#I know there seems to be an underlying meaning

[livefromtheelephantsfoot]

I've had this sitting in my drafts for over a week bc I AGREE and I have SO many thoughts abt this.

I think one of the underlying reasons is a failure to engage with the fact that, to a lot of people at least, eugenics makes intuitive sense. I remember as a kid when I first had natural selection explained to me, and it didn't take much for me to wonder "huh, what does that mean for humans? does that mean it's a bad thing that we've insulated ourselves from stuff like disease?" (Obviously 8yo me wouldn't have said it like that, but I did wonder.) I'm almost afraid to point it out, but I really don't think it's just a me thing.

Later I learned abt Eugenics, that it was this bad evil thing that lead to genocide, and I was horrified. If I could empathize with the proponents of it, at least early on, what did that say about me? But it didn't actually answer my question. So now I had this first idea, evolution, that was obviously true and explained so much about the natural world, and this second idea that still seemed to naturally follow from it but was Bad. And I didn't know what to do with that.

And I started to notice how common the second idea was, too. The most pervasive thing I noticed was how common "Darwin Award" jokes are-- the joke, of course, being that people who die doing something stupid are making a positive contribution to the human gene pool. I don't really like those jokes. I ended up with the impression that eugenicists were right abt the human gene pool being a thing that we ought to be concerned about damaging, but they just went Too Far. You'll notice people who think this way disagree on where Too Far was. It made me uncomfortable that there could be an idea that was right, and if ignored would cause problems down the line, and at the same time acting on it was morally wrong, and everyone agreed it was a bad idea but only when called by a particular name--otherwise it's just common sense.

I don't think it was until high school that I started to understand that eugenics was, in fact, bad science. It makes sense with a surface level understanding of evolution, but the more in-depth you go, the more it falls apart. Artificial selection in dogs is such a great way to point this out. "It worked so well in dogs, why not try it in humans? Oh, wait..."

Eugenics requires the assumption that natural selection is at once a great and powerful force worthy of abandoning all morals in order to worship, while being so fragile that human civilization is at risk of overthrowing it within a couple hundred years.

Of course, the truth is that eugenicists weren't and aren't abandoning their real values in favor of what their understanding of natural selection would suggest. Eugenics was built on racism and ableism, and there is no escaping that. People latch on to ideas that validate their preexisting beliefs. You know what we can say, pretty confidently, about what's "healthy" genetically, for dog breeds and for humans? Variation. You'll notice that you don't see a lot of eugenicists advocating for interracial marriage. Even setting aside the (very important) ethical considerations for their methods, if eugenicists had their way, humanity would be barreling toward an artificial bottleneck that would REALLY fuck us over genetically.

Even that is missing nuance, though-- we're still in the realm of stick figure drawings. Genetics are really complicated. All this requires you to pretend that we fully understand what all of our genes even do, and we just don't. And that's ok! We do not, in fact, have to base public policy on whether G exists!

Natural selection is still happening to us, and if its slown down lately then I'd chalk that up to a global civilization mixing up our gene pool (which, again, is unambiguously a good thing from a genetic perspective) more than modern medicine helping disabled people have kids (which is not a new thing! we have been helping each other for millions of years). The human genome is not at risk of collapse.

We haven't even touched on poverty being a structural issue that requires people to exploit (ie, if all the poor people disappeared poverty wouldn't end, the next group up would be moved into their place) or the question of what mental health issues even ARE (I'm a proponent of the idea that, of the disorders/cases that are primarily caused by genetics, most are just the extreme ends of traits that are necessary to the general population and can't actually be removed-- extremely simplified example: everyone needs a sprinkle of neuroticism to function, sometimes someone gets a heavier dose and winds up with clinical anxiety, and every once and a while someone gets way too much and had OCD. even if environment weren't a factor at all, and even if anxiety were such a simplistic trait that we could track it with a very high degree of confidence, keeping the person with OCD from having kids wouldn't stop OCD from existing. they might be more likely to have kids with OCD, but them not having kids does nothing to the fact that OCD is a product of inherent variation that it would be a VERY bad idea to try to eliminate), or delving into IQ [even longer rant redacted].

I think sometimes people think eugenics is bad but its still true, like thinking that if people with certain traits have children it will change society for better or worse based upon what traits are promoted. I think its important to emphasize that eugenics is not only wrong morally it's also fake and stupid bullshit

Like eugenics was supposed to be based on the idea that "If it works with animals to select only the best ones to breed, why wouldn't it work with humans?"

well it doesn't work with animals, that's the thing. applying the eugenics ideas to domestic breeds of animals hasn't made better animals it's just made animals with more extreme expression of certain traits. turns out that when you decide which traits are the "best" and become obsessed with the genetic purity of the animals that have the "best" traits, you might well end up with some sad suffering creature like a Pug, or the Persian cats with the smashed faces that are in constant pain because their teeth and airways and brains are getting crushed by their skulls, or those meat chickens that grow so fast they can hardly even stand up after a few weeks old, or inbred race horses with tiny feet and fragile toothpick legs

like almost all traits are neither "good" or "bad" they're way more complex than that. a long tail or a long snout or a stubborn, independent personality can be good or bad depending on the situation. Who gets to decide what is a "good" trait or a "bad" trait? It's arbitrary and selecting for traits that are "good" in your opinion will often have both "good" and "bad" outcomes because the "good" and "bad" are part of each other and not separate its just part of being alive

Obviously oversimplifying everything but you get it. we did eugenics with dogs and how did that go? not very well

[triwizsworld]

ORANTES

Chapter 1

Absence

TW - Violence , Gore, Blood

Claire’s alarm buzzed at 7:00 AM, but she was already awake, lying stiff as a corpse under the blankets. The house felt cold, the kind of cold that sank into your bones and stayed there. It wasn't the kind of chill that could be cured by a sweater or a blanket, but something deeper—like the house had absorbed years of sorrow and was letting it seep into her. The walls were dense with silence, a heavy kind of quiet that only seemed to deepen as the seconds ticked by.

Outside, the suburban streets of Daystar Falls stretched endlessly. Claire's house was in New Daystar, a neighborhood of sleek, modern homes with manicured lawns and symmetrical facades. Everything about the area was pristine, almost unnervingly so, as though the houses themselves were trying to mask some underlying truth. Across the narrow creek lay Old Daystar, where crumbling Victorian homes stood in defiance of time, their overgrown yards and sagging rooftops whispering of a forgotten past. Her room was a small, forgotten space in the otherwise polished house of New Daystar—an outlier, much like herself. The paint peeled in the corners, curling like dried petals, while the mismatched furniture gave the room a fragmented, unloved look. Faded posters clung to the walls, their once-vibrant colors now muted, as if the years had stolen their voices.

The windows let in just enough light to cast long, shifting shadows across the room—shadows that seemed to crawl across the floor with a will of their own, reaching for her with blackened fingers. She turned her head toward the ceiling and stared at the hairline cracks that spiderwebbed from each corner. They had been there for as long as she could remember, spreading wider and deeper over time, like scars etched into the skin of the house. Sometimes, in the stillness, she found herself tracing the edges of the cracks with her eyes, wondering if they, too, held secrets. Secrets the house wasn’t ready to share.

Birthdays weren’t supposed to feel this way. There should have been cake and candles, maybe a stack of poorly wrapped gifts from her mom. But eighteen felt different. Heavy. Like someone had dropped a weight on her chest and left it there, cold and unyielding. It wasn’t just the weight of adulthood—it was the weight of loss. Of time squandered. Of never knowing what it felt like to be wrapped in her father’s arms.

The air in her room felt thick, pressing against her skin like a second layer, suffocating and inescapable. The blinds rattled softly against the windowpane, though the night outside was still as death. The house always felt like this: too quiet, too still. Even in the heart of summer, when the world outside buzzed with life, the house seemed frozen in a moment of uneasy waiting—waiting for something or someone that would never come.

Her father had been gone for as long as she could remember. Dead and buried before her first steps, his presence reduced to an empty space in family photos and the occasional whispered mention. And yet, he lingered. In the creak of the attic stairs late at night, long after her mom had gone to bed. In the faint, inexplicable smell of smoke that would drift into her room without warning. Not cigarette smoke—something older. Ancient. Like the dying embers of a fire that had burned and burned but refused to die. Eighteen was supposed to mean freedom—an escape from everything this house represented. But instead, it felt like the house was tightening its grip, drawing her closer. The walls seemed to pulse, almost as if they were alive, whispering stories she didn’t want to hear. From the kitchen, her mom’s voice filtered through the thin walls, muffled and distant. “Happy birthday, Claire. I made your favorite—pancakes with syrup,” she called. The words floated in the air, brittle and insubstantial. They didn’t carry the warmth they once did. Her mother’s voice, usually a beacon of comfort, sounded tired today—a hollow echo of rituals performed out of obligation. Claire stayed silent, letting the words fade into the house’s oppressive quiet. 

Another year without him. That thought was louder than her mother’s attempt at cheerfulness. Another year of absence, of unresolved grief pressing against her ribs. Claire heard the faint sigh from the hallway, the shuffle of her mom’s footsteps retreating. She had tried, but the motions were empty, like acting out a scene in a play whose meaning was long forgotten. Claire sat up, peeling herself out of the icy sheets. The morning air clung to her skin, heavy and unrelenting, as she stretched, her joints stiff, her shoulders weighed down by something unseen. The house seemed to press in on her as she stood, and the air felt dense today with an unshakable anticipation, as though something was about to happen. Something she couldn’t quite define, but it hovered close, tightening its grip around her chest.

Jeans. Hoodie. The usual. The hoodie had once belonged to her father. Her mom had tucked it away in the attic with the rest of his things, but Claire had pulled it down a year ago. The fabric still held traces of him—faint, elusive. Not the scent of cologne or detergent, but something deeper, something that made her heart ache when she buried her face in it, like she could still feel his presence there, just beyond her reach.

As she slipped the hoodie over her head, Claire felt a brief flicker of warmth, but it was quickly swallowed by the heavy presence of the house around her. She moved toward the door, her footsteps causing the old wood to creak in protest. The house seemed to groan with her every step, like it was shifting its weight, reluctant to let her leave. The hallway felt different this morning—its silence more oppressive, the walls pressing in tighter, as though they had become aware of her presence. The floors sagged beneath her, as though they had long grown weary of supporting her, or anyone, for that matter. The hallway stretched out ahead, an unbroken line of shadow and wood, and Claire felt an uncomfortable sensation that it might go on forever, an endless passage with no way out.

She passed the stairs that led up to the attic, the place where her father’s things lay buried under tarps and forgotten memories. There was something unnerving about the attic, an unsettling stillness that clung to it, like time had paused in that space, waiting to be remembered. Claire had never been brave enough to go up there alone, and today, that feeling of dread was stronger than ever.

The kitchen light flickered as she passed the doorway, casting a wavering shadow that seemed to stretch too long for a morning. Claire’s eyes lingered on the half-empty mugs and the untouched pancakes cooling on the table. Her mom stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, but her face was turned away, the deepening lines of age and sorrow carved into her features. She wasn’t the same woman Claire remembered—the one who had once been bright-eyed and full of hope. This woman, now, seemed worn out, drained of any joy.

Claire hesitated in the doorway, her gaze lingering on the pancakes. "I’m not hungry," she said, her voice flat, as though it had been emptied of emotion.

Her mom turned slowly, her lips pulling into a thin, weary smile. "You should eat something. You need to keep up your strength."

Claire wanted to say something, to explain that nothing in the world could fill the emptiness that had festered inside her for years, but she swallowed the words and turned away, walking toward the door. The door, which had always felt like an escape, but never enough to truly free her from the weight of this house. From the unshakable presence of the past that haunted its walls. At school, the day moved forward like an endless, dragging parade. The buzz of chatter and the clatter of lockers closing felt distant, as though she were hearing them from under water. The world around her seemed to blur, a disjointed hum of movement that had no meaning. She walked through the hallways like a shadow, unnoticed, untethered.

Emily was waiting by Claire's locker, all energy and brightness, holding a cupcake like it was a gift from the heavens. "Eighteen! We should celebrate. After school," she chirped, offering it with a smile that pushed against the weight in Claire’s chest.

Claire tried to smile back. It felt wrong, like forcing her mouth into a shape it wasn’t meant to take. "Maybe," she said, her voice thinner than she expected. She knew Emily wouldn’t see. She never did. Emily was one of those people whose laughter could fill a room, never questioning the emptiness it might be masking. She lived on the surface, never diving deeper than what was right in front of her.

