#I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate how the untied states has to be the center of all media

[pumpkinsouppe]

For both Mario and Zelda, why is Nintendo so against working with Japanese studios?

You would think these would be great opportunities to showcase Japanese animation and culture for Japanese games, Americans aren’t the only people in the world playing Nintendo games or making movies or tv shows

As a huge fan of reading about game localizations, it really does break my heart how much Nintendo of America removed so many Japanese elements from their games when localizing them for their American audience. It’s even gotten to the point where people sometimes forget that the legend of Zelda series isn’t a European fantasy game, it’s a Japanese fantasy game that took inspiration from some outside influences (Peter pan being the biggest one)

[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆⭒˚.⋆ chapter summary. he's more sensitive than he looks.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader warnings for this chapter. swearing wc. 3.5k author’s note. just wanna say a big thank u to everyone that stuck w this story and loved it along w me. there's still one chapter left, so here's some mini angst before our little happy ever after. also, i've recently realized that nothing actually happens in this story. there's no plot. you just hang out with gojo and the rest. that's it. no great fights or conflict or anything. just spending time with him.

ੈ ✩‧₊˚

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CHAPTER 13: the hakone incident

you wake up smothered in an embrace, which isn't uncommon.

what is slightly more uncommon is that gojo is wound around you so tightly that even his dumb, big paw has got your breast held hostage. not much there to sink his claws in, yet sunk they are, still. you wiggle and grasp and dig, trying to extricate yourself from this prison, but the soft fabric that rubs against his crotch with every small movement has him hissing in your ear.

“sa-”

“mine,” is the first thing he mumbles, words laced with sleep. he cradles you tighter, hides his face in your hair. you pat his arm, ignoring his sleep-addled state.

some sort of half-coherent mumble is slurred into your pillow as a response.

“not gonna bother translating that,” you utter under your breath – it’s too early to be irritated with him, and he doesn’t deserve it also, since he is much too cute. however, “lemme go? i need to go to the bathroom.”

“no,” he stubbornly refuses.

“don't be like that.”

a soft groan, then a kiss to the exposed curve of your neck, and one more to the edge of your ear. his fingers twitch at the flesh, kneading and tickling, “fine, i need to go too. let's go together.”

“you wanna hold hands while i'm in the stall or something?”

“yes.”

he is unreasonable, but that’s hardly a surprise.

you disentangle your legs from his, untying his arms from your torso, then turning to sit up properly. instantly, your stomach flips. in the bleak, early sunlight, gojo is the first thing you focus on, sleep-dazed and smiling lovingly in your direction. cheeks creased and swollen with grogginess, hair a complete mess, eyes still crusted. you wipe a drop of drool from the corner of his mouth with your thumb.

once, he told you that he always sleeps the best when you’re sleeping next to him. maybe that’s why he’s so clingy, “morning.”

“yeah?” he mutters. one hazy eye blinks, then the other, and you can’t help grinning at the sight, “hi. hello. good morning, how are you? ‘m just the guy you're looking for, can i be of service?”

you try so hard to press your lips into a thin line, but instead they stretch more and more, “c'mon, up. long day ahead.”

*

you had expected to take the morning train to hakone, but instead, with your bags dutifully carried by a lanky idiot, you are led to sleek, black car parked inconspicuously close to jujutsu technical. suspiciously, you eye the tinted windows of the driver’s seat, expecting a personal chauffer – which would be way too much, but also quintessential gojo. when the car keys jingle in his hand, you blink stupidly, smothered under the sunlight.

“you have a license?” you blurt.

“yeah,” gojo says smugly, opening the trunk and dumping the bags inside, “to kill.”

“the circus must be missing their clown,” you state sharply, though you feel a bit silly for not knowing such a thing about the man you have spent 3 years hating and a few months liking enough to be willingly glued to his side.

he snorts, fixing his glasses and shutting the trunk. all suave and cool, he opens the passenger’s door for you, “got any red lipstick in that little purse of yours? could kiss my nose a bunch of times, see if it honks after.”

the urge to shove your elbow into his stomach and watch how he doubles over in pain is almost too tempting, but you resist. after all, you do have the mind to enjoy the view of his flexing arms as you enter the vehicle, the sight disappearing as he circles around to enter from the other side.

the interior smells nice and new – it’s definitely expensive, but your knowledge of cars begins and ends in that they have four wheels and roll fast when you press a pedal. you can practically feel the self-satisfaction radiating off his person, especially as his hand glides along the steering wheel. it takes a few moments of useless fiddling and some gears shifting until he begins driving. his hand seats itself upon your thigh, as though it had always been its intention.

“seatbelt,” he reminds, easily maneuvering out of the parking lot.

you slide the black band across your chest, buckling the lock, “thanks,” he mutters, palming your leg for good measure, “safe and sound.”

then, he slams the accelerator so quick and hard you're thrown back into the plush seat. the car screeches like a furious beast wrongfully insulted, engine purring loudly as its owner cackles. oh no.

here is where you learn that gojo is a terrible driver, as the speed limit is more of a loose guideline and traffic laws do not exist. he speeds past red lights that have you clutching the handlebar for your dear life, and he seems to delight in your mortified expression each time his eyes stray from the road, which is too much to be considered safe.

miraculously, you make it past the confusing and intricate tokyo streets in one piece and breathe a little easier. that is until you get to the highway, and he zooms between lanes like he’s playing a video game, jumping between cars and testing the limits of your patience to a level so extreme that you can hardly take it.

“could you slow down a little?” your voice has acquired a tremble, and you must be paler than you have been when you awoke. you think he’ll ignore you over the music, but he doesn’t.

he eases up just a little, and you remove your hand from the handlebar. it’s numb and tingly and aches from holding so tightly.

“i have some cds in the back,” he says, pinching your thigh. you think he doesn’t deserve to touch you like this, but unfortunately, it’s comforting, so you allow it. if you crash, you decide you will grab him and shield yourself with his body – his infinity will stop the impact, and you’ll probably live.

you twist and dig around, and once the cds are safely in your lap, your brows shoot up, “kat-tun?”

his lips stretch into a cheeky smile, and all of his grievances are forgiven with that, “they have a few good songs.”

“all of their songs are good!” you defend hotly. still, today is proving to be one surprise after the other – did he seriously listen to their whole discography because it’s your favorite band? if yes, that is very sweet. if he’s lying, well, you will not fight for the truth, because this has made you happy.

you change the music with barely contained enthusiasm and hum along. your initial impression must’ve been wrong, because gojo knows what he’s doing. he always does, and you reward him with a sweet smile for all of his efforts, which inspires him to lean for a kiss that nearly steers you both off the highway.

*

the first place you visit in hakone is not the hotel room gojo has rented, but the mall. you locate an expensive-looking restaurant and order your lunch – you, something modest and normal, and he enough to feed a family of seven. it’s always mildly fascinating to watch him chow down like his life depends on it, if not a bit off-putting.

“no one’s gonna take it from you,” you tell him when he slurps a noodle and almost chokes.

he glares at you over his shades, “shut up, ‘m hungry.”

you try to steal a piece from his bowl but he jabs your hand with chopsticks seemingly with the intention to break through skin. you yelp and shy away, wounded and afraid. he doesn’t even seem sorry.

he makes it up to you by treating you to coffee and a slice of cake, which he devours after you had a tiny bite. this is becoming a problem, but he looks very happy and doesn’t let go of your hand, planting quick, small kisses on the place he hurt, so you, once again, forgive him, as is the standard of your relationship.

shopping is next, and he steers you to each and every boutique that even marginally catches your attention. you pile everything you like on his arms, as though he was your personal assistant, and he, surprisingly, doesn’t complain. for the first half of you maxing out his card, he was stood outside the dressing room like a guard dog, shuffling back and forth, back and forth, waiting for you to pull back the curtain and reveal yourself so he could supply you with a verdict, which was always, without fault, “we’re buying that.”

he grew bored, though, and started whining that his feet hurt. invited himself inside and sat on the small chair in the very corner of the cramped space, very attentive when you changed in and out of your clothes. he even helped with the zippers and the buttons, and eventually, he got a boner from all this touching, so you had to stay for another good 10 minutes till he calmed down.

the blaring white lights, and you sweating. you stare at him, disappointed. he looks mildly uncomfortable, squirming in his seat and trying not to look at you, the mountain of clothes you discarded heaped on his lap.

“what am i gonna do with you?” you wonder aloud with a small sigh.

“i can’t help it. you’re hot.”

by the end of it all, you have acquired new perfume, a new set of luxurious makeup, and too many clothes to know what to do with. he carries your bags without you having to ask and leads you to get new underwear, but you make him wait outside the shop for that since you’re not risking another incident again.

*

when evening dwindles into night, he suggest a car ride around the city. the ocean breeze ruffles your hair when you roll down the window to admire the watercolor sights around you – the buildings, the people, the greenery, the mountain peak pitch black against the backdrop of the sky. you drive around aimlessly, and he's more subdued and mindful of the signs and the blinking traffic lights, his hand leaving your body only when he needs to switch gears. it always comes back with a little knead, and it always makes you smile.

“look, they're preparing for the festival,” you tell him as you pass by a closed off street of decorated stalls and convenience stores that look like they have been closed for the night, with two police men stationed across the entrance.

“you've ever been to lake ashinoko?” he questions idly.

“nope,” you turn another corner, the streets a little quieter, “it has the big torii gate, right?”

“yeah,” gojo hums, “we'll go there to watch the fireworks,” he seems distracted, “pretty stuff.”

“looking forward to it,” you reply, too interested in a display of colorful confectionary and sweets to decipher the tone of his voice, “where are we heading to?”

“dunno,” he mutters, knuckles slowly relaxing, “just around. you wanna head back?”

“nah,” you glance at him, a brow arched in curiosity. he looks oddly flushed. “you seem a little tired. wanna stop?”

“always worried about me,” he clicks his tongue, “’m a big boy.”

you pause for a moment. getou's words spring to mind, and you feel a bit nervous.

he's more sensitive than he looks.

maybe now's not the best time to bring up the clearly crumbling state of his best friend, but uncomfortable conversations don't have the luxury of waiting, nor do they ever fit into the right moment. you chew on your bottom lip in thought, as if the words would make themselves known without any effort from your part, but you find yourself no longer stuck on getou's haunting look but rather the way gojo seems a bit off his usual cheeky and snarky self.

you want to be a good friend. you care about both of them, and it hurts, in an odd, dull ache somewhere in your chest, when neither want your help.

is it so wrong to worry about gojo? you have come to terms with the idea that you like him, like him so much that sometimes, you feel half-crazy with a need to be by his side, constantly and without interruption, like today, like, hopefully, for many more days to come.

still, you are aware of the many walls and barriers he has erected to guard himself. and you, the person that likes him the most and has his attention almost at every given moment, still understand very little of who he is. you don't want to linger on the question if you ever will.

you must take example of haibara's endless positivity. step by step. even slow progress is still progress.

“i worry about everyone,” you eventually offer, more somber than you originally intended. still, it gets a faint snicker from him, and your cheeks puff with a mixture of amusement and relief. “you're not special, you know.”

“i hope that isn't true. i'd be crushed,” he teases back.

there it is. the little deflection that always makes you smile, despite how obviously it diverts from what's truly on his mind. it's a defense mechanism, you reckon. that said, you are not unaware that he has offered you little hints here and there, things he would only disclose in the dead of the night in the hush between soft laughs and your pillows.

without staring at him, you take a deep breath. heart light and fingers threaded against the seam of your shirt. here it goes, you tell yourself.

“i didn't used to worry so much, to be honest,” you confess, hoping he will at least listen before undoubtedly cutting you off, “but, i guess recently, i’m starting to see things from new perspectives. i know you don’t need it, but i still—”

he makes a sharp turn that doesn't seem coordinated enough, and suddenly, a stop-street opens to the left, overlooking a rocky beach and calm waters of the vast stretch of hakone's inlet. gojo parks dangerously close to the edge of the cliff and lets the air settle.

“honesty hour?” his smile is familiar to you, perhaps a bit too bitter to your liking. “alright. if we're playing this game, then i'd say that worrying is dumb, especially if it’s me you’re worried about. really stupid, actually. i don’t see the point in getting emotional over shit like that.”

“well, it’s not being emotional, it’s just—”

“no, shush,” he squeezes the length of your leg. you blink down at where he's touching you, and you look up when you realize he means to have the attention for just this. “look, what i'm saying is, i’m me, yeah? you can call me conceited all you want, but it’s the truth. i mean, i, okay, fine, fuck it,” he sighs, like he's annoyed, and you're just as grateful you can't fully see his expression as he likely is of yours, “a weak heart is not something to particularly proud of. i'm not someone that requires babysitting.”

this is likely the first time he has ever been so upfront about anything in his life, ever. maybe getou has seen this side of him, but even if that was the case, you'd never know for certain. you don't, however, appreciate the slight anger in his tone.

“no one's babysitting you,” you placate, careful to test his reaction before continuing, “we spend almost all of our time together, how is this surprising? and i don't think anyone would make an argument against you being the strongest, but you're still a person.”

you wonder when his hand slipped from your knee. he doesn't react for a good few seconds, as though gathering his thoughts, though you suspect, whether he was or not, this is not something he intended to dig deep enough to expose.

“well, yeah, duh,” he responds obtusely, but he offers nothing more.

this has gone about as well as you've expected, which is to say it has gone terribly, and it’s all his fault, because you were intending to go in a completely different direction.

“still a person,” he utters, and now he definitely sounds irritated, “the hell's that supposed to mean? you think i'm gonna roll over and let some curse get me or something? are you stupid?”

your stomach lurches like he has landed a heavy blow on it, and you need a moment to swallow past the ugly burn in your throat that your entire face stings with. somehow, what irks you the most is that you are hurt he would assume that you, of all people, would ever force something he doesn’t want onto him, as though the thought itself has made you a villain in his eyes.

as though stating a simple fact that he is human too is somehow insulting, somehow a threat to his title as gojo satoru and each and every connotation that comes with that honored name.

you have never asked him of anything. he's the one that started picking on you first, physically imposing himself into your life. he's the one that changed over the years and started showing new sides, he's the one that begs you to go on trips with him and buys you things and likes to hold you as he sleeps and complains that you make him horny even in situations that really call for tender affection instead of sexual advances.

you don't even ask him to like you like you like him, since you know that it would be met with harsh rejection. he would take it as a demand, no doubt, to be on your level – someone weak-hearted. his emotions have proven to be more volatile than his actions, and perhaps you’ve accidentally stumbled into something a bit out of your level of expertise. you can't brush it off with a snide, vaguely amusing remark like you usually would, nor do you want to.

you’ve changed, too.

still.

his hand is back as a vice around your knee. your jaw clenches.

that was uncalled for.

