SWORDS

I.

& I CURSE

II.

THE tRaNsGeNdEr LeSbIaN

III.

WHO READS THIS HOPING FOR A CRUMB OF POETRY

IV.

TO SOFTEN THE LANGUAGE

V.

DESCRIBING HIS MASTURBATORY PROJECT;

VI.

I CURSE THE MIMIC, THE WEARER OF SKINS, THE MALIGNANT AUTOGYNEPHILE,

VII.

THE “TRANSSEXUALLY CONSTRUCTED LESBIAN FEMINIST”

VIII.

THE PORN-ADLED HENTAI FREAK CLAD IN SLOPPY APROXIMATION OF HIS OWN EX GIRLFRIEND DEMANDING ENTRANCE INTO THE SKYCLAD RITUAL

VIV.

LIKE HE DOESN'T KNOW.

X.

HE KNOWS.

PAGE

MAY LESBIAN ARTEMIS STRIKE HIM DOWN

KNIGHT

MAY LESBIAN HECATE SNATCH HIS SOUL

QUEEN

MAY THE GROUND NOT RECIEVE HIM.

SO BE IT.

[ruru195]

The Esteemed Archeologist and His Soft Spot

The interview studio was sleek and minimalistic, perfect lighting bathing the set in warm hues. Felix sat tall in the armchair, clad in a crisp button-up, sleeves rolled neatly at the elbows, his signature hat resting on the table beside a well-worn leather-bound notebook. His posture was confident, expression poised. He looked every bit the respected explorer, historian, and published author he had grown into.

“Dr. Felix,” the interviewer began with a practiced smile, “your latest book, Echoes Beneath the Sand, has made waves not only for its discoveries but for the personal insight it brings into the lives of those ancient civilizations. Tell us—what inspired your latest expedition?”

Felix smiled, professional and articulate. “The region I studied held strong potential for untouched ruins. There were trade routes that hadn’t been properly mapped, and records indicating temple structures lost to time. My team and I spent months charting terrain, cross-referencing cultural records—really putting the pieces together.”

The interviewer nodded, clearly impressed. “And you personally uncovered the ceremonial chamber?”

“That’s right,” Felix said with a small, proud nod. “It was a moment of awe. The architecture, the symbols—none of us expected it to be so well preserved.”

“So, between these dangerous expeditions, your academic work, and book writing… how do you balance such a demanding career with your personal life? If I may ask—what’s life like off the field?”

For a moment, Felix held his practiced, collected tone. “I value keeping my personal life private, but I will say this—having a strong support system is key. There are people who ground me. Remind me to sleep, eat, and, well… breathe.”

But then—then the interviewer smiled curiously and asked, “Is it true you have quite a large family?”

And that’s when it happened.

Felix’s eyes sparkled. His shoulders softened. His whole face lit up in a way that no ceremonial tomb or international award had ever caused. His hands came to his face, covering his cheeks as a huge, hopelessly proud grin spread across his face.

“Oh—oh no, I’m going to cry again,” he laughed, already pink in the face. “Yeah, I—I have a lot of little ones.”

The interviewer laughed warmly. “You don’t have to name them, but what’s it like?”

Felix leaned forward, unable to stop the joy tumbling out of him like an avalanche of bunnies and kittens.

“They’re… the best thing in the world,” he said, clasping his hands like he was holding his whole heart together. “Some of them have these huge ears, and others? Little fuzzy tails, and these big eyes—they look at me and giggle, and that’s it. I’m gone. There’s no ancient artifact in the world that could top that feeling.”

He gave a dreamy sigh, clearly lost in memory. “One of them just learned how to blow raspberries. Raspberries! You’d think I discovered Atlantis the way I reacted.”

The interviewer chuckled. “You seem like a very proud dad.”

“I am,” Felix beamed. “I go out there and face cave-ins and sandstorms and political board meetings—but the real adventure? It’s snack time. Or bath night. Or the way they all pile on me during a movie and I can’t feel my legs for an hour but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

By this point, the image of the stoic, seasoned archeologist had completely melted. Felix was hugging a throw pillow now, giggling to himself like someone just showed him a picture of baby bunnies dancing.

“They’re the reason I keep going, really,” he added softly. “Every time I find something—some old carving or tool—I think, ‘Someday, I’ll show them this. I’ll tell them the story, and they’ll know that even thousands of years ago, people built and dreamed and loved just like we do.’ That’s what it’s all about.”

The interviewer smiled, watching this transformation unfold. “Well, Doctor, I think we’ve just discovered the real treasure here.”

Felix laughed through misty eyes. “Don’t say that or I will cry on camera.”

“Too late. We got it.”

They both laughed, and the segment ended not with a discussion on history or the sands of time, but on something more timeless: a father’s love and the quiet, powerful joy of being someone’s safe place to come home to.