By lunchtime, Claire found herself wandering aimlessly, her feet moving without direction, until they carried her to the memorial plaques by the library. The space was quiet, almost reverential, smelling faintly of aged paper and dust—starkly different from the chaos inside the cafeteria. The plaques were a somber, mute presence, reminders of lives lost, and yet Claire’s gaze locked onto one name among the rest.

Her father's name. David Monroe. It gleamed coldly in the dim light, the letters carved into the metal like scars in the world’s surface. Claire reached out, fingers tracing the smooth, polished surface of the plaque. The metal was unnervingly cold, as though it could absorb the warmth from her skin. The more she touched it, the more it felt like she was imprinting herself onto it, marking the passing of time that had already passed her by.

A twist of discomfort curled in her stomach. The letters seemed to burn her fingers, leaving behind a ghost of something that made her chest ache. Just then, Mark walked by, his dark figure cutting through the sunlight that filtered in through the library windows. For a moment, his eyes met hers, and Claire felt an uncomfortable flutter—a sinking feeling, not excitement, but something darker, deeper.

Not butterflies. No. It was more like the weight of the world shifting for just a second.

The final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, but for Claire, it was just another moment in a never-ending loop. The sounds of students spilling out into the halls, their voices growing quieter as they left, only made the silence around her more suffocating.

She was almost at the gate when Mark’s voice interrupted the stillness, low and rough, carrying a hesitation that she could almost feel in the air. He stood by his car, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, the casual stance hiding something guarded. The space between them seemed to hold its breath.

"Hey… you wanna go out tomorrow? Just us."

Claire blinked, caught off guard by his words. Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t expected this. She should have said no, should have turned him down and walked away. Her mind raced for an excuse, for something to say that could break the tension between them. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she stood frozen, caught in the weight of his gaze, as if some invisible force had anchored her in place.

There was something about the way Mark looked at her—his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that felt like it could pull her under. She couldn’t look away. The world around her seemed to blur and fade, the hum of voices and the distant chatter growing quiet, until it was just the two of them, suspended in time.

And then, somewhere deep within her mind, Claire felt a whisper. The house. It was there, in the background, its presence creeping in like an uninvited guest. It was always there, lurking, a silent observer to everything she couldn’t control. The weight of that presence pressed on her chest, urging her to decide, to make a choice.

"Yeah," she heard herself say, the word barely escaping her lips. "Yeah, sure."

Mark’s lips quirked into a small, unreadable smile before he turned, stepping away. His figure receded into the distance, swallowed by the shadows of the parking lot, as the sun sank lower. The day was ending, but Claire knew that the quiet moments, the ones that mattered, were just beginning.

Emily appeared beside her like a burst of light in the fading evening, her hand grasping Claire’s arm and pulling her toward the exit. "Come on," she said, the cheerfulness in her voice almost too sharp, too bright. "It’s your birthday. Let’s get out of here."

They went to Claire’s house. 

Together, they walked past the hastily hung streamers on the front yard, their bright colors fluttering weakly in the wind. They seemed out of place against the backdrop of the darkening sky, like they didn’t belong.

When they reached home, the scene was set—a table in the yard, decorated with cake and soda. But it all felt wrong. The decorations felt like a backdrop to a story Claire wasn’t part of, a scene played out by ghosts who didn’t understand the roles they were supposed to play. It was empty, hollow.

Her mom stood near the door, her fragile smile stretched across her face, never quite reaching her eyes. The evening light framed her figure, casting long shadows across the yard that seemed to stretch endlessly. Claire’s eyes flicked to the framed photo of her father, sitting just inside the house, the glass catching the last of the sun’s light. His face was frozen in time, a memory caught between moments. Claire felt his absence like a raw ache beside her at the table. It was as though he were still there—watching, waiting—just out of reach.

"Claire, come on, you’re the birthday girl!" Emily’s voice was bright, almost too much so, but there was an undercurrent of concern. Her eyes searched Claire’s face, looking for any sign of life, any flicker of joy. Emily had always tried to fill the gray spaces of life with color, to make things brighter when the world around them seemed to be slowly dimming. But Claire couldn’t meet her energy. Not today.

"Come on, Claire," Emily coaxed, stepping closer, her voice softer now. "Let’s not stand out here all day. It’s your birthday."

But Claire couldn’t hear the words. They bounced around in her mind like empty echoes. How could it be her birthday when the one person who mattered wasn’t there to share it with her? How could she pretend that her mother was the same, when it felt like everything inside it had shifted? The shadows in the yard stretched longer now, reaching toward her as the sun began its descent.

Claire’s legs moved, but every step felt weighted, like she was wading through something thick. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was closing in, something that had been waiting for her to make a choice, like the house itself was waiting.

Reluctantly, she nodded, not wanting to disappoint Emily. The hope in her friend's eyes pulled at her, and for a moment, Claire almost wished she could play along—pretend that today was a normal birthday, that it still meant something.

"Okay," she murmured.

Emily’s face brightened, and she took Claire’s arm, leading her inside. But Claire’s thoughts lingered on Mark’s invitation. The weight of it pressed against her chest, full of meaning she wasn’t ready to unpack. She tried to push it away, to focus on the party Emily had worked so hard to make feel real, but it never quite felt like one. The laughter, the chatter—it was all there, but Claire remained distanced from it, a shadow in the middle of it all. The day ended.

The night stretched out ahead of her, cold and endless, like a dark river. Claire lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to push the weight of the day away. But the house felt like it was closing in on her. She had wrapped herself in blankets, tried to cocoon herself from the shadows, but it didn’t help. The absence of her father was a presence in the room, thick and suffocating.

Her thoughts circled, dragging her back to the party, to her mother’s hollow smile, to Mark’s cryptic words—just us tomorrow. They buzzed in her mind, relentless, like gnats she couldn’t shake.

The wind had picked up, and the house seemed colder, the walls creaking, almost as if something in the attic were stirring. Claire tugged the hoodie tighter around her, burying her face in the fabric, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing anxiety in her chest.

The night passed in fractured sleep, filled with blurry, unfamiliar figures speaking her name in whispers—faces that felt both strange and intimately familiar. She woke with a start, her heart racing, drenched in sweat, only to find herself in the same room, the shadows just as heavy, just as cold.

When morning light finally slipped through the blinds, it felt like an intrusion—too pale to warm the chill in her bones. She dragged herself out of bed, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her like cobwebs, unwilling to let go.

The day felt unreal—like it hadn’t started properly, like she was walking through it in a fog. She barely had time to think before she found herself getting ready for the date. The sound of her mom’s voice calling from the kitchen—something about breakfast—barely registered. The thought of seeing Mark, of actually leaving the house, made her stomach twist into tight, uncomfortable knots.

Her reflection in the mirror seemed unfamiliar, almost like a stranger’s face. She didn’t feel eighteen. She didn’t feel ready. But the invitation had come, and something in her had said yes. Something inside her that she couldn’t explain, something dark and heavy that seemed to pull her toward him.

She put on her jacket, grabbed her phone, and headed out the door, hoping that somehow, things would make sense once she was outside of these walls. But the house—its creaks and its whispers—stayed with her, like a dark presence she couldn’t shake.

Mark was waiting by his car when she stepped onto the porch. He smiled at her, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made Claire’s heart race. Was it anticipation? Was it something else?

"Hey," he said, stepping forward. "You ready?"

She nodded, though her thoughts were far away. As they got in the car and drove off, Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a date. That something had shifted, and she was about to step into something she couldn’t control.

The house, the party, her father—it all seemed so distant now, and yet, the feeling that it was still watching, still waiting for something to happen, never left her.

The date was normal. Too normal. A local pizza place downtown, one with old red booths and jukeboxes that only played half of the songs correctly. The place had a charming, worn-in feel, like it was part of the town’s fabric. Mark drove, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to the radio. He was completely at ease, the kind of guy who could make even the most mundane things seem effortless and fun. He grinned over at her, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that made Claire feel a little less suffocated by the weight in her chest. “Hey, Claire, you good?” he asked, his voice soft and easy, not pushing, just concerned in the way that made her feel like she mattered. His smile was effortless, a dimpled curve that could melt anyone’s walls in an instant. It was one of those smiles that made you feel like you were the only person in the room, like everything around you faded out of focus, and all that mattered was the person standing in front of you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Claire replied, forcing a smile. But the truth was, she wasn’t. Not really. Something had been gnawing at her since the moment she woke up. But Mark—Mark had a way of making things feel less heavy. He made it all seem... lighter.

When they walked into the pizza place, the warm, welcoming scent of melting cheese and fresh bread filled the air. The jukebox in the corner crackled to life, playing some old classic rock song that Claire couldn’t quite name, but she felt the familiarity of it in her bones. Mark slid into the booth with a casual grace, his presence taking up more space than anyone else’s without even trying. He leaned back, his arm casually draped over the back of the booth, looking as though he belonged in every room he entered. “So, what’s your favorite pizza?” Mark asked, his voice light, teasing, but with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. “I don’t know,” Claire replied, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” 

“Well, you should,” Mark said, his eyes lighting up with a mix of seriousness and ridiculousness. “Pizza isn’t just food. It’s basically a personality test. Like, if you order pineapple on pizza, I’m sorry, we’re going to have to reconsider our entire friendship.”

Claire blinked, taken aback. “Wait, are you telling me you’re one of those people?”

Mark leaned back in the booth, his fingers dramatically clutching an invisible microphone. “I’m just saying. Pineapple? It’s... it’s like mixing your favorite childhood cartoon with a Shakespearean tragedy. It’s confusing, no one asked for it, and it never quite works out.”

Claire stared at him, then laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Claire, still chuckling, shook her head. “Okay, okay. No pineapple. I’ll give you that.”

Mark raised a triumphant eyebrow. “Good choice. See, we can still be friends.”

His smile, his laugh, the way he listened when she spoke—it all made her feel seen, important in a way that was rare. Throughout dinner, they talked easily. Mark made jokes, his laughter infectious, but it wasn’t just the jokes that made him so likable—it was the way he cared. He listened when Claire spoke, really listened, not just waiting for his turn to talk, but engaging with what she said. 

He asked her about her day, her plans, her life, with a sincerity that disarmed her. His curiosity wasn’t born of politeness, but of something deeper—an instinct to see her, truly see her. Claire found herself speaking more than she intended, peeling back layers of herself she’d carefully hidden. She spoke of her father, of the ache that remained—a quiet, hollow presence she carried with her, year after year, especially on her birthday. She described the emptiness as though it were a room within her, one she couldn’t bear to leave, and yet could never quite fill.

Mark listened, not with the hollow sympathy of those who wish to comfort themselves by comforting others, but with a stillness that gave her words weight. When she paused, hesitant, he simply nodded, his voice low but steady. “That’s hard. It’s heavy, I can see that. But he’s still with you, Claire. You’re not alone. Missing someone isn’t weakness—it’s love that hasn’t found where to go yet. And that’s okay.”

Her breath caught, her voice trembling. “It’s like he’s here, but not really. Like the world keeps moving forward, but he’s... stuck. I wish I could hear him again, just once. It’s like everything’s changed, except him.”

Mark’s gaze softened further, though there was a shadow in his eyes, as if her words stirred his own ghosts. “I understand. It’s as if they stay behind, fixed in time, while we carry on, unwillingly. But the fact that you feel this loss, that you remember him—it means something. It means he’s still alive, in a way. In you. His memory isn’t just a shadow; it’s part of who you are now.”

A faint smile touched his lips, offering not answers but solace. “Maybe that’s a gift, even if it doesn’t feel like one. He’s not gone if you still feel him, if he’s part of how you see the world.”

Claire blinked, startled by the depth of his understanding. Her voice softened, barely a whisper. “You... you really get it.”

Mark’s expression grew distant for a moment, then tender. “I do. I’ve had my own losses. It’s never neat, never easy. But it’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to miss them, to let yourself feel the weight of it. You don’t have to carry it perfectly, Claire. You just have to carry it.” His words hung between them, heavy and light all at once, and Claire felt, for the first time in years, a flicker of something close to peace. His words stuck with her, resonated with her more than she cared to admit. It felt like he understood, like he could see parts of her that no one else had ever noticed. He wasn’t perfect, but he had a way of making her feel like she was.

Later, as they finished their pizza and shared a quiet moment. The date ended too soon. Afterward, he drove her to his house. The street was quiet, lined with small, tidy homes, all of them alike in their suburban neatness. Mark’s house sat at the end of the block, porch light flickering like a broken star.

“No one’s home,” he said, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of something more. “I thought we could grab some coffee, hang out for a bit.”

Claire hesitated but she knew him since primary school and trusted him, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag, but somehow, her legs moved her forward, following him up the porch steps and through the door.