“you're being mean,” you mumble, your words hanging stale between you.

he sighs after what feels like an eternity, sounding long-suffering and tired,  “sorry. that came out wrong.”

“you've just started a fight for no reason.”

“what, you crying? tough luck, maybe try being—”

“fine,” you don’t let him finish, unbuckling your seatbelt, “sorry for getting so emotional. see you at the hotel.”

“what?” he snaps, head swerving in your direction with a new, searing glare, “no. jesus. just. no. what?”

“i’m heading back,” you insist, but you are stilled in your attempts at fleeing by his hold. it'll bruise if you really want to test how badly he's going to grip you, probably, but this unexpected argument has really shaken you. he's only ever been this prickly at the start of year two, when the sight of you invoked some long-simmering resentment that he showed by cowing at you from each and every corner, like some hellish echo, “let me go, please.”

“hold on,” his fingers dig, and despite how you try to swat at him, he doesn't budge, “there's no need for this. i'm sorry, okay? don't get out the fucking car, for fuck's sake, i'm serious.”

“satoru,”

“no,” he snarls, the sound sudden and vicious that you flinch from its force, “i said, no. i don't—you're not going anywhere. i'm sorry, okay, i'm sorry, i'm an asshole, i know, but just, just listen for a sec.”

you slump against your seat, lips pursed and arms tightly crossed in a way you know he finds childish but that, unfortunately for him, is a legitimate response to his infuriating behavior. to further throw him off, you make it very clear he does not have your attention, and that even if he did, it wouldn't do him any good.

you feel him slowly relax and tremble before petting at the little scratches he has accidentally carved in your skin in a way that lets you know he’s truly sorry. he lets out an uneasy sigh, fingers twitching every few seconds.

stillness. finally, silence, except for the wind that howls and the crash of the ocean below.

“i was talking bullshit,” he begins, the effort of it wearing him down to a barely audible, pathetic volume. “it's just, i can't... i don't know how, okay? that's the truth.”

“can't what?”

“you know,” he gestures ambiguously with the hand he isn't restraining you with, “there are certain expectations i gotta meet. i can't disappoint everyone. i mean, they wouldn't, i don't think, but... look, i'm sure you understand.”

“no, i don't, actually,” you snip, “i don't even understand what we're fighting about anymore.”

“i, just, it's, okay, whatever, fuck,” he thumps his head back against his seat, and the next words leave him in one big, excruciating spill, “i'm just not very good with feelings. this is all fucking crazy.”

like most secrets, they're out before he can reel them back. his lips slam shut so quickly that it turns into a tense line. you watch him, he watches you, and his face melts into something shameful. his eyes dart to the steering wheel and back, and you really hope he isn't planning on smashing the accelerator again to head face first into the rocks to escape whatever the hell is happening in this car.

“i'm not good at this,” he repeats slowly, painfully, as though you’re speaking different languages, “i don't want you to cry.”

“i'm not crying. i'm pissed off and i want to go home.”

“don't go home,” he rushes to say, “don't go anywhere. i'm not even sure where we are exactly, so just, calm down.”

“i can find my way,” you sniff irritably, and he suddenly looks utterly miserable, which you think is very unfair.

“christ, you couldn't even find the fucking bathroom in the mall, do you seriously think i'm gonna let you walk around alone at night cuz you're a bit angry with me?”

gojo really has a talent of saying the wrong things at the most right of times.

you scowl, “that's because i was following you!” yes, perhaps you did turn off your brain and mindlessly waddle after him, trusting him to deliver you to your desired location. is it a crime to be caught in the spell that is gojo satoru's enigmatic appeal? that should be considered a blessing instead of an inconvenience, surely, “don't patronize me. and if you don't quit being shitty, you'll be watching the fireworks alone, cuz i'm taking my ass to the first train and heading the hell back to tokyo.”

“sorry,” he bows his head, forehead softly smacking against your shoulder, “please don't go. i'm sorry.”

“sorry you went super shit on me?” you demand, still sulking, “or sorry you snapped?”

“sorry for... all of it, alright? i'll make it up to you. do you want new jewelry? you didn't get any. like earrings, or something. i'll get nice ones, okay?”

your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “huh? stop freaking me out. i sincerely hope you realize i don't hang around you to get free stuff. that's so shallow. do you even know me?”

“god,” he exhales heavily, like he's very, very close to banging his head against the wheel out of sheer exasperation. “i'm trying, you know. cut me some slack here.”

yes, you see he's trying his utmost best, and that's why you're already softening. but the sting still lingers. you will be gracious and assume that his attempt at buying back your affection was borne out of panic and is, overall, a genuine mistake, or maybe a show of something beneath the layers – who is he if not gojo satoru, the strongest, the richest, the prodigal son, the untouchable, unapproachable sorcerer? gojo doesn't deal with his mistakes gracefully. he overcompensates. he hides, and this time, he has failed to hide from you.

“and i don't want you to pay back the ice cream, either,” you finally mumble, tentatively reaching up to pet the mess of his fluffy hair as a show of good faith. an olive branch, because apparently, you will always possess a clearer mind than him.

he’s immobile for a second, and then he burrows even deeper into the material of your shirt, as though hoping to somehow melt away from it, and a heavy breath collapses out of him, “this is bad for my ego. don't ever take that control away from me. it's wrong. feels wrong.”

“fine. whatever. you win. happy? nothing happened, yada yada. friends,” you grumble.

“gross,” he groans, despite the clear warmth in his voice that makes your stomach flutter, “being a friend sounds a bit lame. but yeah. friends. and we're watching the fireworks tomorrow, yes? say yes.”

“okay,” you acquiesce, despite your reservations, “maybe.”

“yes,” he insists, stubbornly holding his position on your shoulder. he does, however, pout, and that lightens your mood significantly. “we are. right?”

“you have to be less annoying.”

“fine.”

“fine, and,” you start. you don't want to be cold with him, but you don't quite feel ready to let this go, “i want to sleep in a different room.”

he startles away from you like you’ve slapped him, “no. bad idea. forget it, it's not happening.”

“don't fight me on this, satoru,” you say, and his eyes widen slightly. “it's really not up for debate.”

“are you mad?”

“yeah,” you tell him, and it's true. “i'm not... mad-mad, but like. i need a little space.”

“okay,” he swallows thickly, like he doesn't like the thought of you so much as existing further than a ten meter radius from him, “got it. no problem.”

that must've hurt.

“just for today,” you assure him, “promise.”

he nods slowly. then, “can i… can i at least kiss you?”

you shake your head. no, not now. not yet.

“right, okay, of course,” he mutters emptily and sits back. with some space in between you again, you find his lack of warmth much more pronounced, not to mention the distance he puts there. for the first time today, when starts the car and shifts gears, the edge of his fingers doesn't brush your skin.

the drive back to the hotel is agonizingly silent.

additional author's note: i think dating gojo would be very difficult since he's so emotionally stunted that he can't express himself and he's too afraid to try. i think he would also have significant trouble being on the same level as someone he considers weaker than him (not in a bad way). the only reason he even formed a connection with suguru was because suguru, at one point, was also the strongest, and he was the only person that understood him on that level. reader isn't the strongest, and the connection she offers is really different than what he's used to. he lashes out, but he still apologizes sincerely. i also thinks he takes her for granted, much like he takes getou. he's supposed to be in control because he's the strongest, and he's likely troubled about his own feelings, that's why he's so frustrated.

don't be too angry with him, he's really trying :(

but anyway, stan kami-chan because she is a baddie and if a baddie threatened to leave me i'd be clawing at her begging her to stay too

tags (bold couldn't tag!). @shokosbunny , @jotarohat , @alygator77 , @fortunatelyfurrygiver , @finnydraws , @mastermasterlist1p1 , @eolivy , @letsmyy , @staruus , @k0z3me , @damnshorty , @kaeyakaikai , @n4melesspers0n , @midnightwriter21 , @sillymercury , @byakuya61085 , @stillnotherapy , @mydearchoso , @plutoisaghoul , @byerno6 , @bqvz , @harryzcherry , @noira-l , @your-sleeparalysisdem0n , @satoryaa , @cccandynecklaces , @stuffeddeer , @cherriee-ee ,

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Perfect Life || CL16 {2}

Summary: Charles finally gets to see the person his brother was proud to call his best friend, and in doing so realises he has some amendments to make. Warnings: angst, swearing, sarcasm WC: 2.4k

One || Two || Three

It was foolish to think the Leclerc’s would just leave you alone. It wasn’t so much of a surprise that Arthur stopped your door from closing but you did frown when his brother followed him inside your humble abode. 

It was dim inside, with only shafts of starlight coming in from the missing tiles above. You walked blindly through the sparse furniture to the fuse box and pulled the lever down, flooding the room with flickering fluorescent light. “Not quite up to your standard?” you challenged Charles with a daring arch of your brow. 

Arthur detoured to the small alcove that was once the factory staff room kitchen and grabbed two beers from the fridge that whined loudly to maintain its temperature. You immediately pressed your bottle to your cheek and moaned as the cold seeped into the bruised skin. Letting the makeshift ice pack do its job, you dropped onto the couch, avoiding the wayward springs that jutted out and tried to snag your clothes, and watched Charles walk around the cavernous room.

“This place is a dump,” he stated. He inspected the bed that consisted of a mattress thrown over pallets that had been abandoned inside the factory before eying up the punching bag that hung from the open rafters. 

“If you’re only staying to insult me, just go.” The exhaustion in your voice came from deep inside your soul and even Charles paused at the sound. 

You hated how he turned his inspection on to you instead. His eyes followed the length of your legs and you tucked your knees up under the hoodie, but then he finally noticed you had been barefoot the entire night. 

“Pack your shit, let’s go.”

You closed your eyes and tipped your head onto Arthur’s shoulder. “I liked him more when he ignored me.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Charles growled as he swiped your beer bottle from your face. 

“Charles, have you ever been beaten unconscious?”

“No.”

“Unless you want to find out how it feels, give me my fucking beer back.” You didn’t even open your eyes to see if the threat was taken seriously but then the cold touch of the bottle in your palm was an answer enough. “Thank you.”

“You can’t stay here,” he said calmly. “Pack your things, or I can buy whatever you need in Monaco.”

“I am not marrying you.” The beer was cheap and left a bitter aftertaste but you used it to smother the hot anger that was quickly starting to bubble in your gut. “Twenty minutes ago you would have let me risk being mugged while I walked home and probably asked for popcorn too while you watched.”

The old recliner you found at a secondhand store squeaked under Charles’ weight as he took a seat and said, “I don’t like popcorn.” You cracked an eye open to see amusement gracing on his face. “I also picked you up, didn’t I?”

“Wow, pick a girl up once and expect her to marry you.” 

Arthur snorted a laugh. “I offered first.”

“Maybe you two can fight it out for my hand.” Sarcasm dripped from your lips as you tipped your head to Charles. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you land on your ass again.”

“It was a cheap shot.”

“Are you gonna let him disrespect you like that?” you asked as you nudged your friend. 

“I’m not hitting him again,” Arthur grumbled. “It really hurt.”

“Oh, so not out of concern for me, thanks little brother.”

“She did warn you to shut up but you had to keep running your mouth.” Arthur looked at his brother’s lip but it wasn’t all that swollen thankfully. “Please don’t tell ma.”

“I can do your makeup,” you offered to Charles with a smirk. “I’m actually pretty good at covering up bruises now.”

Charles' eyes turned down and he shook his head as he felt guilty for how he had treated you over the years. 

“I don’t want your fucking pity,” you snapped. “Stop looking like someone kicked your puppy.”

An awkward silence grew until you growled in the back of your throat and rose from the couch. “Tur, can you lock up when you leave?”

“Where are you going?”

You made your way to the ‘bedroom’ and pulled on a pair of riding leathers, not bothering with the jacket since you were comfortable and warm in the hoodie. “Home. I have to get ready for a charity brunch in Marseille.” 

Charles watched curiously as you unlocked a thick padlock to what he thought was just a storage locker. Those green eyes widened when you swung your leg over the seat of the sleek Honda motorbike and grabbed your helmet that hung on the handlebars. 

“You let her ride that?” 

Arthur shrugged and finished his beer. “One: I’m not her keeper. Two: she has a licence. And three: you’re an idiot if you think anyone has a say in what she does.”

“You’re her friend, you should stop her from getting herself killed.”

“I am right here,” you reminded him. “I love the vote of confidence you have in me, by the way, really endearing.”

Whatever he was about to say was silenced when you clicked the remote for the roller door, kicked the bike stand back and turned the ignition on. The roar of the engine was deafening in the space and you slapped the shade down on your helmet before shooting out of your sanctuary. 

“We have a lot to talk about,” Charles warned his brother. 

Arthur nodded as he got up and dropped his empty bottle into the recycling bin. “Yeah, I figured that. Let me just lock up real quick then we can go.”

Charles watched as Arthur walked around the room like it was a routine chore he was used to doing. He hit the button on the wall to close the roller door before checking the windows were locked. He turned the phone charger off beside her bed and slipped the cash he had in his wallet under her pillow. 

“She won’t accept it otherwise,” he said over her shoulder. “She doesn’t want charity, Cha. Your plan isn’t going to work unless you change your approach.”

“What do you mean?”

“Offering to buy her things. She won’t take it. Everything here was earned the hard way, independently.”

Arthur could see Charles was absorbing the information and already a plan was forming in his mind. 

—

“You look beautiful.”

The stem of the champagne flute in your fingers was nearly snapped when Charles startled you and you turned to find him in a tailored suit, the jacket left unbuttoned. “What are you doing here?”

“There aren’t that many charity events in Marseille today. I thought I would make an appearance, it’s good for the image.”

“What a humble philanthropist you are,” you said with a roll of your eyes while he scanned your face for any sign of the bruising from the night before. “Told you I was good.”

“You could be a professional.” 

A waiter passed by and you swapped your empty flute for a full one while Charles grabbed one of his own. Already you could see the inquisitive looks cast in your direction and knew they would only grow the longer Charles spoke to you. Not wanting to be the focus of the gossip mill you took a step away from him, ready to make your escape.

“I have a proposal.”

“Christ, not this again.” You stepped toe to toe with him so as not to be overheard when you hissed. “I’m not marrying you.”

“Not that kind of proposal,” he chuckled. “Arthur tells me you are quite good at fighting.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, wondering where he was going with it, but nodded confidently. “I am.”

“I have a team of security, but they struggle with the female fans when they get a bit too aggressive.”

“You think having a woman throw them down is more…polite?”

He winced and shook his head but it wasn’t very convincing. “I hope it doesn’t come to that but the guys aren’t very comfortable with the idea.”

“You do realise my father is never going to let me leave Nice to work for you, right? That would not fit the image of his social standing.”

“I know. Now before you shut it down completely, just hear me out.” He paused and you immediately knew you were going to regret even listening to him. “You work for me, secretly, but we tell your father we are engaged.”

“No, no, absolutely not,” you hissed. “Argh, you said this wasn’t a proposal.”

“It’s not, well, it’s a fake one so there’s no suspicion why you are always with me. No one will know you work for me, but I’ll pay you well. You can have new bank accounts in your name that your father can’t access. When you have saved up enough money to live on your own then we can break off the engagement and you will have your freedom.”

“I-”

“Don’t give me an answer now, just think about it, okay?”

You turned on your heel and left the stately rooftop garden. The sun was suddenly too warm and the laughter of conversation seemed to mock you personally as you passed by. It would only be a matter of minutes before your father’s assistant came looking for you but you would take every second of freedom that could. 

You got exactly 97 seconds before the bathroom door swung open and Veronica sighed. “You don’t have a scheduled bathroom break until 11.”

“Too much bubbly,” you lied as you tossed the damp hand towel into the basket. It hadn’t even helped to cool your burning neck so you mentally pulled yourself back together and followed the wretched human back out to the event.

Veronica clasped her personalised diary full of notes behind her back as she nodded her head to a portly man ahead. “Mr Henri Cartier, two sons, wife - Charisse, $3 billion profit.”

You plastered a smile back on your face and approached with all the confidence that your father had trained you to fake. “Mr Cartier, how lovely to see you again. How is Charisse? It is a shame she can’t be here today.”

You zoned out as he started to recall how his wife had flown to London in their Lear as their sons had an important polo match. Cambridge versus Oxford, naturally. It obviously wasn’t important enough since he would rather be shaking hands with this lot instead of watching the game. “…the King himself will be there.”

“Ah, but this is France, we have no King,” you teased. “We take care of our own people. Now, a little birdy told me your business had a remarkable turnover this quarter. I hope to see a reflection of that in your donation.”

The Forbes billionaire laughed haughtily. “Of course, my dear. What else would I do with all the excess?”

You opened your mouth to list off all the other purchases he would rather spend his money on but a slick voice eased into the conversation.

“How many superyachts can one man own?” your father asked. “I’ll tell you, Henri, it’s the same thing I say when my wife makes her famous cannoli - there’s always room for one more.”

The two men laughed way harder than the joke called for, but the real joke was the fact that your mother had never stepped foot in a kitchen. 

“It’s a wonder your charity survives with that advice,” you said as you took a step back and let them pick out the shortcomings of their children, and your entire generation, together. You pretended that you didn’t hear them and let the passive blank face fall into place until a hand took yours and pulled you away.

Veronica’s hand lifted to alert your father to your absence but you took the rescue that Charles offered and trailed behind him, losing sight of the assistant in the crowd.

“Well that was uncomfortable to watch,” he murmured in your ear. It concerned Charles at how quickly you had fallen into the charismatic charade he was accustomed to as he watched. He had hated how comfortable you were at these events, and how you charmed everyone you spoke to. He never realised it was all an act, and that the real person behind the whimsical smile was an intelligent, and abused, woman. “I don’t think I have heard so many variations for the word ‘useless’,” he continued.

Charles was right, your father had used them all in his complaints about you. Henri’s response about his children was equally cold, ‘but at least you only have the one weed in your garden.’

“I’m convinced he reads the thesaurus to find new insults for me.”

“That’s so messed up.” This time he didn’t aim the words at you and you weren’t sure how you felt about that. It was easier to think of him as the asshole you had come to know for the last decade.

“Welcome to my life.”

Charles slowed his pace for you down the stairs but you were used to moving deftly in high heels and raced ahead, tugging his hand to hurry up. A smile grew on his face until you reached the last step that exited the venue and breathed in the salty breeze blowing in from the sea across the street.

“My offer still stands,” he said as the valet quickly brought his car around and he took a step off the curb. “You’re not scared, are you?”

Charles smirked as your eyes narrowed and you took a step closer. “Why are you suddenly so interested in helping me?”

The valet opened the passenger door for you and Charles faced you from over the roof of the black sports car. “Get in and find out.”

Your eyes traced the white and red stripe that ran along the car before looking back at the entrance. The choices weren’t overly appetising but you sighed and ducked down into the low seat, tucking the tail of the gown in before the valet closed the door.

“Don’t make me regret this, Leclerc.”

Part Three.

[norizzsainz]

🌶️ NFY : MCDONALD'S FOR P

[ carlos sainz x singer!fem!reader ] [ wc ] 0.9k words

[ summary ] carlos' and y/n's breakup comes as a surprise to many of their friends. no one ever thought the couple would ever break up, but alas, y/n was always ready to do whatever was best for the love of her life — even if it meant breaking up with him.

[ loki's lines ] this was so much better in my head, contemplating if it should've just stayed there

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━━━━━━━ DECEMBER 03, 2023

max would've burst into laughter on any other day when he saw the way you had arrived at his doorstep.

you wore a hoodie; the strings tightly tied until only your eyes could be seen.

he offered a small smile as your eyes met; brows raised when you lifted a bag to his face.

“mcdonald's for p,” you mumbled. “got you and kelly some food, too.”

max tried not to let his smile fall as he heard your voice, the hoarse tone letting him know you had a really bad cry session — or even multiple of them.

“come on in,” he stated, nodding you inside as he stepped aside after taking the bags from you. “thanks for the food. p will love you forever.”

you only let out a tired chuckle at his words, not adding anything more. max frowned at your lack of response, realizing something was really wrong with you.

you loved p more than anything, and the fact you didn’t say much about max’s words were enough of an indicator as to how bad the situation was.

“aw, babes.” kelly walked towards you with a frown. “what are you trying to do? suffocate yourself?”

“honestly, right now, i'd love that,” you commented with a sigh, wincing as kelly untied the hoodie. “thanks, kels.”

the frown on kelly's face didn't fade; her brows furrowed as she sat you down on the sofa. she observed you well, her gaze softening as she met your bloodshot eyes.

“this isn't like you, y/n. what's wrong?”

max's heart shattered as he watched the way your face scrunched, trying to hold back the inevitable tears that made their way down your face.

you covered your face with your hands, crying harder when kelly pulled you into her embrace, trying to offer any sort of comfort.

“y/n ...” max stood next to you, patting your hair gently as his girlfriend rubbed your back. “tell us what's wrong so we can help.”

“h-he said we had t-to break up.” max frowned, exchanging glances with kelly as you hiccupped over your words.

“carlos? was it his idea to break up?” kelly inquired, confused.

you pulled away from the hug, meeting her gaze. “not carlos.” you shook your head, wiping away your tears with your sleeve.

max tilted his head. “who was it, then?” he asked, waiting for your response.

“his dad. he said we had to break up.”

the couple’s eyes widened, never having guessed your ex-boyfriend’s father would’ve intervened in the relationship and forced you to break up with him.

“what? why the fuck would he do that?”

max sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa you sat on, fisting his hands by his side as he looked at you. 

the man’s frown never faded, staring at you. “why did he tell you to break up with carlos?” he asked, teeth gritted to control his anger.

“he said i was messing up carlos’ focus,” you mumbled, looking at your feet. “told me to break up with him if i genuinely care about his career.”

“so, you broke up with him?!” max raised his voice, flabbergasted by your words. “what the fuck, y/n? why would you do something like that?”

“because i love him, max.” the couple’s hearts shattered as they heard the crack in your voice. “i broke up because i love him.”

“you can’t be serious, y/n.”

“i hate this more than anything, but i’ll have to deal with it. i know how hard carlos has worked to come this far, and i can’t just sit still, knowing i’m the reason he’s fucking up his dream.”

max frowned, shaking his head. “just because he fucks up his races doesn’t mean you are the reason for it, y/n,” he stated, trying to make you understand.

“i am, max. i know that very well.”

“come on, you know–”

“five times, max,” you countered, looking at him. “five times, carlos purposefully did not qualify for the races because he wanted to be there for me,” you confessed.

you watched the way kelly’s face dropped, while max’s expressions remained stoic.

he had noticed too. he knew.

you saw him take a deep breath, biting his lip as he contemplated what to say.

“so, do you think his performance will become better now that you’ve broken up?” max inquired, raising his brows. “because if he doesn't, then this would all be in vain, no?”

“this is what his dad asked for, and i–”

max shrugged. “you are just fulfilling his wishes, obviously. this ‘fucking up his focus’ was just a sad excuse,” he said.

“his dad never liked you, babes,” kelly spoke, patting your back gently. “don't you think this entire thing was just some excuse to get you guys to break up?”

you buried your face in your hands, trying to control your breathing as you sat back on the sofa. everything was overwhelming you right now, and it was sending your brain into overdrive.

these were the moments when carlos would be there for you; listening to your thoughts and sorting them out for you.

but, he wasn't going to be there for you anymore. you had to deal with this on your own.

“whether it's an excuse or not,” you stated, looking at your friends through your teary eyes. “we've broken up now.”

“and that's–”

“and that's that.” you were stern with your words. “i'm tired of all this. i just want some peace and quiet, okay? just wanna forget about this all and go back to living life as i normally do.”

kelly nodded supportively. “if that's what you want, that's what we'll do,” she said, pulling you into her embrace.

“we got your back, y/n,” max added, wrapping his arms around you two. “forever and always.”

you smiled into the hug, utterly failing to keep the tears from falling down.

“thank you for being there for me, guys. i love you both so fucking much.”

[sinsmockingbird]

PUNISHING THE WOLF | Zoya (Wolves Strike Soon)

PAIRING: Zoya x Afab!Reader

WARNINGS: Smut, NSFW, Dom!Reader, Sub!Character, Transfem!Zoya, Rough Fucking, Bondage, Muzzle Use, Degradation

AUTHORS NOTE: In my mind Zoya is 100% a Dom, but... I'm sure there are those rare instances where she'll at least bottom for you.

THE SIGHT before you was addicting.

Having the leader of the Legion on her knees for you was a rare sight, and one you treasured every time you got it. The growls emanating from deep in her chest were beautiful, and her eyes were narrowed, glaring up at you. She looked like a feral wolf like this, and it suited her wonderfully.

"Look at you," You purred, letting your eyes Trail across Zoya's body, taking in the sight of her dressed in leather, while you begin to circle her. "Bound, on your knees, and at my mercy."

Instinctively, Zoya strained her wrists against the rope binding her hands behind her back. She gave you a glare, her head slightly bowed, looking so pretty and obedient for you. Especially when she has that muzzle on that you had bought just for her.

"It suits you," You state, coming to a stop in front of her and crouching down, giving her a sultry smile, your satisfaction at having her like this clear.

Zoya, let's out a growl at your words, her irritation obvious at having been reduced to this state by you. She was honestly shocked of herself having even allowed you to tie her hands behind her back, no less allowing you to muzzle her like she was a fucking dog. Though, in many ways, she really was one.

"You hate this, I know you do, but I promise I won't be too cruel. Not after you allowed me to put you in this state to begin with," You promised, and you meant it. While with many others you'd tease and edge them endlessly, Zoya was a different case.

Maybe it was the fact that your relationship with her was different from others, holding a more emotional side that you rarely had with anyone else. Or maybe it was the fact that Zoya, the leader of the Legion, would bow to you in this way, leaving her at your mercy. You decided it was probably both.

You raised a hand up, hooking a finger into her choker and pulling her a little close, hearing her breathing become more heavy while you whispered, "You just have to be a good dog for me, and I'll untie you and let you fuck me wild."

You were a woman of your word, so after 20 minutes of teasing Zoya, jerking her cock and giving her blowjobs, you untied her hands from behind her back. Except... to still hold some control for what was to come next, you tied her hands onto the headboard of the bed, leaving her unable to use them still.

Zoya's anger about that was obvious, and she was currently taking that out on you in the best she could. Fucking you roughly into the mattress.

Your ass was in the air, head pushed into the pillows with tears in your eyes and moans escaping your mouth. Zoya was hunched over your back, growls and grunts emitting from deep in her chest as she fucked her cock repeatedly into your pussy from behind. She may not have her hands, but she still knew how to fuck you hard without them.

"F-Fuck, Zoya..!" You let out a loud moan, back arching up and off the bed as you felt the head of her cock repeatedly hitting against that special spot inside you that had you seeing stars. "Th-that's it... keep going, right there-!"

You whined as she went harder. Somehow, she was always able to go harder and faster with you. It always left you brainless, and it was an addicting feeling, one of the many reasons why you always looked forward to when the Legion's leader would come visit you.

Zoya leaned her head forward, wanting to mark you and bite your shoulders and back, but then she remembers the muzzle she's wearing. Instead, you only feel the cool metal of it pressing into you, the cold feeling making you jump over the searing heat coursing through your body. You heard her let out a frustrated huff and growl when she remembered the muzzle, preventing her from being able to mark you.

You let out a laugh as you heard the sound of her nails digging into the headboard of the bed, the wood beginning to split a little bit under the pressure. "A-Angry?" You looked back at Zoya as you asked, a smug smirk on your pretty face that only pissed her off more. She growled in response, driving her cock deep into you with a harsh thrust that left you breathless for a few seconds.

"Z-Zoya! S-Shit m' gonna cum!" You whined as she upped her speed. You heard her mutter something under her breath at your words, and you knew she said something about how she was close as well. "I-Inside! Cum inside me!"

Zoya grunted at your request, pressing her forehead against your shoulder and nodding weakly in understanding. Then she gave a few sloppy thrusts before letting out a gutteral groan and burying her cock fully into your pussy. You moaned loudly as you felt her filling you up, making you cream around her cock.

Once you both finished, Zoya's body slack above you, a whine emitting from her at the strain in her wrists, which were still bound to the headboard. With shaky hands, you moved up and undid the bindings before collapsing onto the bed in pure exhaustion. As soon as Zoya was freed, she tore the muzzle off and threw it aside without a care before stuffing her face into your neck while wrapping her arms tightly around you.

"I hate you," Zoya muttered before nipping at your neck and beginning to leave behind the marks she so badly had been wanting to leave for the entire night.

You let out a breathy laugh and moan, running a hand through her hair and cradling her head, allowing her to mark your pretty neck up. "If you hated me, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Zoya only growled in response to you before biting a bit harder on a particular spot that made you whine. It was a lie that she hated you. In reality, she was simply addicted to the fact that you were the only one she'd ever submit to. Because sometimes Alpha's will even submit.

ENDING NOTES: This has been in the drafts for a while now. I just finally finished it up for you all to enjoy.

[angst-cravings]

candy necklace

summary: you find a candy necklace and decide to wear it for matt. groping ensues.

pairing: matt murdock x f!reader

words: 2.2k

an: smut (18+, mdni), pwp, fem & afab but no use of pronouns, and no use of y/n, also my first smut ever

based on a tik tok post that has since been deleted </3

cw: sex, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, p in v penetration

Matt had been having a hard time at his job lately. Both jobs. He had papers and folders in the living room messily strewn around him, and dark bruises were peeking out from his lazily rolled-up sleeves. The stress was oozing off of him and permeating the air. It was almost thick with tension, and he felt it suffocating him. His face falls into his hands, and he sighs deeply.