The air was cooler inside, thick with the scent of cinnamon and old wood. A single lamp cast warm light across the living room, illuminating framed photographs on the mantle—his family, smiling and happy, frozen in time. Claire could almost imagine them alive, full of laughter, but it was impossible to focus on them for long. The room felt too still, too quiet.

Mark kissed her first. His lips were soft, warm, a gentle pressure that pressed through her skin and into something deeper, darker—something Claire couldn’t name. She let him pull her closer, felt his arms wrap around her, but the sensation was foreign. Alien. His hands were too insistent, too eager, as if they had a will of their own. Claire's heart raced, but not from desire. No, this was something else. Something jagged and wrong.

The heat was unmistakable. It began low in her chest, like a spark in dry tinder. It spread, slowly at first, then faster, curling through her veins, scorching her, each pulse a violent, suffocating fire. It was as if something in her had awakened—something buried beneath years of grief and quiet desperation. It rose up now, writhing, aching to be fed. It was hunger. It was need.

She gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh, trying to push him away, but the heat surged again, this time thick and unbearable, like a tide that consumed her. She felt his heartbeat—a frantic, panicked rhythm beneath her fingertips. He was alive. Alive and trembling in her arms.

Then, in an instant, everything went still.

Mark gasped, a sharp intake of breath that shattered the fragile moment they shared. The world swirled, twisted, bent beneath her. Claire didn’t remember the bite—didn’t remember sinking her teeth into his skin. She only knew the taste—the sharp, metallic tang that flooded her mouth. It burned in her throat, and her senses, once dulled by years of quiet numbness, exploded. It was fire. It was power. It was everything she had ever wanted, and everything she had ever feared.

The blood poured, warm and thick, spilling onto her tongue, filling her up in ways she could never have imagined. She drank deeply, greedily, her body taking from him as though it had always been meant to, as if his life were hers for the taking. She felt him go slack beneath her, his body stiffening, jerking with each passing second, but it didn’t matter. The hunger, the need—it was insatiable. It burned, it consumed.

Her teeth sank into his flesh, tearing through it with ease. The tender muscle gave way with sickening softness, and she chewed, feeling the texture of his skin, the saltiness of his blood mingling with the sickly sweetness of the meat. The flesh was warm, still soft in places, as though it had been waiting for her to claim it. She gnawed at it, tearing it apart with animalistic hunger, each bite feeling more satisfying, more real, than anything she had ever known. The taste of him lingered on her lips as she tore into the tender meat, her senses flooded with the sensation of devouring him. She consumed it all—the blood, the flesh—until there was nothing left of him but a husk, his identity stripped away, leaving only the remains of her feast.

His body collapsed beneath her, a lifeless weight that suddenly felt too heavy to bear. The taste of blood was still there, clinging to her, thick and cloying, as if it were now a part of her.

Then, the haze lifted.

For the first time, Claire became aware of the silence—the oppressive, suffocating silence that had fallen over the room. Her hands were trembling, slick with his blood, her breath ragged and harsh, burning in her lungs. Her eyes locked onto his face, still and lifeless, his wide, empty gaze staring up at the ceiling as though he had already been gone for years, not just moments.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The room was too small. Too tight. The walls seemed to close in on her, the photographs on the mantle mocking her, his smiling family staring down as if they already knew, already understood the depth of what she had done.

And in that moment, Claire could not escape the truth. The hunger—the need that had once felt like fire—now left her hollow, a gnawing emptiness that had nothing to do with the blood she had consumed. It had never been about the blood. No, it had been something far more insidious, something that had clawed at her from the inside out, and now it had taken root. She had crossed a line. A line that could never be undone.

She stumbled backward, knocking over a lamp. The crash echoed, a sickening sound in the silence, but no one came. No one heard. She was alone in her horror. Alone in her guilt.

Her mind screamed at her to stop, to run, but her legs moved before she could think, carrying her away from him, away from the house that suddenly felt like a prison. She bolted from the room, out into the cool night air, but it didn’t matter. The hunger was still there, gnawing away at her insides. It had not been sated.

She had run. She didn’t know where she was going, but she ran—through the dark streets, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the night. Her thoughts were fragmented, and every step felt heavier than the last. All she could focus on was the image of Mark, his eyes wide with shock, the horror in his face frozen in time. He had been the one. He had listened to her, understood her loneliness, her isolation, and now... she had taken him away.

She didn’t look back as she ran down, her breath coming in ragged sobs. 

As she reached the house, Claire's chest tightened. It was still, too still. She pushed open the door, her eyes scanning the dimly lit hallway, but there was no sign of her mother. The house felt foreign to her, alien in a way she had never experienced before. The silence was deafening. She felt as though the walls were closing in on her, suffocating her with their coldness.

“Mom?” Claire’s voice trembled as she called out to check as something felt unusual here too, but the sound was swallowed by the silence, her words lost in the emptiness of the house. There was no answer. The weight in her chest grew heavier, and she took a few shaky steps into the living room, her mind racing, her thoughts scattered.

And yet, even as the door clicked shut behind her, Claire could still feel it—the heat. The hunger.

It wasn’t over. Not yet.

The house was empty, but it was not silent. It was full of something else now. Something dark. Something that would never leave her.

She couldn’t escape it. Not now. Not ever.

Claire stood frozen, her breath shallow and ragged, her hands trembling as they hovered over her mouth, stained with Mark’s blood. His body lay crumpled on the floor, lifeless and still, as the heat in her chest surged in waves, only to be followed by an overwhelming emptiness. The hunger had consumed her—had forced her to do it. Mark had been the one person who understood her, the one who saw the cracks in her soul, and now he was gone, erased by her own hands. A single tear fell from Claire’s eye, but she couldn't even feel it.

An icy dread pooled in her stomach. What had she done? What kind of monster had she become? The taste of his blood still lingered on her tongue, and the sharp, metallic scent seemed to cling to her like a curse. She stumbled back, her mind a blur of panic and confusion. The world felt like it was spinning out of control, each breath harder to draw than the last. The heat that had driven her to kill him was now replaced by a cold, suffocating emptiness, and she couldn't stop shaking.

Her mother was never far—always present, always ready with a comforting word or a hug when the world felt too overwhelming. But now, there was nothing. Just an eerie, oppressive stillness.

Claire’s heart pounded as panic clawed at her chest. She moved quickly, her steps unsteady, toward the stairs. She needed to find her mom—she needed to feel her presence, to know that there was still someone who could make sense of this madness. But even as she ascended the staircase, she knew deep down that things had changed. She had changed.

Her mind spiraled further into chaos as she reached her mother’s room. The door creaked open, and Claire’s eyes darted around the darkened space. The bed was empty. Her mother’s absence was like a chasm, a gaping hole in the fabric of the world that had once been whole. Claire sank to her knees, her body shaking with sobs that she couldn’t control. The horror of what she had done—the unthinkable violence—clung to her like a dark shadow, smothering her.

Claire locked herself in her room, her breath coming in short, erratic bursts as she hugged her knees to her chest. Her mind replayed the events in her head, over and over again, until they became a tangled, nightmarish blur. She had killed Mark. She had killed the person who truly saw her, who didn’t judge her, who... understood her. And now, she was alone. Alone with her guilt. Alone with the terrible knowledge that she had crossed a line, one that could never be undone.

Time passed in a blur, but all Claire could do was cry. Her tears felt endless, as though she could cry the entire world away and still never be free of the weight she carried. The loneliness that had once consumed her now felt like a suffocating shroud, and she was trapped inside it, with no escape in sight.

After what felt like an eternity, Claire wiped her eyes and stood up, shaky and uncertain. She had to find her mother. She had to know what was happening, why everything felt wrong. With every step she took, the dread grew stronger, as though the walls were pressing in on her, closing off all hope. And yet, she couldn't stop herself from moving forward. She had to know. She had to find answers.

Her heart raced as she moved through the empty house, and for the first time in her life, Claire realized that no matter how far she ran, no matter what she tried to do, there was no escaping the darkness that she had awakened and her mother was missing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Where is Claire’s mother, and what secrets lie behind her disappearance? Why did Claire became a Predator? Will a mysterious visitor hold the key? Follow to find out what happens next! Next chapter will be out soon.

[vaguely-concerned]

walking through lucanis' mind prison. the tam lin of it all

[bookwyrminspiration]

if I see one more “Keefe has abs because he works out” post im going to lose my mind those are NOT synonymous

[severebananapuppy]

I mean, if you Google the Alps, the Himalayans, or the Andes... They all just look like mountains. I understand it's possible to accidentally make a post that's very pro-white supremacy, but I really don't think this is it, chief.

Maybe the only inhabited mountains they know about are the Alps, or maybe they have been there before and thought "this place seems cool, it'd be a great place for a cozy videogame".

Calling it a vile, lethal dose of ideology that expresses a repellent worldview tinted with the logics of white idyllic pastoralism in a way that completely reshapes how one interprets the rest of the tweet and says something about the premises underlying this conception of Coziness and Wholesomeness... Maybe just a little bit overkill.

Like, what's the problem with the Alps? They look ideal to white supremacists? How does choosing a different mountain solve that?

was talking to my girlfriend about this and i think it's the "in the alps" part that makes the tweet so vile. like it is such a lethal dose of ideology it's really the tipping point between an eyerolling but unremarkable tweet and something that expresses a repellent worldview

[brofightiscancelled]

ok kind of an insane ask so feel free to ignore but would you be able to translate "友達バリア" by deco*27? i can't find any translations online and i wanna see if i'm right about the song kind of fitting the matsus... it's also a banger imo

- vocamatsu anon

omg.... tbh i have a feeling deco will make a video for this one which means we'll get an official english translation of it, rendering this completely redundant, but i'm really cheesed to have been asked, so i gave it a shot for you anyways <3

Friend-zoned, love fire, sparks flying HIBANA We're ready, set to lock horns, love's ultimate showdown I'm outmatched- but it's not over yet! I won't let this end! With a dazzling, never-give-up attitude, I'll break through your defenses!

The despair of never getting anything more of this Your behavior, nor what's going on in your head- I can't read it at all! I can't help but envy the kindness you radiate Omnidirectional compatibility- it's just not for me

Carefully-picked down-played words The outcome: A bloody heart True feelings double-crossed by embarrassment; how frustrating, I'm changing sides But that won't fill up my heart What I want is nothing more than to be by your side If you've got something to say, then say it- 'til I defeat you, that is! 3, 2, 1!

Friend-zoned, love fire, sparks flying HIBANA We're ready, set to lock horns, love's ultimate showdown I'm outmatched- but it's not over yet! I won't let this end! With a dazzling, never-give-up attitude, I'll break through your defenses!

I want you to like me! I want you to like me! Friend-zoned, love fire, hey, say "I give up"! With a dazzling, never-give-up attitude, I'll break through your defenses!

Fun things, good feelings- without you, they have no taste at all Sadness, jealousy- if they're cuz of you, then I don't mind them Let's throw down, bro! Better to regret doing it, than not doing it at all! A feeling like I won't need any special moves, YEAH I'm sure everything will be OKAY With an endless supply of love, you're undefeated, AYE Play dead, BYE BYE I'll be the one to throw the first punch

Friend-zoned, love fire, sparks flying HIBANA We're ready, set to lock horns, love's ultimate showdown The lonely and timid me is already no more! With a dazzling, blazing flair, I'll burn through your defenses!

Do you like me yet? Do you like me yet? Friend-zoned, love fire, now, let's immerse ourselves in love! With a dazzling, blazing flair, a never-ending HAO sweetener battle!

Do you like me yet? Do you like me yet? Friend-zoned, love fire, now, let's immerse ourselves in love! With a dazzling, blazing flair, a never-ending HAO sweetener battle!

------

my notes:

my overall interpretation of this song is "I'm trying to break through the friend zone (friendship barrier) so that you like me instead of thinking of me as a friend", so any vagueness in translation went in that direction

The use of "lock horns" in the official translation snippet + the HAO motifs give me the mental image of like, a hand-to-hand kung fu battle, so I leaned towards that imagery whenever there was vagueness (as opposed to like, a military campaign, for example)

deco's official english translations tend to be very liberal, so i tried to keep my translation a little more literal

[imminent-danger-came]

how would you rank the ninja from worst to best based on the ninjago seasons youve seen?

Nya and Wu are the best, everyone else is the same to me

[timeisacephalopod]

Love atheist communities that hate Christianity but reproduce every single issue Christianity has right down to the racism, wild misogyny, and of all fuckin things evangelizing atheism by sending religious people rude ass 'gotcha' type reactionary content to like idk, recruit people to atheism the way Certian Brands of Christian recruit literally anyone to their religion.