You were going out with your friends tonight, and half of him was disappointed, but half was relieved. He hated it when you saw him like this. When you were gone, you could be carefree and enjoy yourself. And not worry about him. 

He heard you rustling in the other room to get dressed. The softest hint of perfume hit him, along with… sugar? His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, distracting him from the weight on his back. 

You pad barefoot into the living room, adjusting your necklace so the tie is on the back of your neck. 

“Do you want to feel my dress to get an idea of how I look? It’s black.” You walk towards him, smiling. Matt directs his head towards you and returns the smile. You can see the bags under his eyes, and his brown eyes almost light up as he acknowledges you. His tie is fully untied, draping around his neck and down his chest. His disheveled state is admittedly attractive but makes your heart break. You hate seeing him like this, not because he can’t handle it, but because he beats himself up too much while he does. All you wanted was for him to relax and take the night for himself, but you knew after the week’s stress, “taking the night for himself” would mean fighting the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen, not relaxing in bed as you’d want him to. But you had a plan. 

Matt stands, places his hands on your shoulders, and starts roaming. He begins at the straps, his coarse fingertips floating across your bare shoulders, causing goosebumps to litter your exposed skin. His hands move down the body of your dress, and he feels your every dip and curve. You bite your lip in anticipation, feeling heat rush between your legs. You watch as Matt runs his tongue across his lips, and you know he can taste it in the air. As his hands reach the hem of your dress, he grabs your ass and smirks.

“Short.” 

You hesitantly nod. “I, uh, I’m wearing a necklace too. You should feel it.” You look directly into his eyes and hold your breath. His eyes have darkened, turning from soft and comforting to dark and hungry. He cocks his head and pulls you even closer before raising his hand to your throat. His rough fingers gently trace around your neck, the sensation causing you to sharply inhale, and you swallow under his fingertips. You study his face to try and discern his reaction. 

“And what’s this?” He knows. You recognize this face. He’s playing with you. 

“It’s… candy.”

“You were going to wear this out?” His eyebrow raises, his lips betraying the slightest hint of amusement. His voice is mostly humorous, but you hear the overt undertones of posessiveness.

You choose not to answer his question. “Do you… want to taste it?”

His hand falls, and your neck immediately feels cold from the absence. He grabs your chin and lifts it to expose your neck, giving him access to your skin and necklace. Your eyes flutter shut in anticipation, and you feel his warm breath hover across you. The pulse between your legs begins to grow, and you place a hand on his chest to ground you. 

His nose hits your neck first, almost tickling you, and he wraps his mouth around a candy ring next. It tastes sweet and slightly salty from your skin, and he snakes a hand down to the small of your back for stability. Your heart is pounding, and you shiver from every brush of lips against neck. An almost silent moan parts from your lips, and Matt pulls away.

“It’s sweet.” He smirks and goes in for another, this time latching onto your neck and sucking on both you and the necklace. You gasp, and you feel your knees turn to jelly.

Matt gently pulls you onto the couch, his grip firm on your waist, and you fall into him. You reposition yourself to straddle his waist, and you feel your dress ride up your thighs as his strong hands plant themselves onto your hips. He moves his mouth from your necklace and starts kissing your neck, gently sucking and nibbling on your sensitive points. You moan as he hits the spot on your neck that he knows all too well, and you can’t help yourself. You start grinding your hips down against him, only a few layers between the two of you.

Matt groans, an erection already in his boxer briefs from the taste of you in the air. His hips buck up against you, and his hands begin to roam up and down your dress. One of his hands hovers over the hem of your dress.

“May I?” His voice is breathy and quiet, but you hear the need punctuating his words. Work has been his main priority for the past few weeks, so he’s been pent up for a while. And so have you.

“Please.” You start unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his chest, and you take a second to admire how it rises and falls as his breathing starts to get heavier. He pushes the skirt of your dress up to fully expose everything from your waist down.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so wet for me already.” He rubs a finger over the ever-growing damp spot on your underwear, and you can see him lick his lips and taste the air. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and you watch as the pupils of his eyes completely blow out. His chest rises as he inhales, breathing your scent in, and he silently curses under his breath as his erection further strains against his pants. 

You whine as he starts to rub your clit through your panties, and you are compelled by your body to grind against his hand. He uses his other hand on your waist to guide you through, helping you rock your hips back and forth against him. 

“Please, Matt,” you whine.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” His voice is playful, but his words are stern. 

“I need you, please, fuck me—I need more.” 

His hand instantly moves away, and he flips you onto the couch. The cool leather almost stings against the burning heat of your skin. 

“You know, your necklace tasted good, but I know something I would much rather taste all night.” He grins as he moves down your body and slots his head between your thighs. Your hands immediately twist in his hair. The reaction is almost ritualistic after experiencing this bliss so many times before. Matt pulls the waistband of your panties and tugs them down your legs, letting you kick them off from your ankles and fall to the floor. You hungrily watch as he starts to go down on you, as he leaves long strokes with the flat of his tongue. Your head slumps against the arm of the couch as your eyes reflexively slam shut from the pleasure. Matt snakes his tongue inside of you, fully tasting you and your arousal. His nose clumsily nudges against your clit, and he lets out a soft groan as the taste takes over his senses. 

“Fuck, Matt…” You let out breathy moans, and your fingers tug at his hair, pulling him closer. He focuses his tongue on your clit again, and he inserts two fingers into you. His fingers are calloused and thick, and you immediately clench around them, eliciting a groan from Matt. His fingers crook and quickly hit the spot inside of you, and your hips buck into his mouth as you moan. He continues voraciously, and all thoughts vanish from your mind. The combination of his fingers, his tongue, and the gentle rumble of his moaning begins to build an orgasm deep inside you. 

Matt notices and increases his efforts, fucking you as moans spill out of your reddened lips. You tighten your thighs around his head, and you hear a quiet groan from Matt. If it had been earlier in the night, you might have been concerned you’d hurt or suffocate him, but you can’t think straight.

“Fuck, Matt, I’m close, I’m so close, I–” Your words almost trip on themselves as you say them as the buildup releases, and your muscles start to pulsate around his fingers as you moan his name. He guides you through your orgasm, licking up all of your juices and savoring the taste on his tongue. You gently pull him away and feel arousal building again as you watch him wrap his mouth around his fingers to savor the taste. 

“God, you’re so fucking good for me, sweetheart. Taste and feel so damn good,” Matt sighs, rising from his position on his knees. 

You move to get on your knees in reciprocity, but he stops you.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. I fucking need you right now.” His voice comes out ragged and hungry. Your taste is heady, and he seems almost drunk on you. He swoops you up into his arms as if you were weightless and carries you to the bed. He’s impatient but ever lovingly gentle, and he peppers kisses along your body as he nearly rips your dress off. He lingers at your throat as he bites another piece of candy off, and you giggle, having almost forgotten the thing that sparked this. You admire Matt as he strips down the rest of his clothing, ogling his gorgeous, toned body. 

Matt lets out a sharp hiss as his cock is finally released from its restraints, a bead of precum forming at the tip. You swallow at the sight of it, never having gotten over how big he is.

“Fuck, Matt, baby, I need you,” You whine, already soaking wet again. 

“Shh… I know, sweetheart, just one moment.” He climbs onto the bed, his arms framing your face and his legs slot between yours. He slowly slides into you, and you immediately let out a moan. 

“Sweetheart, you’re so tight for me,” Matt’s voice is laced with underlying tension as he restrains himself from going too fast, “You just feel so fucking good.”

After a few seconds of adjusting, you gently tap his arm to signal that you’re ready for more, and he fully buries himself into you. 

“God, Matt, I need you, please,” You start to shift yourself needily to get any friction. You ache from the overstimulation of your recent release, but the sting of pain mixes with pleasure in a way that just begs you for more. 

He immediately responds by moving into a familiar rhythm, angling his hips to hit every spot inside of you, eliciting moans from both of you. “God, you feel so good, sweetheart,” Matt half-whispers half-moans into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You whine into his ear as a response. You wrap your arms around him, digging your nails into his back, and he relishes the grounding feeling with your name falling from his lips. You were excited to see the marks on his back later, a reminder of tonight and your claim on him. 

One of his hands reaches down, and you feel his thumb start to rub your clit. Your body immediately reacts, your muscles tightening around him in a vice-like grip.

“Please, Matt, fuck, your dick feels so good,” you moan, “more, please.”

He responds by fucking you harder, faster. You feel the coil in you become tighter, spurred by your earlier climax, and your moans become almost pornographic as you experience what you imagine to be the most pleasure you could ever feel.

“Matt, I’m close, please, can I,” you beg, voice filled with impatience.

Matt’s voice is husky and exhilarating. “God, please, sweetheart, cum for me.” You feel his hips start to stutter, and your muscles begin to clench and flutter around him. You moan so loudly the neighbors could probably hear, and you don’t think you mind. This isn’t the first time your ecstasy has disturbed their evenings, and there hasn’t been a complaint yet.

After a few more thrusts, Matt pulls out of you, panting. As you come down from the high, you’re suddenly keenly aware of the sticky sensation on your neck from the mix of candy and saliva and the gush of his cum running out of you.

“So, uh, do I need to let you go out with your friends now?” Matt questions, a tinge of disappointment lacing his words. You giggled.

“Well, honestly, I changed my mind a little bit ago. Maybe we should just hang out for the rest of the night.” 

You had decided far before you had gotten ready that night. You figured he needed a break, and this was a good excuse for him to let loose.

A grin quickly spanned across his face, and he gave you a sweet and gentle peck before he ran to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean you up. 

~

“So... can I ask what was up with the necklace?” You feel his voice rumble deep in him, mixed with his heartbeat, as your head rests against his chest.

“Oh,” you laugh, ��that was just for you. I saw it in a shop and thought you might have some fun with it.”

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Three)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader bloody and beaten up but the prince interrupted the scene.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: please read chapter 2 before reading chapter 3 to know what’s happening. I hope you don’t mind long chapters.

Chapter Three: The House of Black & Green

~ Aemond’s POV ~

Thunder and rain barraged outside the Red Keep. So does Aemond’s heart, thundering and disoriented, clashing like the volcanos in the Doom of Valyria.

Aegon, on the other hand—surprisingly—stopped drinking; silently looking beyond the carved hole and examined the events unfold.

A gush of blood tainted onto the stoned floor when Ser Marrow thrashed your body forward, collapsing with a wet thud.

In the house of the dragons, Targaryens and Velaryons immediately stood from their seats, watching the events unfold. Ser Marrow huffed with his might, abiding for the Targaryens to come to an understanding with Ser Marrow’s reasons.

Alicent rose onto her feet and hoisted you up, but only meet halfway by you sitting up, bleeding as Alicent untied the blindfold and shielded you with her arms, as if Alicent has regret something in the first place.

“Explain yourself, Ser Marrow,” Alicent demanded, brows furrowed in ferocious temper.

Rhaenyra got up from her chair at a slow pace, mouth opened with terror at your current state. She knew that you were hurt from the battle; poisoned by the blade piercing through your youthful flesh.

“I was only doing good for the realm, to keep the peace intact,” Ser Marrow explained. “For Targaryen dynasty!”

“Lady (y/n) rescued my daughter from falling off the bridge, and you call it a ‘threat’,” Alicent defended.

Rhaenyra contained her wrath when Ser Marrow spoke for the ‘good of the realm’. “She saved my son,” she scolded him. “If it wasn’t for her, my son would’ve been killed from the wretched fools.”

“Yes, the wretched fools that this thing brought to the Red Keep!” Ser Marrow accused. “People are dead because of this monstrous bitch!”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Ser Marrow, you forget yourself. What in the Seven Hells are you thinking? Beating her to a pulp, causing an uproar in the room was no good of excuse for you to gain sympathy of your ranking from us! Why do you think so highly of yourself? Have you had no shame on what you’ve caused?”

Ser Marrow hesitated for a moment, looking at you, then looking back at Rhaenyra. “I only did my duty, princess. Should she stay here in King’s Landing, death and destruction will bring upon the Targaryen line.”

“She did what she had to do to keep my family safe—”

“She’s a monster!” Ser Marrow bellowed. “A monster hiding beneath the human skin. She’s isn’t ordinary! Dangerous and filled with malice and lascivious intents to destory Westeros!”

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. Prince Daemon, who stood the corner of the room, watched the events unfold.

Meanwhile, Alicent still embraced you tight, lessening the anxiety you were trying to suppress.

Aemond watched you from afar. Even awake, he found himself focused on your features—all fragile with grace and beauty within quietude. Droplets sank onto your tainted dress and your once immaculate hair has disarray from hair pulling. Aemond kept his composure and cast his sentimental aside.

Behind him, Aegon took notice of this, but said none; only amusement etched onto his drunken face.

“How dare you raised your voice against me, your future Queen, an heir to the Iron Throne and Seven Kingdoms?!” Rhaenyra declared.

Ser Marrow chuckled. “We all know in our hearts that you will never be queen or inherit the throne like that Rhaenys bitch, stringing along in a comfortably life with that old and weak man like that Sea Snake fucker!”

Everyone’s eyes snapped at his statement. Even Aemond’s and Aegon’s—halt from their tracks.

“Oh yes, surely you think it’s time to realize that you, a woman with big tits, hideous face and a loose cunt will never stand a chance against the son to rule to Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne. Sons are meant to rule, never the daughters.”

Rhaenyra had gone pale.

The silent gasps ensued.

Alicent stood up and approached Ser Marrow. “Remove your cloak and sword; you are hereby exiled from Westeros and reside at the Wall.”

Ser Marrow snorted without batting an eye on Alicent. “I don’t take orders from an ugly, vicious cunt.”

Alicent withstood her ground. “I won’t ask again, Ser Marrow.”

Anger blazing, Aemond make haste outside of the secret passage to enter the room, but Aegon hauled him back.

“Release me, brother. I have no time to indulge with your silly antics,” Aemond warned.

Aegon clutched Aemond’s arm tighter. “You’ll get in trouble. In more ways than one,” he warned back.

“Since when do you give a shit about your younger brother other than your wine and whores?” Aemond yanked his arm off from Aegon and entered the scene without noticing him; everyone is too focused that they’re unaware of Aemond’s presence hidden behind the thick pillar, his sword in hand, with his watchful eye, he was waiting for a moment to strike.

~Your POV~

Clutching your stomach as you were urging not to cough more blood. Behind you, the shadow overcast the ground, revealing Rhaenyrs Velaryon offered you a comforting smile and hands on your shoulders, though appearing more apologetic and saddening.

“Ser Criston, take Ser Marrow and escort him outside the Red Keep at once,” Alicent demanded in a low tone.

Ser Marrow shoved Criston back; Criston held his sword on his throat as the other guards in the room held their swords directly in front of Criston and Marrow.

“I will take no part in this charade,” Ser Marrow replied.

“Stand down now, good sir,” Criston said. “And walk away from the Red Keep.”

Ser Marrow. “This is your doing, Criston! If you haven’t brought that bitch here in the Red Keep, I would’ve still be part of the Kingsguard!”

“This is your own choosing to beat Lady (y/n),” Criston responded, apathetic.

“If only the monster hadn’t save the Rhaenyra’s bastard son, the succession to the Iron Throne would be secured. But he’s no son of the late Prince Laenor”—chuckled—“no, rather both monsters brought great ruination.”

For once, you’re glad Jace isn’t here.

“Fuck you,” you choked, blood spattered. “Admit it, you couldn’t handle a woman who bested you.”

Ser Marrow’s mouth clenched so tight, veins protruding from his neck. “You vile, insolent de—”

All the guards’s swords lowered, except for one blade tip kissed on Marrow’s neck with a pointed end. “A war hasn’t even begun and you’ve beaten a young maiden. Do you really think that have you a chance of walking out alive,” a voice said. “I dare you to say the word “demon” again, Ser Marrow.”

All their eyes turned to Aemond, who was looking down, gazing at you.

Though your eyes nearly dwindled, you heart beat pounded against the cage in your chest at the sight of him.

“Aemond, what are you doing here?” Alicent asked, rushing to his side, tugging the upper sleeve of his leathered jacket.

“I was only here to defend her,” Aemond answered with a droned hum. “After all, she saved my dear sister,” Aemond said coolly without averting gaze away from Ser Marrow, though given the exception of looking towards you ever so benign.

“Get back out in the hall, Aemond. This is no fight of yours; Ser Marrow must stand down and leave from the Red Keep,” Alicent said, frantic.

But Aemond ignored her, deepened the blade. “If you touch her again, there will be war.”

Everyone held their breath as they watch Aemond, his cautions ingrained into their minds.

“Aemond,” Alicent hissed, nudging him.

Aemond lowered his blade, and as soon as he did, Ser Marrow rushed towards you with his fist high up, but the sword cleaved Marrow’s head into two, leaving the guards already held their swords to disarm Aemond, as the table clanged loud; one guard bled from his head; Aegon slammed the guard down from trying to stab Aemond on his blind side, and held a short sword; the blade’s tip scraped the guard’s cheek.

“I wouldn’t do it again if I were you,” Aegon said to the guard and caught sight of you with a faint smirk on his wine-stained lips.

Prince Daemon lazily made his way to the crowd to retrieve Rhaenyra as the guards collected Ser Marrow’s body. But before that, Aemond said, “Feed Ser Marrow’s corpse to Vhagar. His service is no longer needed.”

Spectators stared in awe at the sudden events; not one utter a word of objection or sputter disagreement with the one-eyed dragon prince, as Aemond swept his sword clean with a cloth, not sparing a glance to anyone.

Once he sheathed his sword, Aemond advanced towards you and lifted you up, leaving everyone staggered at his proclamation for you.

Taglist: @galactict3a @toodlesxcuddles @daonenonlysandman @hufflepuff1700 @me753 @fredskum @danika1994 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

[johaerys-writes]

Snippet Sunday

@rowanisawriter tagged me earlier this week for a WIP Wednesday but I had nothing to share, so I'm sharing a snippet today instead 😊 I've been working on a flashback which takes place at that fateful New Year's Eve party Antilochus mentions in chapter 2 of baby born blue, not sure if I'll include all of it in the next chapter but this is a small bit of it:

Patroclus is halfway down the stairs when he bumps into Briseis. 

“Where were you?” she demands hotly, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Oh—sorry, I was just—” Patroclus stumbles over his own words. His face is hot, and he realises he actually never even bothered to come up with a believable excuse should he walk into someone he knows. “I’m tired,” he says finally. “I’m heading home.”

“Really.” Briseis quirks her brow, unconvinced. “And where is Achilles?”

“He’s…” Patroclus swallows thickly. “He—I don’t know, still at the party, probably.”

“You don’t know.” Briseis shakes her head and crosses her arms before her chest. “You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?”

“Brie…" Patroclus starts pleadingly, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Just before this party she had made him promise that they’d be leaving together, whether Achilles was there or not. The promise didn’t even cross his mind before Patroclus broke it.

“How many more times are you going to do this to yourself?” Briseis asks when Patroclus doesn’t reply. “For months I’ve watched you pick up your pieces after he left. And now at a wiggle of Achilles’ fingers you’re crawling back to him without a second thought?”

He hates the hopeless, disappointed look she gives him, and he hates himself for giving into all of this once more. But he just can’t help it. The pull is too strong, impossible to fight. No one else could understand it, because no one else shares a bond like he and Achilles do.

 “We won’t do anything,” he lies, only to placate her. “We’ll just talk things over.”

"In the middle of the night? And after everything Achilles has downed?” 

“I just— I need to do this, Brie,” Patroclus says, as if that’s enough to explain any of it. “It’s been a while, and—things might be different this time. He deserves a chance, at least. We both do.”

“Oh, Pat.” She shakes her head again. “Are you lying to me or to yourself?” 

Patroclus just gazes at her helplessly. He doesn’t know what else to say. Briseis sighs. “Did you tell Iphis at least? She probably still thinks you’re on that ‘date’.” 

Patroclus winces slightly at the reminder. Briseis had brought Iphis as his plus one for the party, but he barely managed to spend half an hour with her before Achilles arrived and practically pounced on him. After months of interacting with him only through text messages and video calls, whenever they both had time, having all of Achilles' attention on him all at once was intoxicating, headier than the strongest drug. He could try looking for Iphis now, but the villa is huge and she could be anywhere, and he also hates to leave Achilles alone when he’s in that state.  

He feels like the worst, most selfish person in the world when he asks Briseis, “Can you make up an excuse? Just tell her I got sick or something.” 

Briseis glares at him. “I’m not lying for you again. I’ll tell her the truth: that you left with Achilles to—”

“To take him home, because he got sick. Or something. Please. I’ll owe you.” 

Briseis glares at him for a moment longer, then she shakes her head dejectedly again. “Fine. But I’m doing it for her sake, not yours. She deserves some kind of an explanation.”

“Thanks, Brie, you’re the best,” Patroclus tells her over his shoulder, already hopping down the stairs. 

“Pat.” 

He stops and turns to look at her. She lets out a deep breath, her features growing hard. 

“When you’re with him, you become just like him.” 

The words are like a punch in the gut. Patroclus just stares stupidly at her, until she turns around and walks back to the party.

Tagging forth to @baejax-the-great @in-arlathan @tragediegh @reprrise @hekateinhell @starlightvld @maxdurden @vimlos @darlingpoppet @babyrdie and anyone else who might want to share a little WIP!

[stevebcks]

Okay so I haven’t been able to stop thinking about episode three and especially Ed’s plotline in it (and the final scene of course), so here’s a not so short messy analysis of what I’ve been thinking.

MAJOR SPOILERS JUST IN CASE…

As a short background, we start with Ed almost dead after he has basically been begging the rest of the crew to kill him. First Izzy, when he gives him the gun, then the rest of them when he sails them into a storm, trying to get them and himself killed, but instead still getting what he wanted when they turn against him. We get our final hint at how this is what he always wanted when he says “Finally.” as Jim lifts the cannonball.

And we start with Ed now in this purgatory state. I would assume this entire place is created by Ed since it is so deeply connected to him. And we learn that he also creates Hornigold as a representation of himself, of the subconscious parts of himself talking to him, and he hates this guy deeply.

This place puts the cards on the table for Ed.

“So if you hate me and I am you, then…”

“I hate myself.”

He gets to understand the hate he feels for this guy is really what he feels for himself. But it’s not only that, we see the reaction he has when he first sees Hornigold. He fears himself, what he is capable of doing to others, disgusted by the stories of what Hornigold has done (like Felix’s death) in the place of what he has done.

Everything Hornigold says, is really just his most hidden inner thoughts coming to the surface.

“You’re not very good with people, are you, Jeff?” His biggest fear, the one he has only ever been able to admit to Stede is displayed right there for him. How he believes every bad thing he has ever done is the reason he is unlovable, why he doesn’t have any friends.

“Maybe you wanna strangle me like you did your old dad.”

“How the fuck did you know that?”

“Grown man covered in tattoos. Ay? With daddy issues.”

“I never told anyone about that.”

“But you did, though, didn’t you? And he left you.”

“Fuck you.”

“And it all boils down to this. You’re afraid you are unlovable.”

Not only that but he believes that is also the reason Stede leaves him. Stede leaving puts salt in a wound he was only starting to heal. He once again believes he is inherently an evil person, unworthy of anyone but even less, of Stede.

“You gotta move on, man... or you blow your brains out.” But to some degree, he knows what he has to do in order to continue, he knows that if he really wants to live, to truly live, he needs to forgive himself of the past things he has done. It’s either that or… or what he did which is getting himself killed.

His choice is final (or so he believes…) when he is on the edge of the cliff. Hornigold, or really himself, has tied the rock to his waist and is ready to throw it. And as he said it with the pros and cons list, “I don’t think anyone’s waiting for me.” so there really is no point for him to go back.

“I’m not lovable.”

“And you’re scared to do anything about it. But old Hornigold, he ain’t scared.”

Ed knows, he knows "doing anything about it" is going back to life, face what he has done, fighting for Stede and for the person he wants to be. But his subconscious, his fear, is stronger.

“You’ve made your choice.” Hell, not only is this admitted by Hornigold, we literally see him at the beginning of episode two throwing himself, or really his little cake topper, to the water from the window. And Hornigold, or really his subconscious, throws the rock.

Then Stede finds him.

And when Stede finds him all it takes is for him to remove the towel from his face for him to open his eyes as he sinks in the water.

Him feeling Stede’s presence sparks something in him in this purgatory. And he starts fighting against the rope that he put himself in. But this is a world he has created so he still has control over it, and subconsciously, he still believes he is unlovable, unworthy, he is still not sure he deserves to be untied.

And then Stede starts asking HIM for forgiveness, and he fights and he fights, and he wants this so badly that in the real world he starts fighting too, tapping his fingers against the wood and begging Stede to keep talking, to keep leading the way with his voice. And he does.

As he takes Ed’s hand, he literally also shines a light and illuminates the surface. In the midst of this world of self-hatred, there is the voice of a person who, seeing past everything, loves him.

And the rope unties itself, in this moment his whole self fully believes that he is worthy of love, that he deserves this and he deserves Stede and that he deserves to live. This is Ed allowing himself to have this.

The flashbacks start, Ed remembers these moments and sees what he can still have, thinks “Maybe someone IS waiting for me.” as Stede keeps begging him to wake up.

And then, through the light, he sees merman Stede. And oh, how important this is. He has been seeing Hornigold, the person he hated the most in life, during all his time in purgatory, but now, now the reflection of his subconscious becomes the person he loves the most. Stede, Stede as a sea creature coming to save him. Stede, as a reflection of Ed’s subconscious telling himself, you are worthy of this, you are lovable, and you can love yourself.

The kraken, this fearful sea monster, is saved by the merman.

Stede is finally right there, and when they are finally face to face, Ed reaches for a kiss, and in that moment, he opens his eyes.

[daeneryspilled]

It absolutely gets me that the whole thing about Rhaneyra putting her siblings to the sword was made up by Otto, Rhaenyra did nothing to indicate that she would; Alicent just fixated on it like- how do they forget that they literally pulled that crock of shit out of thin air? 😭

it gets me too, especially show-wise. the only time rhaenyra shows any bit of fire against her siblings is during the driftmark incident, where it is blatantly obvious to anyone with a brain that she was bluffing when asking for aemond to be sharply questioned. granted, should she have done it? no. is she also a mother trying her best to protect her kids? and not being a super uber-perfect person in the process? yes to both. this is yet another change from the book i don't like, considering alicent demands luke's eye in retribution first, and rhaenyra retaliates against that rather than starting it.

i'm also adding some significant points that make no sense in the greater context if alicent truly thought her children's lives were endangered; which is how she actively antagonizes rhaenyra. in both medias. she raises her children to hate rhaenyra, to view their nephews as inferior and subhuman to them due to their blood, she instills fear for their lives as a part of their everyday activities, she tells her children that aegon will be king no matter what (which is treason, so she doesn't seem to care that badly about her children being found out as participants of those efforts). she does not act like someone who believes her children are going to be murdered once rhaenyra ascends the throne. it's why i can't take her stans seriously. none of her actions make sense in the grand scheme of things. she purposefully makes an enemy that is (TO HER) capable of cold-blooded murder. what terrified mother would do that?

there's also this fetish for infantilizing and victimizing alicent and co. otto manipulated her when she was a teen, which is a fair take. otto was also ostracized from court for TEN years. ten years with minimal to no contact with alicent. she is no longer a child during that time, she is a grown woman with four children to raise and a perfectly good brain to use. we're not shown or told once that rhaenyra *ever* showed an ounce of violence towards her siblings, and at most, she was indifferent to them. it is stated, however, that during that time skip alicent bullied and harassed rhaenyra, to the point where she abandoned the capital to have peace of mind and safety for her own children. still not the actions of a terrified mother (she also wasn't manipulated into doing any of that; it was all of her own accord because she hated that rhaenyra was afforded more freedom and leeway than she was).

what's more, there is minimal, if any, precedent that rhaenyra would be forced to kill her siblings to secure the throne. viserys was only the fifth targaryen king, not exactly enough time to really establish any killing family as a basis. maegor is the only one to have done so, and he's reviled for it even up to the current timeline. it is even thought that his death was the consequence of kinslaying. it's not normal. there has technically been some sort of succession crisis for almost all the rulers up to this time: aegon the uncrowned and maegor, rhaena and jaehaerys, baelon and rhaenys, viserys and rhaenys/laenor. there are, once again, many ways for aegon, aemond, and daeron to renounce their claim to the throne (night's watch, kingsguard, maester); but that would take away the power alicent and otto wanted to have, so not an option.

i wouldn't even consider daemon that much of a threat if rhaenyra had ascended peacefully. they've changed his character significantly in the show, but daemon explicitly states in fire and blood that they need to find a peaceful way to end this dispute, and not resort to fighting dragons versus dragons (a line they gave to rhaenys in the show) because it would only end in disaster. he doesn't resort to any brutality until after the first blood is drawn by the green's.

basically, it's just another ploy, a 'red herring' if you will, to distract from the true reason why rhaenyra was usurped (and hook, line, sinker; it's working fantastically for some in the fandom).