Like yes this atheism is what I see a lot of white men participating in, but like how dense do you have to be to only ditch the GOD part of religion and nothing else while claiming you're intellectually superior to religious folks like a great many incredibly talented and smart people in various sciences weren't religious?

[snekdood]

i feel like u shouldnt be allowed to say someone has an ideology if they dont even know wtf you're talking about

[littlexdeaths]

eddie munson x shy fem reader

warnings: hope y’all like CHEESE, reader wears glasses

part two | part three

let’s go, don’t wait masterlist

a/n: this is incredibly self indulgent and lame but i hope y’all enjoy xx.

“You’re staring… again.”

Nancy says under her breath, which has your eyes immediately darting away and back down toward your lunch out of sheer embarrassment.

“I was not staring….” you hiss, picking at the pile of peas on your tray.

“Oh, you soooo were,” she laughs, knocking her shoulder into yours. “Why don’t you just go and talk to him?”

You let out an exasperated breath before glancing over at your best friend. She’s giving you that soft yet encouraging gaze that’s entirely Nancy.

“Why would someone like him be interested in someone like me?”

Your voice is softer, but that underlying fear bleeds through nonetheless.

“I’m just so….” you trail off, chewing on your lower lip. “Boring.”

Your eyes have drifted back over to the hellfire table, where they seem to find themselves almost every lunch period now. Totally entranced by the male sitting at the end of the table.

Eddie Munson, dungeon master and local metalhead. Also the guy you’ve been harboring the biggest crush on since your junior year.

He looks even prettier with the afternoon sun shining through the windows of the cafeteria, highlighting the warm chestnut hue of his fluffy curls. His lips are poised in an annoyed pout, fingers drumming on the table in rapid succession while he listens to Dustin’s nervous ramblings.

“He’s just so— outgoing and doesn’t give two shits what these dipshits around here think of him.”

Your lips can’t help but quirk up into a small smile when you witness him tossing a pretzel at Mike’s head.

“You are not boring,” Nancy sighs, her curls bouncing when she shakes her head. “But you’re not gonna know if something could work out between you if you don’t at least try.”

Your snort has her rolling her eyes, but yours are still transfixed on the boy in question. So much so that you haven’t noticed the way your glasses continue to slip down the bridge of your nose.

“I doubt he even knows my name, Nance.”

When your eyes suddenly catch his chocolatey brown ones, you feel mortified. You’ve been very careful about your…admiring during lunch or in between classes. But Nancy had momentarily distracted you, and now you’d been caught red handed.

Unbeknownst to you, this isn’t the first time he’s noticed your wandering gaze. Soft eyes that are filled with the utmost longing and kindness. Someone with a reputation such as Eddie Munson doesn’t have looks like that thrown his way very often.

So it’s no surprise he’s caught on.

But you don’t seem to notice the way he always glances back once you look away, dark eyes seeking out your figure in the halls. The longing of his own for you to finally meet his gaze. But your nose is either stuck in a book or those pretty eyes are trained on your feet.

It was maddening.

You quickly break his curious stare and jump to your feet, missing the way he shoots up from his own chair. You sling your backpack over your shoulder and leave your tray abandoned.

“I gotta go…I’ll see you later, Nance,” you say before she even has time to protest, keeping your head down as you make your way toward the exit.

Mentally still kicking yourself for being caught gawking at him like some bumbling idiot. But your heart leaps into your throat when you hear the slapping of sneakers on the linoleum behind you.

Before you can even process what’s happening you all but collide into a denim clad chest, gasping softly when his arms slip around your waist to catch you before you almost stumble backwards onto your ass.

“Whoa, easy there,” he chuckles, those same pouty lips quirking up into a lopsided grin. “Didn’t mean to scare ya…”

When he releases you, your whole body deflates— already missing the warmth of his palms. Even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

“Uh…sorry, did you need something?” you ask, unable to hide the confusion in your tone.

He purses his lips, twisting his rings on his fingers in almost a nervous manner.

Why would he be nervous?

“I just had a question is all…” he mumbles, “and honestly, I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now.”

And your heart nearly stops when he carefully pushes your glasses back up the bridge of your nose.

“You free tonight?”

[girlbeyondthegrave]

THINGS I NOTICED WHILE WATCHING BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE AGAIN:

This is a very Beetlebabes-centric post, so if you don’t like the ship, please feel free to scroll away. <3

Beetlejuice cut Delores’ ring finger off, and while it was originally a fun joke in the first movie, there’s deep implications about that action when we look at it with the context of the second film. Beetlejuice attacked her after she betrayed him. Anyone would want to kill the person that poisoned them, but the fact that he took the time to find her finger and deliberately cut her ring finger off (and ONLY that finger) reflects how much that marriage meant to him. It also symbolizes that he’s effectively dissolving their marriage. He’s cut off the physical representation of their love and taken the ring, which he tries to give to Lydia hundreds of years later. He held onto that ring for centuries in hopes of finding someone he deemed worthy of it.

He calls his dynamic with Lydia a long-distance relationship, which could’ve been a throwaway joke if not for the fact that when he clearly notices how hot Janet is, he never talks to her or gropes her like he did with Barbara prior to meeting Lydia. Keaton said BJ wouldn’t be politically correct, so this isn’t to reflect the current political climate, but rather to reflect BJ’s motivations.

Beetlejuice was jobless at the start of the first movie, and in thirty years he’s built a company for his bio-exorcisms. Coupled with the picture of Lydia on his desk, it’s possible he did this to impress her. After all, she’s famous and rich now. BJ’s gotta step it up, y’know?

Probably overheard the convo between Lydia and Rory and deliberately bugged her at that time, because if he can possess the phone or whatever, he can probably use it to eavesdrop. This can be further supported by how he got rid of the influencers but kept the people that mattered to Lydia present—Delia and Astrid.

We can also assume he overheard the conversation where Lydia said that Rory loves her and that has to be enough because of the panning to a gravestone. BJ has a special fascination with graveyards, even tiny model ones. If he did overhear them, it explains why he used the truth serum on Rory. He’s testing him. He wants to see if this guy actually loves Lydia or if he’s using her, and then he gives Lydia the means to exact revenge on Rory rather than doing anything himself.

Lydia spends half the movie being strong -armed into a marriage with Rory, and in a way, it’s reminiscent of the first movie’s marriage attempt. Rory dangles their “love” in front of her like a carrot, and if she doesn’t want to be alone, she has to accept his manipulation and agree to get married. Yet she immediately offers it to Beetlejuice, only sounding annoyed rather than terrified. And the movie spends a lot of time proving that BJ has sincere motives this time around, whereas Rory doesn’t. It pushes an underlying message that if one of these guys is going to be a better choice, it’ll be BJ.

Despite Lydia having a tendency to back out of their deals, he still helps her first. He prioritizes saving Astrid even before finding his “runaway bride” again.

Casually calls Lydia the love of his life, looks so sincere when he says he’ll make her so happy. Clearly spent those 30 years planning that dream-dance sequence.

He doesn’t seem to care that Lydia’s sending him away. That coupled with the end scene illustrates how confident he is this time around. Lydia is still stuck with him, and even if he didn’t get her this time, he will eventually. But he also knows how spooked she is by marriage after being a snoop, so it’s possible that he’s just taking it slow on purpose.

In conclusion: Beetlejuice genuinely does want to be with Lydia and care about her. His feelings have evolved beyond permanent residence in the mortal world. If anything, if he still wants that, it’s so he can be by her side.

[greengoblinswifey]

Torn— Drew Starkey x Nicholas Chavez x Actress!Reader

summary— you find yourself torn between your boyfriend drew starkey and your costar nicholas chavez. what starts as a weird dynamic with you feeling guilty turns into passion at a party, leading to a moment where all three of you come together.

warnings— explicit content. threesome, unprotected sex, anal and vaginal sex, double penetration, double creampie, oral, fingering, face fucking, polygamy, praise kink, fluff.

You had been with Drew Starkey for a while now, and your relationship had always been solid. He was steady, reliable, and made you feel secure. But everything changed when you started filming a new movie with Nicholas Chavez. From the moment you met him, there was an undeniable attraction, a magnetic pull that left you thinking about him more than you ever anticipated. It wasn’t just his good looks, there was something about his energy that pulled you in, leaving you feeling conflicted. You didn’t want to hurt Drew, but the connection with Nicholas was impossible to ignore.

As filming progressed, the chemistry between you and Nicholas became more intense. On-screen, your characters shared moments that felt a little too real, and off-screen, you found yourself getting lost in conversations with him. Drew noticed the shift. Instead of being jealous, though, he seemed curious, as if he could sense the spark between you and Nicholas, and, strangely, wasn’t bothered by it which went unnoticed by you. You were scared to bring up your feelings for Nicholas, afraid of what Drew might think, afraid of losing him. So, you stayed silent, trapped in a web of emotions.

Then, at a huge movie premiere party for the movie you filmed with Nicholas, everything came to a head. You had had a few drinks, and the atmosphere was buzzing with excitement. Drew and Nicholas both gravitated toward you throughout the night, their eyes never straying far. You felt the tension rising as they slowly closed in. Before you knew it, they had you cornered, Nicholas standing in front of you, his intense gaze holding yours, while Drew was behind you, his body pressing against yours and grinding, radiating heat.

“You okay?” Drew murmured in your ear, his voice low, but you could hear the underlying heat in it. His hands trailed over your hips, making your breath catch.

Before you could respond, Nicholas leaned in, his lips just inches from yours, his fingers lightly brushing your arm. “You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?”

Your pulse raced. The teasing note in his voice, combined with the way Drew’s body pressed against yours, had you feeling trapped in the best way possible.

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” you managed to whisper, though the way you trembled gave you away.

Nicholas smirked. “Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I mean.”

Drew’s grip on your waist tightened. “You can be honest, you know,” he added, his voice almost a growl. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Your mind was spinning. The music, the heat of their bodies, the weight of their attention, it was overwhelming. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you admitted, glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t want to hurt either of you.”

Drew chuckled softly. “Who said I’m hurt?” His lips grazed your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “Maybe I’ve been thinking about this too.”

Nicholas’ fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’ve been stuck between us for a while, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice soft but commanding. “It’s okay, you don’t have to choose.”

Drunk on both alcohol and the intensity of the moment, you, Drew, and Nicholas ended up in your mansion together. The air was thick with unspoken desire, and everything felt like it had been leading to this moment.

Nicholas was the first to act, pulling you into a heated kiss while Drew watched, his eyes dark with hunger. “God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered against your lips, his hands roaming over your body. Drew’s eyes flickered between you and Nicholas, revealing that the connection you felt wasn’t just your imagination, it was real for all three of you.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you breathed, your heart pounding as their hands explored your body.

Drew pressed a kiss to your neck, his voice raspy. “You feel so good,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “You have no idea how much we’ve both been wanting this.”

Nicholas smirked as his hands slipped under your dress, his touch sending electricity through your veins. “I think she knows now.” As their hands roamed over your body, you knew there was no going back.

“I want you,” Nicholas whispered against your skin as Drew's lips trailed down your collarbone. “Both of us do.”

Drew’s hands tightened on your waist as he kissed a path down your shoulder. “You’re ours,” he growled, and the intensity of their words sent your body into overdrive. He shoved you on the bed, his roughness matching with the tension in the air and he did something unexpected. Drew’s hands cupped Nicholas’ cheeks and their lips met in a passionate kiss filled with need that left you throbbing. You never expected this from either of them and it had you wanting more.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” Drew said, pulling away.

They stared longingly at each other before turning their attention back to you. “Tonight’s about all of us baby, we’re gonna make you feel so good,” Nicholas smirked.

He removed your dress and your lacy undergarments, leaving you bare as Drew kissed you all over, eventually settling on your neck and finding that sweet spot that made you squirm.

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Drew asked, catching Nicholas taking in your naked figure.

“So fucking beautiful, she’s a masterpiece,” he replied.

They removed each other’s clothes, their eyes never leaving each other and you wondered when the dam would break between them. After, their attention was back on you with Nicholas spreading your legs on the bed and Drew hovering over your face, his cock hard and leaking with pre cum.

“I’m gonna make you feel good and you’re gonna make him feel good, is that a good deal baby?” Nicholas inquired. You nodded desperately, the dynamic between you leaving you aching.

Your mouth fell open and Drew took the opportunity to slide his cock inside as Nicholas’ tongue ravaged your pussy. You could barely focus on the cock fucking your mouth as Nicholas sucked and flicked your clit with his tongue, sending shivers all throughout your body. His tongue focused on your clit as he slipped a finger in your sopping cunt, curling it and immediately finding your g spot. You moaned around Drew’s cock, swirling your tongue and taking him as deep in your throat as you could without gagging.