[sister-lucifer]

masky x alex x hoodie revenge beating turned sexual w/ repressed Alex sounds like the best idea in the world!! Though I would just love the opportunity to beat that lil twink as well! I was hoping you would talk about how it turns sexual? THE VERTICAL 69 AS WELL?? THIS BLOG HAS MY WHOLE HEART!! Thank you bb

- Twink beater Anon 🎉

GETTING CALLED CUTIE AND BABY IN MY INBOX ON THE SAME DAY??( IM GONNA PASS OUT /pos

okay so if you haven’t you should read this post to get an idea of the gist of this fic or else idk how much sense this is gonna make

basically masky and hoodie sort of start to get bored of beating on alex after a while, and alex is starting to not be nearly as reactive, especially since he’s dizzy and lightheaded from blood loss. he’s just sort of groaning through his gag, trying to stay conscious despite the pathetic state he’s in.

masky and hoodie share a look. someone has an idea, they’re not sure which one thought it first, but now they’re thinking.

alex was always repressed. there were rumors in high school once he was getting close with a football player in his calculus class, and he nearly lost it on brian for jokingly bringing it up, spouting every homophobic thing he could think of. he wasn’t aware at the time that brian and tim were dating. no one was

even after high school alex would say things now and then that seemed shockingly hateful, even if just for a moment, but a bit of alcohol or weed in his system would make him admit things he’d vehemently deny the next day.

what’s the only thing better than breaking alex’s body?

breaking his spirit.

so of course they’re going to take his dignity by turning him into the thing he’d hate most:

a dirty, cock-loving faggot

and when they’re done they’ll leave him in the woods with cum leaking down his chin and thighs, and he’ll wake up in the morning to birds chirping and an unbearable ache in his throat and back.

and the worst part is he’ll like it.

now vertical 69 actually has more to it than when i first wrote it down

reader gets caught in an overzealous rope snare trap set by toby (or another character, not super sure yet) that wraps around their ankle and hoists them into the air. fortunately toby finds them only about 10 minutes later, and after he’s had his laugh he decides to let them go.

the problem? he’s not very good at setting traps, and he’s rigged it to go way too high. so, when he goes to untie reader’s ankle, their face is directly in his groin.

and reader’s a slut as usual, so hey, why not get a bit of revenge with some playful licks through his jeans? and toby takes to it better that they ever expected. of course he has to return the favor before freeing his captive…

[noaltbruh]

Hey! If you do request right now could you please do bucci gang’s (+trish if you want to) s/o reacting to them coming home badly injured after failed misson, and s/o’s like “alright, lemme just love and comfort you♡."

(づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

Have great day/night!❤️

Hi there! 😊 This request is very sweet, I really enjoyed writing this :)♡

(Why do I always get so carried away in Fugo and Narancia's bits Istg)

[Also, it gets rather sad at Abbacchio's part...Sorry]

Bucci gang being comforted by reader after a rough day <3

Giorno 🐞

Giorno is a perfectionist at heart, he knows what he has to do and is only projected on reaching his goal, no matter what it may be.

So, when he realizes that his mission was a failure, he feels absolutely devastated. How could he have screwed up so bad? How could he have ruined such an important task? How is he supposed to be a good Boss of he can't even take care of a mission.

As soon as he comes back home, he'll immediately shut himself down, he doesn't want you to be a part of his failure, to know about how incompetent he was, he knew you'd be disappointed in him.

Me may not even greet you once he arrives, only heading straight towards the bathroom to take care of his wounds.

You're not deaf, however, and you quickly notice that someone else is at home. When you knock on the bathroom door, he may hesitate a bit before admitting to be in there.

He asks you not to come here, which greatly alarms you. When you try to question if everything is okay, he answers with a simple "yes", hoping to calm you down.

It doesn't work obviously

So, when you step in and see him healing himself, you can't help but feel your heart breaking a little. Why would he hide for you when he needs help?

Then, it hits you that it's exactly because he needs your aid that he didn't want you to notice him. You ask him if it was about that mission he had to take care of, and he mostly just nods in response, not having the courage to admit through words that he couldn't do it.

When you start insisting on helping him feel better, he immediately declines, claiming that you don't need to worry and that it's his fault of he ended up like this, so he needs to handle it.

Despite this, you refuse to leave and gently take a sit next to him, assisting him in any way during the healing process. Giorno doesn't have the heart nor the energy to tell you to let him be, even though he wishes you would.

After you're done, you invite him to take a rest while you go and prepare something for him. The golden boy isn't able to argue with you further in the mental state he is, and just accepts to make you happy.

When you come back with a cup of tea and a blanket, he softly thanks you for your kindness and takes the mug, slowly taking small sips out of it.

You untie his hair and begin to play with it, you know he loves it just as much as he loves caressing yours. If you look closely, you will probably notice him blushing a little...He doesn't like to be so vulnerable around anyone, he hates this weak side of his.

He doesn't understand how you could be so nice to him even after he failed, he just...Doesn't think he's worthy of love, if he's not the best all the time.

Yet, even if he doesn't get it, he's deeply grateful to have you by his side. The thought of you leaving him if he shows you how miserable he is still haunts his mind, but your care for him helps him push it away, even just for a while.

Bruno 🤐

If Giorno couldn't accept failure, Bruno is no better than him.

He feels ashamed, he's supposed to be the Capo and make sure that everything goes well. What sort of leader can't even do his job right? How can he help anyone if he can't even take care of himself?

Shame and disappointment walk right beside him, as he pitifully comes back home. He hates for you to see him like this, he's supposed to protect you and keep you safe...Yet he barely made it out alive of something he should be able to handle with his eyes close.

Once you come to greet him and see him in such conditions, he tries to play it cool, since it aches his heart to see you worry about him. He won't be telling you anything about the result of the mission, it's better if you don't get involved in this subject.

It's not hard for you to read the situation though, and can tell that something clearly did not go as planned. Even so, you decide not to push it and simply invite him to relax a bit, hoping to take his mind off whatever may be troubling him.

One of the best way to help Bruno calm down would be to prepare a bath for him, maybe adding some perfume or special oils to the water to create a more enchanting effect.

However, convincing him to let you do so will not be an easy challenge. He will try to hold you back, to tell you to go back to what you were doing before and that he can handle himself. He doesn't want you to waste energy in putting him out of the pathetic state he ended up in, simply because he wasn't strong enough.

Even so, his insistence may cause him to get even more exhausted, backfiring at himself. Staring to zone off, he'd instinctively lay his head on your shoulder, letting you guide him to the bathroom.

Once everything is settled and you two get inside the bathtub, Bucciarati doesn't have any force left to try and oppose. He simply watches you, feeling his eyes getting heavy as you wash his hair and maybe even kiss his wounds.

Being the head of the team is hard, and everyone needs a moment to rest. Taking breaks doesn't align with the life style the man is accustomed to, but for once...He lets you handle it all, he lets you be in charge...Of him.

And he'll always cherish your care.

Mista 🔫

Mista doesn't take failure as seriously as his two friends. He knows that mistakes can be made and doesn't condemn himself nor the ones around him for screwing up from time to time.

Even then, it was kind of a punch in his ego's guts to mess up like this, the pistols always do a great job with taking an enemy down. He's annoyed that things turned out this way, but at the very least, the stand user was eventually tracked down and he got out of it alive, so it could have gone worse.

What really bothers him is how heavily he's injured, dude can barely stand on his own two legs and is bleeding quite badly. All that he wants is to go home and relax a bit, before he freaking dies from blood loss.

When he does so and you come to open the door for him, you're taken aback by the conditions the boy has ended up in, and the gun covered in red surely is not a good sign.

With that being said, he does have a tendency to get heavily hurt every time he's given an assignment, so you're confident in being able to help him.

He doesn't try to avoid the subject and just seems a bit reasonably annoyed when telling you what happened.

You tell him to wait for you while you go and grab something to patch him up with, to which he agree with no big deal. He thanks you and gives you the biggest grin his aching body allows him to muster up.

Mista is that kind of person who loves to show off, to demonstrate how tough and confident he is. Even so, he must admit that, maybe even just once in a while, being the one who gets spoiled with attention does not feel bad.

After, at the very least, the wounds have been taken care of, the two of you will probably order some take out while watching pretty woman for the millionth time together.

He loves physical contact and the feeling of having you so close to himself does make him feel quite nice. You won't be letting go of each other all night long, the Pistols will most likely be the ones to answer the door in your place.

You can see Mista's satisfied smile as he makes himself comfortable on you, putting his head on your shoulder and taking off his hat to feel more comfortable. He just adores the feeling of your bodies being so close to one another.

If you were to caress, or even just touch his shoulder, you'd basically see him melt into your arms. He'd close his eyes as the noise of the Tv slowly drifts away from his mind, letting him enjoy the moment of pleasure as much as he can.

Soon enough, the rough day he's been through is nothing but a past memory.

Narancia 🍊

Although it may surprise you, Narancia takes succeeding in missions very seriously. He wants to show the others that they can trust him, that he isn't some...Stupid good for nothing.

So, when he fails and probably someone else has to step in to finish the job, this boy feels useless. He doesn't even think about how badly he got hurt on the spot, all his mind is focused on is what a disappointment he is.

Despite how optimistic he usually tries to be, he just keeps on murmuring to himself on the way home how he always screws up everything, and can't do a single thing without needing help.

When he finally steps in, it takes you half a second to realize what happened. Seeing your boyfriend being under the weather is a rare circumstance, but a horrible one too.

You can guess that the reason why he's feeling this way is because of how the mission went. So, you don't ask him any questions and simply tell him "welcome back", trying to comfort him with a sweet smile.

He forces a little grin in return, not wanting to make you worry too much, but his body language speaks in his place, as he basically lets himself collapse on you. You're probably going to have to carry him to the nearest couch, and go get something to handle his wounds.

Once you do so, Narancia is just laying there all sleepy. As soon as you sit next to him, he immediately cuddles up in your chest, with his eyes half closed, just wanting to feel your warmth.

Be gentle with him while he's like this, this is a threat.

He doesn't say a single word, he just lets you aid him, feeling like he doesn't really deserve your affection, but not being able to say no to it.

Once you're done with his scars and bruises, he mumbles a quiet "T-Thank you..." and looks up at you with a living glance.

Rubbing his back, kissing him, caressing his hair...It doesn't matter how you decide to comfort him next. He just wants you to hold him, feeling the warmth of your touch and the comfort of your voice.

He clings to you as tightly as he can, just enjoying the sensation of being safe in your embrace. Narancia doesn't need anything but to know that you're there and that you won't leave him, even if he messes up.

The way you shower him with love and don't look down on him for being so clingy truly makes him feel special. He can't put in words how glad he is to have you in his life.

So, for once, the chatty and outgoing Nari just...Stays quiet and still, slowly dozing off as you keep on cuddling him to sleep.

Fugo 🍓

Sadly...Fugo is not new to failure. Having a stand like Purple haze sometimes feels like nothing but a weight on his shoulder. His friends fight bravely and risk their life, while he has to worry about not killing himself with his own power.

Mix his self-doubt with his anger issues, and you get a deadly combination. After the disastrous mission and before heading home, he's going to have to keep himself from fucking up anything or anyone in his range.

Filled with frustration, he'll let out a desperate scream of rage, before finally getting in the car and driving, risking to break something in it with any out of control movement.

He won't even greet you when he comes back to the villa. He'll probably try to distract himself reading something, only to realize that he's not able to focus on a single word due to his wounds and his mental state, probably tearing the pages apart in the heat of the moment.

You hadn't noticed the sound of the door opening before, but the noise of the poor book being destroyed surely did not go over your head. As soon as you walk in the living room and see your boyfriend, you instantly rush in his direction.

You put your hand on your cheek, not worrying about his agitated state, just wanting to comfort him as soon as possible.

Preoccupied, you ask him why he hadn't told you he had come back, to which he replies with a look of shame and avoiding eye contact, trying his hardest not to lash out at you.

You notice some of his blood had stained your hand, he might have even died if he didn't treat those wounds now, what was he thinking?!

You run up to bathroom as fast as you can, coming back with a first aid kit, alcohol and too many bandages to count.

He tries to tell you to stay away from him, that he's not seriously hurt and that you shouldn't be near him as he's still feeling enraged for what happened.

Despite his warnings, you continue with what you're doing, not even actually listening to him, as all your attention is set on making sure you don't miss a single wound on his body.

He annoyingly asks if you're even hearing what he's saying, but in the moment he realizes he's starting to raise his voice, Fugo just sort of...Shuts down.

He doesn't want to accidentally harm you or risk taking his anger out of you when you're just trying to help. He'll be damned if you suffer just because he's incapable of emotions in check.

Still refusing to look at you once you're done, he tries to find the courage to speak up and thank you for everything you've done, when suddenly you just...Leave.

The gesture leaves him confused. Did he say something that hurt you? Were you mad at him? Did he come off as ungrateful for not showing a bare minimum of appreciation for what you had just done?

Before his thoughts can take the hold of him, thankfully, you come back with...A bowl of strawberries?

You set it on the coffee take and take one with a small fork, sitting next to him once again. You thought some fruit would have helped cheering him up, and might have restored his energy, even just a little bit, considering how exhausted he seemed to be.

You hold him close to yourself and invite him to open his mouth for you to feed him. To no one's surprise, this highly flusters him, and he appears a bit reluctant to do what you say.

After some persuasion, he accepts and lets you do whatever you want. He'd never say it out loud but...He actually really enjoys you caring for him so much.

The way you don't let his anger stop you, the way you're always ready to offer him a hand when he needs it, the way you love him with all his flaws...

He may not like himself, but you do, from the bottom of your heart...And as long as this doesn't change, that reflected love will be enough for him.

Abbacchio ⏮️

Let's be honest, I can't help but think that Abbacchio also feels some sort of hate for his stand. Maybe not as much as Fugo does, but he sees it as a distant reminder of his guilty past and his uselessness in battle.

Despite how much he hates it, he can't be anything more than support for actual competent people, while all he can do is just watch from the sidelines.

Because of this, failure is not something he hasn't dealt with in the past. There have been plenty of occasions where Moody blues just...Wasn't enough.

And this hurts him, it hurts him deeply, more than he could ever put into words.

Yet, he's so used to it that he just...Stays neutral. Once the task has been handled by someone else, he doesn't say or do anything. He's just...Apathetic, and very, very tired.

He doesn't want to see or talk to anyone in this state, so when he comes back to the villa, he simply grabs the first wine bottle he can find and starts drinking it from top to bottom, non-stop.

As no one had come to greet you, you found it suspicious how there seemed to be sort of of noises coming from the kitchen. Walking into the room to check what was going on, you just stood shocked at the image of your heavily hurt partner chucking down a whole bottle of alcohol.

At the spot, you're not sure of how to react, you only approach him and try to take the liquid away from his hands, to which he resists, giving you an empty stare. He just wants you to leave him alone and let him drown in his self-humiliation.

When he sees the worry and desperation in your eyes, however, Abbacchio finally starts to feel something: remorse. It felt like your gaze was just begging him to let you help him, and it hurt even more than his failure.