“Fuck,” Drew moaned, “you fucking like that pretty girl? You like having another man’s mouth on your pussy and my big cock in your mouth?”

You tried answering, forgetting he was practically in your throat and he let out a chuckle, thrusting his hips at a steady pace. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth baby.”

Your legs began to shake as you could feel your orgasm approaching. Nicholas slipped a second finger and he engulfed his mouth on your clit, you felt like you were about to explode at any moment.

“I can feel how close you are baby, cum for me, cum for us,” Nicholas demanded, a dark glint in his eye as you looked down. Hearing the demand that you were to cum for the two men that you were insanely attracted to sent you over the edge, you moaned around Drew’s cock and his cum immediately spurted down your throat as your orgasm washed over you all over Nicholas’ mouth. Their moans filled the room before yours finally subsided as Nicholas’ tongue left your pussy.

“Wanna taste our girl?” he asked Drew. He nodded and with a smirk, Nicholas pulled him in, their lips connecting in a sloppy kiss and their tongues fighting for dominance. The scene before you was so erotic, all that was in your head was to have them do that as they were deep inside your holes. You needed them both.

“That’s so fucking hot,” you panted. Your pussy wet from the ordeal, “and now I need you both inside me, we can take it slow and romantic another time, I just want you both to fill me up.”

Nicholas’ cock was rock hard hearing your plea. Though he wanted to cum in your mouth, doing it inside you for the first time seemed more fitting and Drew agreed.

“You can get her pussy tonight, it’s yours now too, isn’t that right baby?” Drew asked, looking at you, his hands slowly pumping his thick cock.

“Yes sir,” you giggled, his words making you swoon.

Drew positioned himself under you, your body weight lying on top of him as his cock was pressed against your puckered hole. Nicholas stood in front of you slapping his heavy cock on your clit making you moan his name. He spat on Drew’s cock to lubricate it so he could enter your ass easier though this was not your first rodeo with Drew. He had a few kinks, something that Nicholas would soon discover.

They both positioned themselves at your entrances, you were about to be penetrated by two greek gods—at the same time.

“You ready baby?” Drew asked.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Nicholas followed up after.

“Shut up and fuck me, both of you,” you begged and your answer was enough.

Simultaneously, their cocks slowly penetrated you, the feeling of being full getting closer and closer.

“Fuck,” you all moaned in unison, the feeling was heaven. You were heaven.

“This ass is so fucking tight,” Drew moaned, steadily rutting into you.

“So is her pussy, fucking wet too,” Nicholas said, his hands moving to fondle your breasts.

The pressure of being filled on both ends left you breathless, every inch of your body trembling from the overwhelming intensity. Nicholas was deep in your wet pussy, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he rocked against you, his movements powerful and unrelenting. Under you, Drew’s deep thrusts sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, each one pushing you closer to the brink.

“You’re taking us so well,” Nicholas murmured, his voice thick with desire as his lips brushed against your ear.

Drew groaned from behind you, his hand trailing up your back as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. “Feels too good, doesn’t it? We’re not gonna stop until you can’t take anymore.”

You could feel both of them stretching you, their rhythm perfectly in sync, making you feel impossibly full. Every time Drew pushed in deeper from behind, Nicholas would thrust forward, their bodies meeting yours in perfect harmony. Your breath hitched with every movement, a moan escaping your lips as the sensation built.

“God, I can feel you squeezing us both,” Nicholas grunted, his hand sliding up your side, gripping you harder. “You like being ours, don’t you?”

Your fingers dug into Nicholas’s back as you tried to ground yourself, overwhelmed by the feeling of being completely surrounded, their bodies pressing into yours, both of them taking you at once. The fullness was almost too much, but in the best way, sending wave after wave of pleasure through you.

Drew’s voice rumbled behind you, low and full of need. “Just let go, baby. We’ve got you.”

Immediately, you convulsed underneath them, a primal moan in response to their filthy words and having their cocks buried deep inside you, you felt like you were on top of the world, having your vision blur and stars filling your head as the feeling of ecstasy overtook you.

After everything built up to a crescendo, your body trembled from the overwhelming sensations that swept through you. Your heart was still racing, breath shallow, as you lay back on Drew, feeling utterly spent. The warmth of Drew and Nicholas surrounding you only heightened the lingering aftershocks that pulsed through your limbs.

You felt so full, emotionally, physically, and mentally—like the weight of everything that had been brewing between the three of you had finally crashed over, leaving nothing but satisfaction in its wake. Your body ached in the best way, as though you’d been completely claimed by them, both in the way they touched you and the way they looked at you.

As they both reached their peak, it felt like the tension that had once existed between Drew and Nicholas dissolved completely, replaced with a sense of unity neither of them had anticipated. There was no longer a struggle over who you belonged to, it was a quiet, unspoken understanding that you were theirs, together, and they could share you in ways that felt right for all of you.

The warmth of their release spread inside your pussy and your ass, leaving you feeling impossibly full, every inch of you claimed in the most intimate way. Drew’s hand intertwined with Nicholas’ as they both caught their breath, chests rising.

The soft, lingering kisses that Nicholas pressed against your shoulder, combined with the feel of Drew’s fingers gently stroking your side, made you melt even further into the moment. It wasn’t just the physical release, it was the unspoken bond that had formed between the three of you, deeper than anything you’d experienced before.

Drew leaned in to kiss Nicholas, the once unexpected passion now flowing naturally between them. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight, your hand instinctively running down Nicholas' back, feeling the warmth of his skin as their lips met in a deep, lingering kiss. The heat of their connection sent a shiver through you, making the afterglow even more intoxicating.

Nicholas broke the kiss, breathless, turning to meet your gaze, his eyes softening. “I never knew it could be like this,” he whispered, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. Drew followed, brushing a hand along your cheek as he nodded in agreement.

“We're all together now,” Drew murmured, his voice a quiet promise, before the three of you shifted, curling up together. The warmth of their bodies pressed against yours as they cuddled you between them, the moment filled with intimacy, not just passion.

Nicholas gently rubbed your shoulder as Drew wiped a cool cloth over your skin, cleaning you up with surprising tenderness. “You’re perfect,” Nicholas whispered against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You could feel the weight of their attention, not just on your body but on the connection you all shared.

When they finished cleaning you, they turned to each other. Drew smirked, grabbing the cloth and running it teasingly over Nicholas’ chest. “Your turn,” he grinned, the air between them still charged but with a sweetness that hadn’t been there before.

Nicholas laughed, leaning into Drew’s touch. "Alright, alright,” he playfully relented, allowing Drew to clean him up before returning the favor.

Afterward, they both wrapped their arms around you again, the three of you sinking into the bed, completely content. You felt the lingering warmth of their presence, not just in your body but in the calm, comfortable silence that followed.

“We’re not letting you go,” Drew whispered, his hand stroking your hair gently.

Nicholas pressed another soft kiss to your neck, “Not now, not ever.”

You closed your eyes, letting out a contented sigh as your mind swam in the aftermath, your body feeling weightless and warm, cocooned in their presence. Full, cherished, completely theirs—and nothing else mattered.

[appocalipse]

heyy if ur taking requests could u maybe do like bestfriends steve + reader where steve, eddie, nancy and robin have to pick up reader from a party and she’s like REAL drunk and just idk super clingy w steve and doesn’t wanna not be touching him. maybe eddie, nancy and robin all make fun of him for it but they acc find it rly cute.

thank you for your request! ♥♥♥ | 2.2k words

"Stevie!"

You collide into him suddenly, nearly knocking him back a step or two with the force of your momentum; there's a smile on Steve's face when you look up at him through eyes that are more than a little hazy with inebriation. You're drunk. Probably way past drunk, if the way the world won't seem to hold still is anything to go by, but you don't care. There are other things vying for your attention—like how warm he feels against you, how safe he makes you feel, how pretty he looks from up close...

"Whoa," Steve says as you lean even further into him and loop your arms around his waist in a tight hug. "How much did you have to drink, exactly?"

He doesn't mean it in a mean way, which is why you grin up at him from where you've got your cheek pressed firmly to his chest. You can feel his heart beating under the palm of your hand now, a steady and calming rhythm that soothes something inside of you.

"Dunno," you reply, grinning stupidly when you catch sight of maybe three copies of Eddie Munson standing off to Steve's left; all of them have identical amused looks on their faces. "Might've had, like, a couple..."

Steve sighs deeply, though there's no exasperation or disappointment to be found in his expression when he tilts your face upwards to look you over properly. You just beam dopily at him, because he's so pretty right now you don't know what else to do.

"Dude," Eddie speaks up, drawing Steve's gaze away from you while your own attention goes back to pressing yourself even more snugly into him, "she is totally sloshed."

You frown, shaking your head in fervent disagreement.

"Am not!"

"Sure you aren't, sweetheart," Eddie agrees placidly, but you get the impression he doesn't really mean it.

Before you can point this out, however, the blurry shape of Robin Buckley steps forward. The room is dark with flashing strobe lights and smoky with incense and cigarette smoke, but you'd recognize her voice anywhere.

"Who let you drink this much?" Robin asks as she lifts a hand up to brush some hair back from your forehead.

It's oddly soothing and so you lean into the contact with a happy hum. Robin and the others laugh — but then again, it sounds kinder than mean, the kind of laugh that bubbles up when you find something unexpectedly endearing, and so you don't mind as much as you maybe should.

"Nobody," you mumble as you press your face into the side of Steve's neck and take a deep breath in; his scent is the same as always, earthy and warm with an underlying hint of that stupid spray he likes to use sometimes. "I'm here alone. 'Cause Steve here blew me off for you guys, but that's okay," you say, even though, to be fair, it sort of isn't true — he didn't blow you off.

"Hey," Steve starts, sounding half-indignant and half-apologetic all at once. He's got an arm around your shoulder now, supporting you and keeping you upright, which makes you want to tangle yourself up in him completely. "You didn't tell me you wanted me to come hang out with you tonight!"

You sigh mournfully against his skin, feeling wistful all of a sudden. It's true. You hadn't told him. That was partially due to the fact that you had been trying to prove to yourself that you weren't so desperately and helplessly infatuated with him that you needed his presence constantly, but that plan had obviously backfired on you spectacularly.

"No," you mutter unhappily as Steve moves the two of you towards a nearby couch. "But I missed you. Don't wanna miss you."

Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, who are watching the two of you with expressions of varying degrees of amusement, exchange looks. Steve pretends not to notice, probably because he knows he won't like what they have to say if he hears it, and instead guides you down onto the cushions next to him. "You're drunk."

"You're pretty," you reply without hesitation, even though you're very clearly changing the subject. "It's unfair, y'know?"

You hear Robin snort, followed by a quiet thud like someone's just been slapped on the arm, and you know it's her who laughed, and that it must have been Nancy who'd shut her up. You don't know where Eddie is; you're not even sure when he wandered off, to be honest. You're too focused on Steve and the way his face looks under the colorful flashing lights.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely at your comment. His eyes are bright with laughter when you meet his gaze and nod confidently. "How do I get 'unfair', exactly?"

"'S all in the face," you say matter-of-factly, your own fingers trailing down his cheek in an almost absentminded gesture. "Kinda makes it hard to think about anything else sometimes, if I'm being real here. Like, it's not really fair, 'cause then what are we supposed to talk about? Oh, oh—and then there's your hair!"

"My hair?"

Robin wheezes somewhere behind you, which would have made you giggle if you were still paying attention to the people in the room besides Steve, but you're not.

"Mmhmm," you hum, your eyes running over the soft brown locks on top of his head. "Love it. Wanna touch it all the time. Y'see, Steve? You see? This is why it's not fair at all. And, and—" you trail off here for dramatic effect, squinting at him theatrically before leaning closer with your hand cupped to the side of your mouth, as if you're about to share something private. "—the way you make my insides feel? So, so unfair. Totally your fault, buddy."

"Wha-" Steve croaks out, looking alarmed and caught off guard by your drunken confession. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh," you regain your serious tone, frowning at him in a somewhat bemused manner when he continues to gape at you. "Not 'sposed to tell you. S'not the rules."

Eddie barks out a laugh somewhere off to your left, but Steve ignores him. "Rules?"

"Yeah, 's against the rules, dummy," you say, like he should've already known that. "Gotta follow the rules! Duh. Steve."

"Yeah, Steve, duh," Robin pipes up, earning herself a glare from Steve as well as a smirk from Eddie. "Oops, sorry. Please, continue."

"Can I touch your hair? Like, please, 'cause I might die if I don't, 'kay? If that's okay. Gotta test the theory. Just a little bit, though." You can tell by his expression that he wants to laugh, and that he's also mildly worried that you've lost your mind. "Please?"

Robin, Eddie and Nancy have their hands clapped over their mouths to contain their laughter. You're too drunk to notice, but Steve narrows his eyes at them in warning. "Yes," he says. "Just—yeah, go ahead."

With a little noise of excitement, you reach out to card your fingers through his hair. He smells really good — like clean laundry and fresh pine trees — and the feel of his hair in your palm is exactly what you had imagined, though you're loathe to pull your hand away now that you've felt it.

Steve goes unnaturally still as you press your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, a move he should have expected but didn't, and you sigh happily when the scent of his cologne hits you full force. He's like a living, breathing, cuddly teddy bear, you think, a combination of warmth, softness, and comfort all rolled up in one gorgeous, handsome, unobtainable package.

"You're warm," you mumble, feeling like you could fall asleep right now. "So, so warm. 'S like you've got a space heater in your chest, 'n that's like, so awesome."

He blinks a few times, momentarily speechless as he tries to come to terms with the fact that you are, in fact, drunk enough to be saying whatever the hell comes to your mind. "Uh, thanks?"

"Smell nice too," you murmur, hugging him tighter to you. "Like, wow. Love your hair, like, love love."

His cheeks are burning hot now, his heart beating erratically in his chest when he notices Eddie staring at the two of you with a knowing gleam in his eye. "That's—thank you, but, hey, come on now," Steve says, his voice faltering a little. "Let's get you home, okay?"

"I don't wanna."

"Don't you wanna sleep in your bed?"

You pause, considering his words, and eventually concede that, yes, your bed does sound lovely right about now, so you give him a brief nod in response. "I guess, but can you come too?"

He chokes on air, but manages to play it off by clearing his throat. "What—to your bed? No!"

"Why not?"

Steve shifts a little under your intense, alcohol-addled scrutiny; he feels strangely guilty, as though he's letting you down by saying no. "Because you're drunk?" he says, feeling flustered and unreasonably nervous all of a sudden.

You scrunch up your face in a pout. "Oh, that's a dumb reason."

Steve chuckles and you sigh happily again, because you love his laugh and everything else about him, and he seems to realize this, given the way his expression softens. "Come on, you drunkard. Let's go home," he says gently, tugging on your arm in an attempt to get you to stand.

You resist at first, shaking your head stubbornly as you hold onto him. "Can't. My legs don't work anymore. They're all wobbly."

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, huffs out a soft laugh, and you can't help but grin up at him. He's so pretty that, like, how is that even allowed? How can you be around him and not spontaneously combust or something?

"Well, what if I carried you?"

"Like a princess?"

Steve looks at you with an expression you can't decipher — it's halfway between incredulous and endeared, and it makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage.

"How romantic," Nancy observes.

"So long as she doesn't throw up on him," Eddie adds, nodding sagely in agreement.

"Oh, I hope she does," Robin says, with a devious smile, "he'd deserve it for being such a coward."

"I'm...right here, guys, and I can still hear you." Steve finally says, throwing them a scathing look that only makes them laugh. "If you're not going to be helpful, you can wait in the car."

"As if," Eddie counters.

Steve opens his mouth to tell him where exactly he can stick his opinions, when you grab the front of his shirt and drag him closer.

"Steve," you say, the smile falling from your face as a sudden thought occurs to you. "Are you mad at me? Because I can go home by myself. That's okay."

"Hey, no," he replies softly, "I'm not mad at you, sweetheart. Not ever."

"'Sweetheart'? Really?" Eddie mutters to Nancy, who elbows him in the ribs when he doesn't lower his voice in time. "Ow, okay, okay—just saying. Don't want them to keep dancing around each other forever, is all."

"I'm not dancing," you tell him, completely unaware of Eddie's snickering, "I don't have any shoes on, Eddie. Wouldn't be able to dance without shoes on. Silly."

"My bad," Eddie says, his lips twitching with badly concealed laughter, "forgive me."

Steve scowls at him before turning his attention back to you, his face so close to yours that you can momentarily feel the tickle of his breath against your skin. "Okay, come on," he says, "up we go."

And then, in one swift movement, he slides his arm under your knees and scoops you up into his arms. You let out a squeak of surprise and automatically wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

"Oh, oh, oh," you say excitedly, "you really are gonna carry me."

"Told you so." Steve adjusts his grip on you and makes his way towards the exit. "Are you good? Am I hurting you?"

You shake your head slowly, grinning as you stare at him from a whole new angle. "No," you tell him, feeling much more awake than you were moments before. "This is...this is like, actually kinda cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you repeat, smiling shyly back at him. "Feel like a real life Cinderella now. Whoa, you're, like, super strong."

"Yeah, Stevie, you're 'super strong.'" Eddie teases, waggling his eyebrows when Steve sends him a quick glare. "Aw, don't look at me like that. It's cute. The two of you."

Nancy doesn't tease like Robin and Eddie do. She walks behind Steve, making sure to stay a couple steps behind to give the two of you some privacy. Even so, when you look over your shoulder to make sure nobody's listening, she gives you a wink and a small thumbs-up that makes you smile.

The parking lot is filled with teenagers all wandering aimlessly in groups, so it takes Steve a while to navigate his way through the crowd. By the time he finds the spot where he parked his BMW, you've grown drowsy enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

Eddie immediately pops open the door to the backseat, slapping it a few times as he looks over at Steve and grins. "Hurry it up, lover boy," he drawls out, "she looks half-asleep already."

"She's fine," Steve shoots back, frowning in annoyance when Eddie and Robin both pretend to yawn exaggeratedly, "shut up. I hate you guys."

[moonstruckme]

pls hear me out 🙏🙏 vampire!james is recently turned and doesn’t feed cause he’s such a sweetheart he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

reader notices how weak he is and finds out he hasn’t been feeding and basically offers herself to him and it’s just really comforting and cute

Babe I hear you !!! I hear you soooooo clear (the voices omg, I was so excited to write this). Thank you for requesting!

cw: blood mention

vampire!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.7k words

James never had a problem with eating animals before he became a vampire. You pointed this out to him, once, but he only said it’s different. You suppose it is. The chicken nuggets he used to devour came to him cooked, fried, and with sauces, utterly unrecognizable from what they’d once been. There’s no separating the live-ness from what James has to eat now. 

You spy on him over the top of your book. He’s sitting on the other end of the loveseat with your feet in his lap, massaging your arches through your thick socks while he watches a football match on the telly. His dusky skin had paled after he was turned a few weeks back, but he looks even paler than that now. If he were still human you’d think he was anemic. It’s four in the afternoon, and your ball-of-energy boyfriend looks as tired as if he’s ready for bed. 

“Jamie,” you say, and he squeezes your heel to indicate he’s listening, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can, lovely, yeah.” 

“Have you been feeding?” 

James stiffens at the term. “Mm, why do you ask?” 

It’s as close as he thinks he can get to a non-answer, and it’s an answer for you anyways. James can never stand to lie to you. It’s terribly endearing. 

You turn your foot to poke his abdomen. “I can hear your stomach growling.” 

His lips curve. He glances at you. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.” 

“Really? How does it work?” 

“I don’t actually have a clue.” James smiles, which was your aim. He’s been far too downcast for your liking, his new condition entirely to blame. 

“Well, you’re looking pale.” 

“I’ve been pale.” 

“Paler than pale.” You set your book on the side table, moving closer to him. You sit with your feet folded under you. “Also, you haven’t been going out to feed like you used to.” 

James finally looks a bit sheepish. You smile and cup his face in your hand. Though he knows you know, James has still been a tad secretive about the vampire business around you. He sneaks out after he thinks you’re asleep. You’ll hear the front door open and shut when he leaves and then again when he comes back, the kitchen tap running as he cleans himself up. You wish he’d just use the shower. You don’t mind him walking through your bedroom with blood and dirt on him if it means he gets to feel clean when he slips back into bed with you. 

You rub your thumb over his cheek. “What’s keeping you?” 

He sighs. His face weighs a bit heavier in your palm. You think this must be progress, and you repeat your ministrations to his cheek to encourage it. 

“Everything’s hibernating,” says James, a quiet shame underlying his tone. “The…things I used to feed from are gone, and I’m not left with a lot of choices.” 

You hum. “Well, you’ve gotta eat, Jamie.” 

He hesitates, and you give him your sternest look. 

“You do. What about the deer?” 

“They’re harder to catch. And…I…I just feel bad, you know?”

You nod. Take his hand and press a kiss to his palm. Your poor sweetheart. You know James hasn’t killed anything he’s fed from, but even scaring them and potentially hurting them for the time it takes him to feed rattles him terribly. He’s too good, good and kind down to his core, but you know he’s going to have to find some way to cope other than starving himself. 

“What about people?” 

James’ eyes round behind his glasses. “Wha—no, I—”

“I wouldn’t mind you using me.” 

He seems to falter for a moment. His thick brows draw together in stages, from disbelief to confusion and back again. “Angel,” he says, “I couldn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because, it’s—it would be—” 

“Or maybe we could try someone else. Someone bad, like a corrupt politician or one of those people who siphons money away from charities.” 

“No.” 

“Then we’re back to me.” You smile at him, one part teasing and two parts genuine. “James, I want to. I don’t like seeing you like this, and I really don’t think I’d mind it.” 

James looks like he’s still having trouble processing. “You don’t think you’d mind?” 

“I don’t,” you repeat patiently. “I’m sort of curious, actually. It could be fun.” 

He looks, to your surprise, like he might actually be considering it. He’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know if it’d be fun, angel.” 

“That’s okay,” you promise him. “I want to do it for you. You’re hungry, yeah?” You try to make your voice serene and persuasive, your hand coasting up and down his arm. “Let me help.” 

James looks you in your eyes. You hold his gaze. After a while, the fight seems to go out of him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. 

“Oh, baby.” You kiss him on his cheek, your heart bulging. “You won’t. It’ll be fine. How do you want me? Hair up?” 

He shakes his head. “It’s good the way it is. I think, um, it might be easier if you were in my lap.” 

“Okay.” You grin, lifting your thigh over his so you’re straddling him. His hands settle on your hips. “Are you romancing me? Is this part of it?” 

James lifts the corners of his mouth, but you can see the trepidation lingering beneath his smile. You do your best to soothe it away with your hands on his shoulders. 

“I want to be gentle with you,” he says.

“I bet you say that to all your victims.” 

“Sweetheart…”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re nervous. You kiss his nose in apology. 

“If I hurt you—if you don’t like it for any reason, I want you to squeeze my shoulder. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You nod, trying to look certain. “Does it usually hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” James admits. “With animals, they don’t usually…move much after I’ve bitten them. I’m not sure if it stuns them or what.” 

“I’ll report back,” you say seriously. You glance down at the couch cushions. “Will it be messy? Should we go to the bathroom or something?” 

“No, I’m—I’ve gotten better at it. We should be fine here.” 

You smile at him, your pride genuine. “Sounds good.” 

James is starting to look worried again, so you kiss him. On the lips, as sweet as you can muster, and imagine all your love pouring through it. Then, you pull your hair to one side and bear your neck. 

His pupils splay out.

“Remember to squeeze my shoulder.” He sounds hoarse. One of his hands slips up your back to steady you beneath your shoulder blades. 

“I will,” you vow. 

James looks dazed, almost reverent. He wets his lips, and when he opens his mouth you see his tongue skim over pointed teeth. Some prey animal’s instinct sends a shiver of fear through you. Your blood hums with anticipation. But just before James’ teeth skim your neck, he pauses. 

“Jamie.” It’s soft, a murmur, a plea. “It’s okay. Do whatever you want with me.” 

He makes a quiet sound, like a sigh or a whine, and closes the gap. 

At first, it’s only like he’s kissing you. He’s exceedingly sweet about it, lips opening warmly over your skin, his tongue pressing over your artery as though testing the waters. He splays his palm wide over your back in silent warning before his teeth sink into you. 

There’s a sting, but you were ready for it. You keep yourself from wincing, from doing anything that would make James move away, and after a second the pain dulls. Everything does, except for the extraordinary feel of James’ mouth on you. 

“Oh.” Your mouth opens of its own accord, head lolling further to the side to give him better access. You want more, more of this, more of him. Your brain fuzzes and your heart pounds, every nerve in your body narrowing its focus to where James is sucking at your neck, lapping you up. 