As soon as he puts the bottle down, you don't waste any further time and drag him to the bathroom to take care of all his wounds. How could he just ignore them like that? They were even deeper than you had thought at first, if you hadn't done anything, there may have been some...Serious consequences.

Once you finish, he still doesn't react, you can't tell what he's feeling or thinking, so you just...Hug him, tightly, not aware if you're trying to comfort him or yourself.

Slowly, but surely, you can feel his own arms wrapping gently around your back, you could have sworn you almost saw him cry. At last, he finally murmurs a "I'm sorry" and doesn't let go until you do.

After this, the two of you head to your shared bedroom. You had made sure to warm the entire villa before he came back, you wanted him to feel cozy since you knew this mission was stressing him quite a lot.

This happens to be one of the very few times were Abbacchio accepts being comforted, or just...Receiving love in general. Physical contact greatly weirds him out, and he's usually the one to be cuddling you, not the other way around.

So, when you actually take the lead this time, the man doesn't really oppose, but it takes him a while for him to get habituated to it.

You pull out his pair of headphones and the two of you start to listen to his favourite tunes together. You knew this was his favorite playlist and he always listened to it if he needed a break from everything.

Everything, but not everyone.

Because at the end of the day, although his words or actions may sometimes leave you on the edge, it takes nothing but a glance in his eyes, to realize that truly, he's deeply thankful for your love, even if he keeps on screwing up.

Trish🎙

Personally, I don't really think Trish would become part of Passione after meeting the rest. Don't get me wrong, she'd still 100% live with them, and with you, but I believe she'd rather pursue her career as a musician than a mafiosa.

With that being said, let's say that, for example, as a one time thing, the boys were to ask her for help during a mission, and she accepted.

...Boy, she won't take it well.

This is because she saw this request as a way to prove herself. After spending so much time being sheltered and protected, this was the perfect chance to remind everyone that she could handle herself perfectly fine.

And she failed.

As soon as Bruno and the others interfere to keep her from getting harmed any further and kill the enemy... She may even start crying. Not out of pain, but out of sport for how incompetent she is.

It doesn't matter how much she tried, how much she thought she had grown, she still needed someone to do what she couldn't on her own, she was weak.

Despite their attempts at comforting her, Trish brushed them off and heads home before anyone else, wiping the tears off her face because there's no point in crying over it.

You greet her with a warm smile when she steps in, excited to know how the task went. Her cold "hi" and the bruises on her, however, already give you all the answers you needed.

You try to ask her if she needs anything, if she wants you to help her with her scars, but nothing. After a quick "I'm fine", she storms off and goes to get the first aid kit herself.

You knew she could be stubborn and that she shoved you off like that, it meant she really didn't want to be bothered. Even then, you couldn't bring yourself to just...Stay there and do nothing, it almost felt like abandoning her at her lowest, even if it's what she thought she wanted.

You softly knocked on the door and walked in, only to find her struggling to patch herself up due to any other wounds hurting as soon as she tried to handle a single one.

She couldn't help but blush in embarrassment in the moment the saw you, she felt like an inept, not being able to even cure herself, especially after it was her fault she ended up like this.

Again, you ask her if she needs any aid, but this time, more aggressively, she yells at you to let her be, that she's tired of asking other people for help, that she's...Strong on her own.

...Needless to say, tears start forming in her eyes once that last bit leaves her mouth. Pained by seeing your darling in such distress, you gently hold her tight and tell her that it's okay not to be able to overcome everything on your own, that you'd always be there to support her and that you think she's already strong.

As an answer, she just...Softly sobs on your chest, handing you the alcohol and everything else, holding tightly to you as she feels her pain slowly disappear.

After that is settled and her tears are dried off, Trish already feels a lot better, her green eyes look a bit brighter than earlier.

You carry her to bed as she gives you a small, sweet smile. Once you put her down and lay next to her, she lets her head fall on your lap, giving you permission to rub hair hair, despite usually preferring not to.

Some beauty masks and painting each other nails while watching something cheesy on Tv will lift her spirit up like nothing else. From the relaxed expression on her face, you can see that her doubts and worries have started to dissipate.

Gaining her full trust may not be easy, and it is a matter of fact that she does close herself off and pushes everyone, even her loved ones away when she feels threatened. Yet you never give up on reaching out to get, because you know that despite her denial, she just wants for nothing more to tell her that she's enough and doesn't to prove herself to anyone.

[shoechoe]

YOU GET IT. a diavolo and pucci bible study would end up in them trying to mangle each other and still... Alluring

Haha yeah. I mean, it's not even just the obvious fact that Diavolo is a guy named "Devil" and mild thematic opposite to DIO while Pucci is a priest and one of DIO's closest confidants.

Like, "What would Diavolo even think about God" is a question I've pondered a lot in the past.

Diavolo does mention an "afterlife" for his enemies on occasion, but otherwise his real thoughts on it are unknown. (Hell he might not actually believe in an afterlife and he's just saying that to taunt his enemies dying). However he was raised by an Italian priest so we basically know for a fact that he has history with religion.

It's always been my personal headcanon that Diavolo has religious trauma- the fact that he has trauma is canonical yet unexplored, and his father seemed like the most obvious source of it. That could mean a lot of things. He might have resentment for the church after he got away from it or he might have developed an odd version of its teachings after all that time.

Considering his name is Devil, Diavolo's belief that he can surpass his own fate could be construed as his desire to "surpass" God in a way (to escape the punishments that his father made him feel like he was born deserving, maybe). At the same time, he also believes that he's chosen by "fate" to rule, creating an oddly self-contradicting worldview. (Then he's ultimately punished with the death loop, which disobeys his fate of death to torture him for eternity.)

Pucci's idea of fate is heavily intertwined with his religion, with his idea of "Heaven" being the ability to see your fate before it happens. Considering the common Christian belief that God predetermines what happens (which would make sense as a belief for Jojo since fate is a real, tangible force), Pucci probably believes that fate is God's will. So, his idea of "heaven" could be Pucci wanting to be close to God and understanding God's will (as much as it also ties to the tragedy that happened in his backstory, spawning his desire to accept what will happen in his life and thinking that's what's best for everyone).

At the same time, Pucci also states that only he is untied by fate in his ideal universe, which would logically be disobeying God's will, making him a bit unintentionally hypocritical. I mean, his entire "Heaven" plan is an attempt to usurp the set-in-stone laws of the Universe, which is also logically an act of disobeying God. Him obeying DIO and telling him things like "I love you as I love God" could easily be construed as idolatry. DIO heavily manipulated Pucci when he was young and used his religious beliefs to make him obey him, so his whole "Heaven" plan could very obviously be seen as an act of disobeying God despite Pucci's belief that it's what God wants. But I digress.

If it's like that, then we'd have a character who strays from God's will despite thinking he's a righteous man of God, and a character who intentionally desires to surpass fate, has a potentially tumultuous history with religion, and believes he "deserves" to rule despite cheating his way to the top. It's so interesting how similar they become when you think about it despite them being so dissimilar at first glance. They'd hate each other and the way they think despite how adjacent they really are. Like, man, if they interacted, let alone were somehow forced to sit down and talk to each other about their worldviews... I don't even know.

[hobisstar]

What are you hiding from love?| Yandere!Jk x Reader V Last Part

Summary: Being in a relationship with Jungkook you’ve always noticed the signs, the red flags if you will. Being so in love with him you ignored them, until the people you loved dearly started disappearing one by one.

Warnings: Murder, Jungkook victim blaming ( like he will say i killed you because you are too stupid or whatever), Possessiveness, Mentions of Smut, Controlling, Locking up YN.

Taglist: vante 🫶🏾

A/N: This is made to be scary! That is all. I honestly dont like mixing smut with yandere because i read yandere fics to be spooked not horny lol. This has been absolutely fun to write for you guys! Im so happy how much love it had gotten over the past month since ive been writing it! I love you all so so much! Enjoy!

Its been about two years since Jungkook decided to let yn go on her own! So far, yn has become the owner of the coffee shop, has opened up plenty of them across Asia and plans to open some in The Untied States.

Life has been looking absolutely beautiful for yn! But heres the thing.

Bodies have been discovered. Fresh bodies. Of course going through what she went through with Jungkook, she feared that this was his doing. That the so called hobby has now reached the news channels. Though it says that the crimes has been in only England, it was still capability of it being Jungkook.

“Yn! Are you even listening? Im telling you Namjoon wants to take you on a date!” Joy, yns now close friend that she has gained from opening the coffee shops.

“Sorry, but i dont think im ready to date. The last guy was for 5 years and it didn’t turn out well in the end.” Yn mumbled looking over at the tv that was on the crime scene of the killings.

But what was showed, made yns blood run cold.

What was at the crime scene was dandelions.

The flowers that Jungkook always used to gift her on days he felt like we did something wrong. He would cut the steam off and just leave the flowers to never be able to grow again.

Was he…back?

It was closing time and of course yn being the owner, she decided that it was her duty to close every single night.

But tonight, she couldnt shake the feeling that she was being watched.

As everyone was leaving she saw a guy with a big hoodie on taking his time to clean up his mess on the table. Putting his crumbs inside a napkin then taking the napkin and closing it tightly then throwing it out.

yn watched from behind the counter taking containers from the counter and putting them on the shelf behind her.

This mysterious guy has been coming in everyday. Same time. She never serves him but she knows Joy does and she hates serving him. ‘His glare, it can kill.’ She would say when describing the eyes of this mysterious man.

While cleaning she saw the guy get up and come up to the counter.

Face mask on and glasses… sun glasses.

Its night time.

Maybe it was a fashion statement. Thats what yn left it as. “ Hi sorry we are about to close soon so im gonna have to ask you to leave..” is what she was aiming to say but once she turned around she saw he just left a napkin with hand writing on it.

She grabbed it and began to read it:

“Hi baby! Oh its been such a long time, oh how i miss you. Our child also misses you. 2 years right? That is let you go? Ah, I remember something. Today is our anniversary! Our now 7 year anniversary. Im picking you up at 11! Be ready!

JJK,”

Yn was at this point shaking. Fear took over her body but was trying to hide it. She wasnt doing such a good job at that. As much as she wanted to call the cops, get him arrested, she knew that those cops had no chance in trying to get Jungkook.

Hed kill them all in the blink of an if he even knew that they talked to yn.

When yn got home she didnt let the fact go that when she got there she obviously saw Jungkooks car right outside her town house.

Mind you this is the 5th time this year she has moved. None of the reasons dealing with Kook but they definitely where personal reasons.

She braced herself, once she goes inside her home, Jungkook will be inside.

She could call the cops and run away from home then go to Jins house.

Actually now that Yn thought about it, what if Jin had something to do with it? He was always to calm for her liking honestly. Why was he always just so calm with him? I mean he explained it yes, hes seen it for so many years but why didnt he at least call the cops? Then again was the cops really gonna help him?

Entering the home, it felt like deja vu. Coming home on anniversary and Jungkook was cooking their favorite shared dish.

Spaghetti! Yn liked it because it was delicious and Jungkook probably like it because it reminded him of blood.

“My love! You are right on time! The Spaghetti is hot and ready to be platted. Get comfortable and come eat”

He didn’t need to turn around for yn to know that it was actually him. He colored his tattoos, became more swoll and also cut his long hair.

Yn didnt change anything or didnt get comfortable since this was all just too much for her.

‘Keep calm and go with his plan, yn.’ Thats all she kept telling herself.

Though what was his plan? Drug her? Kill her?

Well, none of those. He wanted her back. If that meant living in this house with her, then so be it. Jin had Bam so, they’d have plenty of time together.

Finally he sat down with two plates of spaghetti and there he was in all his glory.

He had the cockiest smirk while toying with his now new lip ring before sitting down across from yn.

“ Fucking finally, i have you again.”

[sourw0lfs]

dance with the devil - part eight

No one look at me. My three fics for STRBB has taken over my brain.

Words: 509 | Rating: E (mostly parts 1 & 2, but also future parts) | CW: no warnings this time! except Eddie's continued bad time

part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven || part eight || part nine || part ten || part eleven || part twelve

Eddie turns to Steve and blinks, once, twice, thrice.

“I just admitted to being dead and being one wrong move away from going to Hell, and you want to know how this effects you?” he asks incredulously. “You really are something, aren’t you?”

And maybe he’s being a little mean, a little unfair, considering the scene he walked into not even a handful of hours ago now, but Eddie can’t find it in himself to actually care. Maybe he’d be a little more sympathetic if he could remember being alive, but he can’t. He can’t, and he doesn’t know if he ever will again.

“You’re dead,” Steve bites back. “At, apparently, twenty-three. I think my still being alive is more important.”

It takes every bit of self-control for Eddie not to laugh, because this would be his luck. He would get assigned to the actual rudest person on Earth. “Well, you worry about that, and I’ll worry about the eternal state of my soul and whatever the fuck happens if I fail this.”

It’s not an ideal situation. It’s so, so, so far from ideal, but Eddie doesn’t really know what else to do. Not with Steve apparently being the prickliest little motherfucker in existence.

“How about we worry about both of you? Is that something you two can compromise on?” Robin asks with the judgiest raised eyebrow Eddie’s ever seen.

Eddie rolls his eyes at her, noticing that Steve does the same. “If we must,” he grumbles.

“Glad you can be reasonable,” Robin thanks him sarcastically and Eddie thinks he might be back to hating her a little. At least Steve seems equally miserable. “So are you stuck just following Steve around and keeping him out of trouble or what?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“I don’t need your help,” Steve gripes as he crosses his arms.

Eddie snorts, probably louder than he really needs to, but it’s fucking funny. “Says the guy that would be in jail right now without me,” he points out, bearing no thought on if Robin knows the predicament Steve found himself in that morning in full or not.

She doesn’t seem surprised, so Eddie takes it as her knowing.

Steve huffs at him, rolling his eyes so hard Eddie has to wonder if it hurt. But he doesn’t open his mouth to protest, and that’s good enough for now. It means they both agree that Steve would be fucked if Eddie hadn’t been there, and that’s a start. If they could keep that being the worst of their time together, Eddie might think himself lucky, but he’s never had much luck. He did, after all, die at twenty-three.

“Either way,” he continues on when no one protests. “I’ll try to stay out of the way as much as I can. Only intervene if I think there’s danger.”

Because for all he could use his newfound angelic magic for things like making sure Steve didn’t trip over an untied shoelace or that he always has exact change, Eddie really doesn’t think that’s his job.

Tags below the cut as always!