You wind your arms around his neck, wanting to be closer to him, and his palm coasts up your back comfortingly. You feel molten, spectacularly, transcendently languid, like you could press your fingertips to his shoulders and they’d melt right in. You don’t, not wanting him to misinterpret it as your signal and stop, but after a while James’ arms are the only thing keeping you from tipping sideways onto the couch, and he stops anyway. 

He finishes with a few chaste kisses, and you think giddily that you weren’t too far off about the romancing. 

“Y’okay, lovie?” he mumbles into your skin. 

You hum in reply. 

James presses one more sweet kiss to your neck, almost a thank-you. He seals the wound with his tongue. A giggle bubbles out of you, one shoulder coming up to ward him off. 

“Sorry,” you say to James’ surprised look. Your head is starting to clear. “That part tickled.” 

His grin splits his face, one part tentative and two parts relieved. “Yeah? Are you really okay?” 

“Super okay,” you promise him. You can’t help grinning. “You were right, it didn’t hurt. That was nice.”

James’ expression eases, some mix of relief and interest in his gaze. “Was it actually?” 

“Mhm. I would be your blood donor any time, really.” 

James scoffs, but he’s clearly elated. He strokes from your hip to your ribs with a big hand, trailing tender kisses up to your cheek. You’re thrilled to see how much more energy he already has. 

“I don’t know about that,” he says in between kisses. “I’d still rather not make you my victim if I can help it.” 

“I didn’t feel like a victim, if that helps.” Your words go mushy as he reaches your lips, but you keep talking, wanting to make your point. “I just mean, I wouldn’t mind doing it again. Maybe when you’re lacking in other options.” 

“Mm, maybe. What was it like?” 

“Like a really good kiss.” 

James backs up from you to give you a dubious look. “Better than the ones I give you normally?” 

You grin. “Maybe a little.” 

His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drops open, curving on one side. “Oh, yeah? Bold claims.” 

“I don’t know if you can compete with whatever vampire magic that was, Jamie.”

“My kisses are very magical. It seems like I may have to remind you how good they really are, though.” 

You shrug coyly. “If you think you can top that, you’re welcome to try. I mean, you’re really only competing with your—”

James is on you before you can finish.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ NEED TO LISTEN TO ME — price is disappointed in you and your other three lovers, and finds that some 'training' is in order

read on ao3.

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, poly tf141, ANGRY sex, mean dom price, angst, degradation, minor dom/sub, light humiliation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, minor spit play, minor blood play (not really), rough sex, price orders EVERYONE around, price-centred, whiny johnny and gaz agenda

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

You weren't scared of many things at this point in your life.

Being a signal officer for the military certainly aided that statement, but it was more the fact that you had four guard dogs in the form of the most seasoned special forces operatives you've ever known. Four very large, very scary men that you'd somehow found yourself lucky enough to get to call your partners.

Both on, and off, the field.

That being said, there was one thing you were terrified of. Like, to your bones, petrified.

And that thing had a name.

John Price.

He was formally the captain of your force for a reason, but he was also informally the captain of your relationship, as well. The one you all looked to in the most difficult of moments, the one that held reason and guidance above all.

It's been that way since the five of you met, and remains the same to this day.

Nonetheless.

It was a known fact between you, Soap, Ghost and Gaz that none of you liked seeing the man mad. You four could count on one hand the amount of times you'd witnessed it, all of which having been directed at either his superiors or an enemy.

But. Right now, in this office, seated on the small couch between your three lovers?

Yeah. You don't fear many things.

But John Price's disappointment is quite easily in your top three, and this situation only cements it.

"He's probably ordering our caskets," Gaz murmurs wistfully, eyes wide as he stares at his foot, tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor. It's a nervous tic that gives him away too easily, but even with your hand on his knee, it doesn't seem able to quit.

You exhale a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. "I hope he gets me a cute one," you mumble back, tone matching the resignation that clouds your captain's office.

"You four. My office."

Those were the only words Price had spoken to you guys, before marching off to a meeting with Laswell.

To say that you and your lovers were mortified was the biggest understatement of the century.

Even Ghost, sat perfectly still, expression perfectly neutral beneath his mask, oozes trepidation like it's the carbon dioxide he exudes with every breath.

"I know 'm 'n tha military, but I still don't wanna die, ya know?" Soap whines, his head flung back and blue eyes glued to the roof as his hands shake in his lap.

You guys must look like unruly students sat outside of your principal's office to any onlookers, and it should be embarrassing.

It would be, if you could feel anything but mortal peril.

You're about to quip a reply to Soap, when the door clicks open, and the three of you sit ramrod straight, Ghost not moving from his already perfect posture.

Price steps in, the door shutting closed behind him.

The silence is a tangible force, and your mouth is so dry, you'd think you were in a desert, not in your lover's office.

His footfalls echo around the modest space, before he leans against his wooden desk, folding his arms over his chest, before directing his furious gaze to you four.

"When I give orders," he starts, and oh god, his tone, it's so unbelievably firm, "I expect my team to follow them."

There's no response, except for the overwhelming quiet coming from the usually passionate and comforting presence that underlies your entire dynamic.

Price clears his throat, meeting all of your eyes one by one. You wonder if you can see the glassiness of yours, the barely restrained tears.

"So why," he begins, before swallowing once more, determination settling in, "Did all four of my teammates rush into an unstable building after being ordered to keep out?"

You know it's not just the anger of a captain's orders being refused.

It's the anger of a lover having to watch all four of his partner's risk their death, while he can do nothing but watch from the scope of a sniper rifle.

The clock on the wall above the door ticks, and none of you make a sound.

Price grabs a pack of cigars from his pocket, quickly sliding one out, placing it between his lips, and shoving the pack back into his slacks. He then pulls out a lighter from his back pocket, lighting the tobacco, before exhaling his first breath of smoke.

In any other situation, you or Gaz would be chastising him, telling him to stop smoking, or to at least do it outside.

Neither of you say a word.

Rubbing at the furrow between his brows, Price then drifts his eyes to Ghost, the only one who hasn't said a word since the mission.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Price says on a deep exhale, shaking his head. There's hurt there, genuine pain, and your heart stutters in your chest at the sight. "You're my lieutenant, Simon. I thought you'd at least 'ave the brains to listen to me when I make an order."

Ghost's hand tightens where it sit on his cargos, and even with his mask on, you can tell that a disgruntled frown lays beneath it.

"And you, Soap," he looks at the man to your right, now, and you can physically see him deflate at the disappointment in his captain's eyes. "Disrespecting authority is cute 'nd all, until it's me, mate."

Those words feel like a physical wound, even to you, and judging my Soap's crestfallen expression, for him, it must hurt tenfold.

And, then, it's your turn.

His mouth is set in a grim line, and you hope that he can see the regret, the genuine sorrow you feel at disappointing and -- and scaring your captain. Your lover.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, and your mouth wants to open, but it's as if there's an invisible force pinning it shut. "You weren't even supposed to step foot on enemy grounds, and you knew that."

And it's true. Your role is mainly with communications and technical supplies, not actual combat. You were trained, yes, but it has never been your role.

But you'd seen Soap rush in, Ghost trailing after him, yelling, and then Gaz not long after, and it was like your mind shut out any rational lines of thinking. There was no rationale when it came to your partners.

That was a flaw. A genuine character fault, and Price was cementing that fact in this very room.

"Kyle," Price runs his hand down his face, cigar in between his middle and index fingers, "Kyle."

The pain, regret, the melancholy -- it's its own element in this room, its own being, and it feels as if it's choking you from the inside out. Like a gas leak, or a grenade stuck in your throat, about to go off.

Ghost, shockingly, is the first to speak.

"Captain," he grits out. Not 'old man'. Not 'love'.

Captain.

"We're aware of our... misgivings," he states, the words coming off of his tongue like hot coals he needs to rid off, lest his entire mouth burns.

Price nods, slowly, eyes narrowing at Ghost. It hits you, then, how your lover's just dug all of your graves in one sentence. Gaz seems to realise, too, his eyes going wide, exhaling a low, short breath in surprise.

"Sweetheart," he quips, standing up in the transition of one moment to the next, eyes snapping to your glassy ones. The endearment holds no warmth to it, for the first time, and your heart shatters where it beats in your chest, shards of glass embedding into the muscle surround it. "Get on the desk."

He says the words, and in the next movement, sweeps his arm over his desk, causing all of his papers, his pens, his folders, to go careening to the floor.

Soap mutters a curse under his breath, and Gaz winces.

On shaky legs, you stand, walking the short distance to the wooden surface and sitting on it with short pants of breath.

His large hand grips your chin in a tight grasp, tilting your head back and forcing the eye contact between you both.

He leans in, mouth mere millimetres away from your own, before speaking. You can taste the tobacco as he does. "I'm gonna let every single one of my subordinates fuck your disobedient cunt, and it's not gonna get any cum. Do you understand that order, sweetheart?"

It's cruel. Patronising, and so unbearably condescending, but you nod, a tear finally leaking down your cheek.

With a calloused thumb, he wipes it away in one stroke. "Save that for the actual punishment, operator."

And then, he steps back, and takes a seat in his chair, allowing him a full view of the other three still sat at the couch, and your position in his desk.

"This is a lesson on following your captain's orders," Price barks his order, like most other men of his rank would. It's a stone cold contrast to the gentle, comforting way he usual spoke to the four of you. His voice, now, holds no love, no underlying adoration lacing through his words. "You will follow every command I give you, and hopefully, this training will carry onto our future missions."

You're all aware that if it gets too much, one of you will utter the safeword you're all aware of -- the weight of it almost embedded into your beings.

Price knows it, too. And no matter how angry he is, he'll always put you all first, listen to you when you genuinely need to stop.

The feeling in the room has shifted from one of heavy disappointment, to an electrifying anger that has liquid heat melting to your core.

"Simon," Price snaps his fingers, and it's almost as if you're in a parallel universe, because the large man immediately stands. "Lay 'er down on the desk."

Ghost only needs to take two steps from the couch before he's standing in front of you, hand fisting into your hair, before somewhat gently pushing you to lay flat against the smooth surface. Your breathing is harsh, your chest moving in quick rises.

"Strip 'er down," Price orders, voice gravelly as he takes another deep inhale of his cigar, folding his leg so his left ankle rests on his right knee, legs spread wide. He fills out the chair with his frame, and it makes you shiver as Ghost gets to work peeling your clothes off of you.

When your heated skin feels the kiss of the cool air, you let out a haggard breath, head falling back to hit the wood as you clench your eyes shut.

Ghost goes to spread your thighs, before pausing, awaiting Price's directions like a dutiful dog.

You never thought you'd see the day.

"She's wet enough," Price shrugs, taking another drag of his cigar. "Fuck 'er."

Oh, fuck.

He wasn't lying, you were soaking, something about the fear unknowingly having your inner thighs sticky and core aching to be filled.

But... not getting prepped? At all?

Ghost makes a surprised grunt of a noise, pausing for a moment, before recollecting his senses and unbuckling his pants.

Oh. Fuck.

He's really, properly following Price's directions, like the man had demanded. The guilt was eating all of you alive, and that festered in Simon's actions.

His deep brown eyes flick to yours, before he unzips his fly with one hand, gaze not moving from yours. There's slight apology in them, only a hint, before he leans down to spit on your cunt.

You inhale a sharp breath at the act, squeezing your eyes shut as his dick presses against your heat, rubbing against it slightly.

Then, he pushes in -- it makes you cry out, breath hitching as the tip enters. It's a tight fit, but he continues to push in, and it's almost as if you can feel the intrusion, the pressure in your chest.

"So you can follow orders, huh?" Price quips, almost nastily, and it has you shuddering as Ghost's hips finally flush against your own. You don't think you've ever taken any of them without foreplay, and it's a special form of torture. The pressure is almost too much, his cock filling you up so much.

Simon's head hangs between his shoulders, muscles tense as he stares down at you, the epitome of self-restraint.

He always was the most controlling one, the most calculating.

Not today, however.

That title easily belongs to Price, who merely relaxes further into his seat, as if he wasn't just mere feet away from the two of you.

"I said fuck her, Riley. Not stand there and keep it warm."

He's so fucking. He's fucking cruel about this, fully willing and wanting to make this hurt. It's so completely unlike the man you love, and it's psychologically damning in a way nothing else could be.

But, like directed, Simon fucks you.

He stops trying to be kind about it, stops wallowing in guilt. It's rough, forceful, urgent, unlike the way he usually liked to savour your pleasure, your pain. He usually delighted in the smooth, deep strokes, prolonging the passionate act almost vindictively.

No. Now, it's quick, punishing thrusts, and your head falls back and little moans escape your throat.

It's like you've both forgotten that Soap and Gaz sit on the couch, watching, waiting. Price has likely made it that way on purpose, to make them envy the attention you and Ghost are getting.

"Fuck," you moan, tits bouncing as Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly, harsh in his movements.

"Does he feel good?" Price is standing, and when you open glassy eyes, it's to see his face looking down at you. If you had the mind to, you'd flinch under his criticizing expression. "Answer me."

You nod, shakily, and when his brows narrow, you rush out a verbal response. "Yes, yes, he does!"

Price hums a noncommittal sound, before his hand slides down your stomach, leaving your hairs to stand on end, before his fingers reach your clit. In tight circles, he has you on the edge almost immediately, and you cry out.

"Gonna fuckin' cum," Ghost grunts, voice low as his eyes clench tight.

"Aww, you two close?" Your captain's voice is gruff, all too condescending, and just before you can find your release, his hand leaves your clit, and wraps around Ghost's neck. He leans into his ear, and his whisper is loud enough for everyone to hear. "Pull out."

Simon makes a noise suspiciously close to a whimper, and it's so unlike him that it has your eyes opening wide, before he does just as Price ordered.

He pulls out.

"Seriously?" You groan, filter eviscerated like your high was. You lean up, using your elbows for leverage.

Price raises one brow, before scratching at his beard almost absent-mindedly. "Got a complaint, sergeant?"

You shake your head, lightning quick, like a puppet on a string.

That's what you were right now -- what all of you were. Just puppets in whatever acts Price wanted to see you all star in.

It's exhilarating in the worst of ways.

"Soap, Gaz," Price snaps once more, and Ghost is nothing more than a neglected mutt. Which, really, is almost funny considering the amount of times the man teases you, Soap and Gaz about such a comment. You couldn't count the amount of times he's compare you three to 'needy puppies'.

Now, he was nothing more than that, and you wish you could enjoy that fact more.

The two men adhere to the command, radiating nervous energy as they stand to attention, not unlike they would if they were in a standard military unit.

"Gaz, take her mouth," Price demands, before his hand buries in the short hair near the nape of Soap's head with a mean grip, meant to hurt. Soap barely hides a whine as Price tugs him, forcing the man to his knees as if he's nothing more than the mutt Ghost usually refers to him as. "You, lick 'er clean."

You realise, then, what exactly this is.

It's truly a display of power. Of control. Because you four took that away from him on the field, unrightfully so. There truly is thought behind his anger, his pain.

It only makes the ache in your heart burn, makes it bruise and bleed where the shattered pieces cut and embed into the innerworkings of your body.

This 'training' won't make up for what you four pulled. Not in the slightest.

But it's something to let John get some of his emotions out, in a somewhat healthier way than you lot usually resorted to.

You'd always offer your support, offer yourself, and he knows that.

He's deliberately taking away that option for you, taking control to comfort the side of him that is so deeply ingrained, so deeply relied on for him to live.

You love him. So effortlessly.

Those words remain accurate, even as Johnny first licks over your wet pussy, and Kyle's dick bumps against your lips.

Opening your mouth without a thought, Kyle's tip slips in, his pre-cum salty on your tongue as you flatten your tongue against it. Johnny's as enthusiastic as ever, maybe even more than usual, as he delegates all of his attention to your aching warmth.

John's grip doesn't release from Johnny's hair, shoving his closer against you, and the sight is so hot that you wish you could fully, properly enjoy it.

Another time, when you're all in better spots, happy and unapologetic, you'll ask them to re-enact the scene.

Johnny moans against your pussy, hands coming up to grip at your bare thighs, and you just know there'll be finger-shaped bruises come tomorrow morning. He's always been unaware of his strength, not understanding the proper damage he can inflict, especially in the bedroom. It's attractive as all hell.

"Yeah? She taste good, hm?" John nearly snarls, and you let out a drawn out moan at the pleasure and words. The sound is muffled by Kyle pushing in deeper, having you almost gagging on his length.

Your eyes flutter shut at the onslaught of feelings, but even with no sight, you can feel Simon's eyes on you like a physical weight.

You know what position he's in, without having to look. Leaning against the wall with a furious expression, large arms folded over his bulky chest. Maybe he's pulled off his mask, maybe it's just been hooked over his crooked nose.

"Fuck, cap," Kyle groans, bucking into your throat. "So fuckin' good--"

Johnny muffles a whine as his efforts nearly double, and you swear spots colour the darkness of your vision. You're already there, and it's not like you can say anything, with Kyle abusing your mouth like this.

"She's close, ain't she, Johnny? Feel her clenchin' on your tongue?" John taunts, and you can feel Johnny nod against your core, nose brushing your clit as he does.

John huffs a cruel laugh, before he abruptly pulls Johnny away by the scruff of his neck. You can't help by buck up, searching for touch, but none comes.

"Kyle," John's tone is one requiring no resistance, and with a shaky exhale, Kyle pulls out of your mouth, a string of spit clinging to his dick, before snapping and leaving your cheek covered with a line of it.

You shakily open your eyes, your pussy begging for a release, knowing that you won't get one. Not yet.

"You make a mess, you clean it up," John says.

So, Kyle leans down, his tongue licking over the spit trail, and really it should be disgusting.

Instead, it only makes you wetter.

Your thighs incessantly shake, no hint of stopping as your body aches. The emotional turmoil, mixed with the physical kind -- it's a concoction for torture.

With half-lidded eyes, you watch as John forces Johnny's head in between your breasts, pressing his face into them. It must be almost suffocating, but Johnny manages to whine as you feel John's hand wrap around Johnny's dick, positioning it against your twitching hole.

"Rut into her," John orders, before stepping back.

Johnny does just that -- he thrusts in, bottoming out with one push. Your moan sounds too alike to a squeal at the stretch, the sudden intrusion. Your arms wrap around his back, nails scratching lines down Johnny's back as he thrusts into you almost manically. You're sure that you're drawing blood, but it only seems to encourage the man rutting into you further, his thrusts urgent and feral.

"Jesus christ," someone -- you're sure it's Kyle -- murmurs, and you suddenly want to know what you must look like from a spectator. Ruined, probably.

Your breaths are harried as you feel yourself getting close once more, tears burning at the corner of your vision at the pure need coursing through your veins.

"Please," you whimper, squeezing like a vice around Johnny's dick. "Please, oh god."

"Now you want me to make decisions? Let you two cum?" There's a hand in your hair, and in any other situation, it'd be calming.

Currently, it feels like a thinly veiled threat.

"Please, John, 'm so sorry, please," you beg, eyes blurry as you look up into the man's stormy blue eyes.

Usually, they're comparable to a calm ocean, the beach mid-summer.

Now, they're akin to the darkest of storms, the ones sailors whisper about, the ones that haunt them while they're asleep at sea. Ones that cause shipwrecks to wash up on shores, ones that cause stories to be passed between campers on the scariest of nights.

"Now you're sorry, sweetheart?" And, oh, there's a sliver of the warmth you've come to crave, and it almost has you melting where you lay.

You're so close, you can taste it on your tongue, and your moans get louder, needier, more frantic --

"Stop, Johnny."

Tears fall, then. Hot and heavy down your cheeks, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. Hiccups fall from your lips as you sob from the deprevation.

Johnny whines, head drooped low as he stops, and you can feel him pulse inside of you, both of you at your wits' end.

"You follow orders so well in this room, don't you?" John says. The voice of a captain.

It's almost your last straw. The devastation is too great, the mix of physical and emotion stress weighing on you heavily.

"'M so sorry, shoulda listened," you cry, body trembling.

"John, please, we're sorry," Kyle insists, a furrow between his dark brows where he takes a step closer to you and Johnny.

Simon, although silent, is also closer to you both now than he had been, no longer stood against the wall.

Your boys -- they're so inherently protective, and it's such a nice feeling. No matter how guilty they feel, how genuinely sorry, they can't stand to see you or Johnny so weak, so vulnerable.

Love. You love them, in a way words can never describe.

John exhales. A deep, thoughtful one.

"We're talking about this, after we're all cleaned up," he says. It's the first hint of himself that you've heard tonight, and the relief is like an intoxicating drug.

It's like even the room itself takes a deep breath, dispelling of some of the tension lining every inch of it.

"Off 'er," John snaps his fingers, and Johnny pulls out with a small whimper, head still hung low.

Grabbing your hips, John flips you over, making you bend so your face is to the desk and your ass is in the air. His large hand presses against your lower back, bending you into an arch.

He slides in, and it's an easy entry. You don't think you've been more wet in your life, and gods, you need it.

Setting a ruthless pace immediately, every thrust forces a whimper, a moan, a whine out of your mouth, eyes dazed as your cheek presses against the wood. His hand fists into your hair, forcing your head to face the three men stood side by side, watching you both with a flurry of emotions behind heavy stares.

"Feel so fuckin' good, christ," John seethes, his grip tightening in your hair, causing your moan to become louder as it leaves your lips.

It isn't long before you're at that cliff once more, begging for a final push, just so you can reach that finish you ache for.

"Gonna, fuck, please, let me cum, John, I love you, I'm so sorry," your words aren't fully your own, and they come out in a desperate plea.

"Yeah? My girl gonna cum for me? Needy slut."

Those words are your undoing, your nirvana.

You cum, body strung tight as tears fall down your cheeks once more, your vision nearly blacking out with the strength of your orgasm. It's almost painful, the stimulation altogether too much, and not enough.

John finishes not long after, his cum filling you up with a loud groan from him.

He releases his fist in your hair, and you head falls to the desk, body slumping with the final release of pleasure.

Stroking a smoothing hand down your back, he pulls out, and you can feel his seed leaking down your thighs. You must be a sight -- all worn out and dripping with the white liquid.

"We don't getta cum?" Johnny whines, and you can hear the roll of Simon's eyes.

There's a hand stroking stray hairs off of your face, and from the texture and size of the limb you can tell it's Kyle.

"You won't get to tomorrow, either, if you keep tha' up," Price mutters, and you let out a delusional giggle at his words. You're cum-drunk, almost, from how drawn out your orgasm had been.

"We really are sorry, Cap," Kyle murmurs genuinely, and the hurt is a sharp barb on his tongue. "You know we love you, didn't mean to hurt you."

John releases a long, worn-out breath. "I know that. I do. But you're a bunch of reckless muppets 'nd you fuckin' went too far today. I'm your captain, lover or not."

"We'll talk it over later," Simon states, and you can't help but agree with the sentiment.

You will. And it'll be a painful conversation, but one that you all owe to your captain.

Because, at the end of the day, you four would do anything for the man that you love. That includes the tough words, the difficult exchanges.

John presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and with complete certainty, you're sure that you're all going to be okay.

a/n. the day that i stop loving poly 141 is the day that i die. price needs all the love omg this one kinda hurt to write cause oof angst but hopefully it was an enjoyable read!!!! thank you to everyone who comments on my fics, your notes etc make me do a lil happy dance ily all!!!!!!!!!!!!

[lovelybucky1]

I have a theory and bear with me because It’s hard for me to explain but like, when Wade & Logan are DP’ing (or fucking in general) the reader I feel like wade gets a bit too excited at times (due to his underlying ADHD that we all know he has) and Logan is there to smooth the aftermath. So for example, like when they’re fucking their girl, Wade may smack her ass one too many times to hard and Logan’s hands are immediately there, rubbing and trying to soothe the pain and redness. Wade bites her neck a little too hard when he’s leaving hickeys? Logan’s tongue is gently licking the wounds like a lion licking her cubs sores. Wade fucks her throat a bit to hard when he’s face fucking and gives her a sore throat? Logans prepared with cough drops and warm tea to ease the ache. Logan may do those things at times but Logan knows how far to take it and doesn’t take it too far. Wade I don’t think intends too but their girl is just so damn beautiful and sexy that he can’t help himself lol

it's no secret that wade has poor impulse control. he never means to hurt you, he just gets too excited. the long, thin scratches of fingernails down your back, bruises on your limbs, bites that draw blood. they're all accidents. you know wade is a good guy so you're never mad at him for the pain he causes you. you're just glad that logan is there to take care of you.

logan doesn't seem like he'd be the gentle one of the pair, but he always made sure you get an ice pack, or at the very least, some kisses after you're done. on the occasions that wade breaks skin, whether that be with his teeth or a knife, logan cleans and bandages the wound.

you may not get mad at wade, but logan gets pissed with him every time it happens.

"why the fuck do you keep doing this? can't you control yourself?"

"i'm sorry, peanut, i just get too excited. she doesn't mind, right, cupcake?"