@chaosgremlinmunson @soaringornithopter @hbyrde36 @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch @quevadilla @tboyeddie @penny00dreadful @momotonescreaming @stevesbipanic @dawners @steddiejudas @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @estrellami-1 @vthx @lolawonsstuff @gleek4twd @littlebluejane @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lawrencebshaggoth @sadisticaltarts @queenie-ofthe-void @r0binscript @anaibis @hairdressersdoitwithstyle @goodolefashionedloverboi @spookednsaucy @anne-bennett-cosplayer @flustratedcas

[lorelune]

good soup

|| childe x reader || M || yandere tartaglia + force feeding || wc: 2.9k  || ao3 ||

Tartaglia brings you a meal and you must choose if you'll yield.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: sometimes. sometimes you title a google doc ‘good soup’ and the rest comes after <3 💕 i don't think i've ever posted a fic quite this dark so tread carefully and enjoy!!

CW: dark content, yandere tartaglia, force feeding, force drinking, restraints, threats of suffocation, violence, kidnapping, references to non-con

Tartaglia stares at you like he wants to eat you whole. Swallow you down, grinding bones with his molars and clawing you until you’re nothing but a bloody heap. It’s in his stare, the lack of light that reflects in his eyes. There are pools of something worse than human behind his irises, and around you, he has no reason to mask it.

He’s something awful, incarnate in flesh and all yours.

“Eat,” He urges, crouched down in front of you. He nods to a steaming bowl between you on the floor. A deep, wooden spoon rests on the edge. “I can practically hear your stomach growling.”

He gives you a smile that’s all teeth. You curb the urge to flinch forward and knock a few of them out. 

You are hungry. Famished and parched, you can see a flask of water tucked into Tartaglia’s waistband. The thought of a proper, hot meal and a full mouthful of water feels too indulgent, despite the reality that’s laid before you on the dirt.

You adjust, trying to prop yourself up higher against the wall you rest on. Your hands and forearms are bound in leather and chain, held against your lower back. It forces you to keep your spine straight, and rag-covered chest bared but doesn’t restrict your blood flow and you still have ample room to squirm. You hate him for it, Tartaglia’s uncanny ability to keep you on the edge of discomfort and pure suffering. You know he revels in it.

You swallow your dry tongue, refusing to look at him, and instead fix your gaze on the thick soup. You can see chunks of carrot and fowl, topped with Snezhnayan snow pepper. You know it's his mother’s recipe and will warm you up from the inside out.

It’s horribly tempting, and you jerk against your binds without thinking.

“Careful there,” You can hear the smirk in his voice. Tartaglia snatches up the bowl and stirs. “I’m sure you don’t want to get any more bruised up, do you?”

You bite your lip, holding back a quip that you’re sure will end any chance at a peaceful mealtime. He’s not wrong— there are abrasions and deep, dark wounds on your wrists. They’ve been there since Tartaglia first took you, though the chill tends to help with the ache of it.

You’re aware of your circumstances— not even the cold can chase that away.

You know there are two options in your situation. Go hungry, or ask Tartaglia for help eating. He relishes the opportunity, and you hate giving it to him, but it’s been far too long since you’ve last eaten. At least a day or two. Despite that, the idea of debasing yourself further, even in your bound (and kept, and stolen) state makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Tartaglia’s stare. He plays with the soup idly, humming under his breath. 

“You know how this works, sweetheart,” He finally says.”There’s an easy way or a hard way.”

“I’m aware,” You reply through clenched teeth. “I’d prefer if you’d, I don’t know, untie me and allow me to feed myself.”

He laughs and shakes his head, and you want to punch him. Knock him to the ground and bust his skull on the pavement. 

“Maybe one day! That’s a privilege you gotta earn,” He laughs, scooting even closer; your knees touch. “And you’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant any favors, my dear.”

You mean to curse at him, but you don’t get a chance to. Tartaglia’s gloved hand grabs your jaw, rough and hard, and holds you steady. You jerk against your binds, and strain your neck. Anything to get away from his touch. 

“Tartaglia—”

He cuts you off, swiftly and easily, “You had your chance. Now eat, and enjoy, I made this, especially for you.”

His thumb hooks on your lower teeth, and pulls. You know better than to bite him, or snarl, or do anything other than shoot him the most venomous glare you can muster. 

There had been a learning curve when Tartaglia had first stolen you away. You’d only known him as a charming patron of the tea house you had been employed at. He’d always leave a generous tip and good words with you. In retrospect, far too much flattery, but you’d always justified it. ‘He was like that with all of the servers,’ you had told yourself. His easy smiles and lingering chats were just unfamiliar Snezhnayan niceties and nothing more. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

You have too much time to think about it, really. You’re rotting in some tiny cabin in the bitter tundra and your only company is your captor. You’ve had an obscene amount of stew. Lamenting with your regret. Guilt, even. 

Maybe, if you listened to your coworkers when they said Child was getting too friendly.

Maybe, if you declined his advances more firmly—.

Maybe, if you never got into the habit of letting him walk you home.

Maybe, if you never went out for those drinks. 

Maybe, if you knew that the sedatives he slipped into your drink had the slightest, salty taste, you would’ve been able to do something—

Tears begin to bead at your water line, and your squeeze them shut and try to force yourself to relax as Tartaglia heaps the spoon with soup.

A moment later, he presses it past your lips, hard against your tongue and brushing the back of your throat. You gag for just a moment, before he lets you close your mouth around the spoon and swallow down the soup. 

It’s delicious. It’s warm and spiced. Creamy and thick with small chunks of meat and veg, you can tell it’s been simmered for some time. It heats you from the inside out and it’ll keep you full for hours. 

You lick your lips as Tartaglia pulls away. He beams you a smitten smile, scooting closer and stirring the steaming contents of the bowl.

“See? That’s not too hard.” His tone curls against you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. It is hard to give in to him, it’s as uncomfortable as the binds on your arms do, but you find yourself crumbling. 

Cold and hunger will do things to anyone, you suppose.

He taps your chin with the spoon, and you open up with only brief hesitation. 

How many times have you shared this song and dance? How many meals have you had in this little cabin, cold and near-starving, fighting so hard, and breaking regardless? You feel haunted by the questions. 

You’re tired. Maybe. 

Tartaglia feeds you another mouthful, just as intrusive as the last. You only swallow once he’s pulled away, horribly aware of the tears beginning to spill over your waterline. Despite all of the times Tartaglia has fed you in such a way, your body refuses to become accustomed to his methods. The prodding at your throat always yields tears and a broken voice for a few hours. Sometimes, Tartaglia brings you ginger tea and honey to soothe it, but only if you’re good.

You hate smiling for him and pretending that what you’re going through is anything other than torture. But to act like what you’re experiencing is torture, you only suffer more. Tartaglia likes seeing you put on a show. You’re sure he knows you’re lying when you speak sweetly to him and show any softness to him. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. The sentiment is hollow, what he really enjoys is when you squirm in your own skin, rife with discomfort. 

Thinking about it, all of it, too lucidly makes your head spin. Wires crossing, eyes burning. 

So, you quiet your thoughts. You focus on the action of opening your mouth, swallowing, and fixating on the dusty, wooden floorboards of the cabin. Tartaglia speaks, now and then, as he finishes feeding you your meal. Perhaps it’s praise, with the saccharine smile he still wears. With such an expression, it’s just as likely he’s being cruel. He loves his thinly veiled insults, crafted specifically to get under your skin and make you writhe. 

Regardless, you don’t listen to him. Can’t, even. His words sound like static and aether. Everything other than the thick soup in your mouth feels fuzzy. 

You fixate on the food. It’s a meal. A communion. Something you used to enjoy sharing with others. It’s one of the reasons you enjoyed your work at the teahouse. You didn’t mind the service aspect of it; seeing patrons enjoy tea and cakes while indulging with loved ones, companions, and acquaintances alike had made you so happy. 

(It had been so nice to be invited to tea yourself, back then. ‘Childe’s invitation had been a welcomed surprise, and your first meeting over sweet breads and black tea on the docks of Liyue harbor had been nothing but pleasant.)

(It’s a bitter, poisonous memory.)

“All done!” Tartaglia exclaims as he shoves the last bite into your mouth. You feel warm and full, and you try to sit with the feeling as he fiddles with a clasp on his belt. The sound makes you freeze, going taut in your shoulders and drawing back against the wall. 

Tartaglia raises an eyebrow. 

“Sweetheart, settle down,” He pulls the flask from his belt and settles on his knees in front of you. Without any distractions, you feel forced to fully regard him, disgust swirling in your gut. He gives you a toothy, sly smile. “You don’t have to get anywhere near my cock if you can indulge me a bit.”

“... Indulge you how?” You ask, voice cracking, rough from its earlier treatment. Your cheeks heat. 

Tartaglia tilts his head, “Well, Dottore was going on about something he tried with one of his little lab rats and it sounded like fun. Nothing painful, nothing that will bruise your knees... well, any worse than they already are.”

Tartaglia uncaps the flask of water and swishes the liquid, side to side.

You glare at him, still back against the wall.

“You’re thirsty,” Tartaglia muses. “And I’ll be giving you some water. Don’t bite me or I’ll ‘forget’ to bring firewood for the next week, ‘kay?”

You want to question him, but don’t get a chance to. He grabs your jaw in a calloused palm and holds you steady. You bare your teeth, flinching, but there’s no room for you to back up farther. Your knees press against Tartaglia, who widens his own position to cage you with his thighs. You’re trapped. And you don’t know what the fuck is spinning around in this fucker’s head.

“Don’t look so scared,” Tartaglia pokes your ribs. You wince. “Maybe, you’ll even like this.”

Tartaglia takes a swig of water, going fat in the cheeks. You open your mouth to question him, but what his ‘fun idea’ is dawns on you at that moment. Your thrash against your binds fruitlessly.

Tartaglia slams his mouth into yours, rough and with enough force to pin your skull to the brick behind you. He tugs at your jaw, forcing your jaw to unlock and lips to part just barely. He takes the opportunity and hooks a few fingers over your bottom teeth, holding your mouth wide.

And he spits the mouthful of water into your own.

Oh, the fucker. 

Though Tartaglia’s forced you to eat every meal he’s brought you in the same way, he’s never tried this shit. Water was something he tipped into your mouth from his flagon or made you lap out of a bowl if he was in a particularly vile mood. Fucking demoralizing, sure, but this? This—

You gag, choke on the liquid and try to spit. 

Tartaglia doesn’t give you the chance, he’s fast and predicts your reaction perfectly. He shuts your mouth with a snap of your teeth that rattles in your skull. He slaps his hand over your mouth, wrapping his grip around the lower half of your face.

“Swallow, dearest.”

Archons, you hate him. 

Bile builds in the back of your throat. You don’t swallow. Rather, you meet Tartaglia’s gaze, level with him, and refuse to look away. It’s a stupid decision, you know, it’s fucking fruitless to go toe-to-toe with him. But you can’t swallow either. Your pride has been in shambles for as long as you’ve been in this cabin since Tartaglia dragged you from Liyue by your scruff, but all the same, you can’t let him have this—

(You have to try, don’t you? Just to say that you did. Even if you know how much easier it would be to give in.)

It’s uncomfortable to be this close to him and see him. More than uncomfortable, even. Revolting, maybe. Like this, you can’t avoid examining your captor. You hate sinking into the color of him. A blue so deep and vast that it feels almost void. 

(You noticed it back at the tea house too. The first time you really looked at him as he walked you back to your apartment. You stood on your stoop to thank him and your words died in your throat.)

(You saw something so hollow about him. Like he’d been carved out and replaced with something eerie and wrong. He hid such a condition with a charming smile, glowing personality, and more mora than you thought an individual person could conceivably have.)

(At the time, you dismissed the feeling. It was too uncanny to indulge. An error in your intuition, perhaps. You were just paranoid, right?)

Tartaglia pinches your nose shut and his smile goes dull and his words grow sharper, “You’re not breathing until you swallow.”

(Your move.)

When you’re unbound, you’re going to maim him. You’re going to shove Tartaglia into a snow bank and give his broken body to the Snezhnayan tundra. You’re going to ruin him, and then you’ll back to Liyue, see your family, friends—

(You feel light-headed, fuzzy around your edges. Your body aches from strain. A sob cracks from your throat and you choke on it.) 

And you fucking break. 

You swallow, gasping as Tartaglia removes his hands from your face. Tears bubble over your water line and you cough around lungfuls of air. Tartaglia croons something sweet to you — “deep breaths now, go slow”—

Every time this happens, that you yield to him, you feel something in you shatter. Over and over again you squirm and thrash under Tartaglia’s thumb but the outcome is always the same. It’s humiliating and inescapable. 

You wilt over Tartaglia’s lap. 

You fall into your captive and can’t bring yourself to fight the gentle hand that begins to stroke along the back of your neck and shoulders. You don’t resist your restraints. You fall into them, and let them hold you up despite the pain that tears up your arms and back. A cry rips from your throat and tears dribble down your cheeks to your jaw. Snot bubbles at your nose, but Tartaglia doesn’t seem to mind. 

Tartaglia is patient as you fight your own cracks and wounds, letting you cry and half-wretch in his lap. He remains silent, only petting you like a house cat. 

You have half a mind to bite his thigh and tear out a chunk.

(You don’t.)

(You’re so tired.)

Your chest aches with each sob. Your back is painfully arched so you can smother your face into Tartaglia’s pants. You’re uncomfortably close to his half-chub bulge and you swear it twitches when your breath hitches with sobs. You should move or at least try to, but you can’t make yourself. 

You wallow. 

Eventually, Tartaglia loosens one or two of your restraints to give you more slack. He pulls you to rest against his chest, tucked under his chin and with your cheek nestled against his collarbone. He runs his nails along your jaw, squeezing the nape of your neck between your hitched breaths. It’s comforting, it’s comforting— and recognizing that only makes you feel dirty. He radiates heat that sinks into you, and god, you despise how much you relish it. 

(Even more, you hate how you need it.)

The familiarity of your thoughts almost physically hurts, and you muffle another wail into his skin. If you could use your hands, you’d be clutching at his shirt and trying to drag him closer despite it all. 

(How many times must you shatter? When will he be satisfied? When will you give up?)

Tartaglia hushes you. He whispers another sweet nothing like the sentiment is real. 

He lets you rest against him until your breathing evens out. With enough petting and placating, you’re nothing but a tear-dampened lump against his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind. He coos and keeps you close, lets you settle and you know that if you dared to look at him, you’d see nothing but adoration in his eyes. 

(This is the moment he covets.)

He eventually disturbs your brief ‘peace’, as he always does. 

“Dear,” He says gently, like a lover. He kisses your forehead. “You have to drink the rest of the bottle just like that. Then you can sleep, and I’ll hold you. How does that sound?”

(Awful. Revolting. You don’t want any more of him near you, let alone in you. You can’t—)

You fight back something between a scream and another round of wailing. You give him a misty nod.

You suppose, the warmth of him and the soup in your belly will make the experience tolerable. Biting the hand that feeds you when there’s not another meal on the way seems like a poor decision. 

You give in, and let yourself sink into the depths with Tartaglia. And, ever dutifully, he catches you.