#Peak ankle bitter

[12-oz-joy]

( i had to draw them in this pose gah- )

COME GET YOUR CREATURE RAHHHHHH

OH MY GOD EATS RAAAAHGH MY FOUL BUG BEAST RAAAAHGH

I LOVE THIS

[bzurk]

“Reader who decided to go to like a free use club pretty much, the only thing showing was her ass/legs/pussy the rest of her was hidden behind a wall Met 4 people anonymously online and they agreed to play out that fantasy so she wasn't fucked by a whole bunch of random people, had the explicit request that they write those cheese things on her in sharpie yk like "cum slut" "cock whore" just all that, so even when she washes it off for a few days those will be lingering Back at work she bends down to grab something, her shirt hikes up and Johnny very clearly sees their captain's hand writing on her Ohoho they found their little anonymous minx”

um sorry not sorry

cw: f!reader, free use, degradation, spanking

Your calves burned from the strain of your high heels, legs straight and stretched and precariously balanced. They made your legs look miles long, smooth and soft, every curve begging to be touched - just like you'd planned. But now, you cursed them. The arch of your feet screamed in protest with every subtle shift in your stance, the balls of your feet aching under your weight, throbbing with the relentless pressure.

Your ankles wobbled every now and then, fighting to keep your balance, your toes cramping in their confines. This wasn’t part of the fantasy you’d imagined, this strain, this dull, incessant pain that throbbed in sync with your racing heartbeat. Tears burned your eyes.

You’d surely made a mistake. Nobody was coming, you’d been lied to. Made to stand, exposed, like a gullible fool. The cold air against your bare skin felt cruel, mocking, the chill biting at your flesh as if the room itself knew you'd been abandoned.

How could you have fallen for it? They’d seemed so genuine online, so convincing, playing into every fantasy. Too good to be true, and now you were paying for it.

The hole in the wall felt like a pillory, an embarrassing punishment you’d walked yourself into. The first tear slid down your cheek, bitter and hot, when the door creaked open behind you.

A presence filled the air, thick and heavy, making your heart lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed faintly on the floor, each one slow, deliberate, purposeful. Someone was there. You could feel their eyes on you, their gaze grazing your exposed body like a physical touch, and your skin prickled with the awareness of it.

Closer. The footsteps drew nearer, the weight of their approach filling the room, pressing against you from all sides. You were trapped, your heart pounding in your ears, your body trembling - not from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, the fear of what came next.

The footsteps stopped just behind you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of their presence against your bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as the silence thickened, tension coiling tighter around you with each second that dragged by. You couldn't see them, couldn't move, your body frozen in place as you waited, nerves crackling like electricity beneath your skin.

The bench under your chest was slick with sweat as you wriggled in place, brimming with a nervous, anticipatory energy with no way to expel it, the wall chafing around your waist.

It started when a single finger brushed the small of your back, the touch light as a feather, yet sending shockwaves through your entire body. It lingered, tracing slow, delicate patterns against your skin, feather-light, teasing. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your breath coming in ragged pants as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

They had to hurry, hurry up, or you’d combust. They’d already left you waiting so long. But you had no say in this, did you? You’d signed it away, the ball no longer in your court, and you loved it. If just a fingertip felt electric, what would their hands feel like, their mouths, their cocks?

Then, without warning, a hand cupped your ass cheek, a firm grip that left no doubt who was in control. The touch was exhilarating, jolting through you, and you gasped, body arching reflexively, hips pressing backward into the touch, heels arching and shoes scrambling against the floor. A deep, gravelly chuckle rumbled in the room, a sound that sent chills down your spine.

“What a convenient little hole,” the stranger purred, their voice a low, husky growl, dripping with hunger. “Just what we need, hm?” Their words washed over you, heat blooming in your belly as they squeezed your ass, each touch igniting you further. “Waited so patiently, didn’t you?” A pause, deliberate, as the grip tightened. “Already so needy.”

A second set of hands, just as large and firm as the first, ghosted over your other cheek, squeezing, kneading, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned, unable to control the sound that spilled from your lips.

"That's what I thought," came a second voice, low and pleased, dripping with satisfaction. “Now, relax,” it commanded, the edge of authority sharp and undeniable.

Without warning, they spread you apart, exposing every inch of you in the most humiliating way, a wet squelch echoing as your body responded, slick and desperate. And then you felt it - hot, hard, the head of a cock pressing insistently against your entrance, seeking its way in.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-

The words swirled in your mind, a mantra of pure desperation, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic, needy whine. Your knees shook, weak under the weight of your need as those hands pulled away, leaving you trembling, exposed, wanting.

“No, no, please-” you hiccuped into your arms, folded beneath your head, the words breaking as a sob slipped through. Your hips twitched, pressing helplessly against the bench beneath you, desperate for more, the burn of their touch still scorching your skin.

"You look just like I imagined," one of them murmured, deep and smooth, tinged with dark amusement. New hands trailed up your thighs, teasing, maddeningly close to where you needed them most, only to pull away, leaving you gasping. “You’ll take what we give you," they chuckled, revelling in your frustration. “No more, no less.”

"You’re already soaked," the first voice purred, thick with approval, the smug satisfaction dripping from every word. It made your cheeks burn, the heat crawling down your neck, flushing your skin as much as the desperate ache between your legs. You were on fire, burning with the humiliation of your own need, the way your body betrayed you with every twitch, every quiver.

A shameless moan wrenched its way from your throat as a finger slid inside you, cool and deliberate, parting your slick folds and delving deep. It scraped against your insides, slow and unhurried, dragging out the sensation until your toes curled and your back arched. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself, the sheer intensity of the intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure rocketing through you, making you gasp, shudder, pressing back into the touch.

You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the amusement in their chuckles as they watched you squirm, watched you fall apart with just a finger.

“Look at you,” the second voice murmured, closer now, a whisper against your skin that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Already falling apart, and we’ve barely touched you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as that finger curled inside you, hitting just the right spot, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your already overwhelmed senses. Your mind was a haze, lost in the sensation, every nerve on fire, every touch igniting something raw and primal within you.

"More," you whispered, though the word came out broken, ragged. It was barely more than a breath, a plea that hung in the air between you.

But the fingers stilled, pulling back just enough to leave you aching, empty, desperate.

A strong hand came down hard against your ass cheek, the sharp sting radiating through your body like lightning. You gasped, more from shock than pain, though the heat spread quickly, leaving your skin tingling.

"Good holes don’t talk," one of them growled, firm and commanding, the words biting into you like a warning.

The authority in his tone left no room for argument, no space for anything but submission. You bit your lip, swallowing down any protest, your heart racing as the stinging warmth from the slap settled into a dull, aching throb. Your whole body tensed, bracing for more, every muscle coiled tight as you fought to suppress the need rising inside you, the urge to beg.

Another hand slid across your other cheek, soothing where the other had struck, a dark contrast between punishment and comfort. They knew what they were doing, playing with you, keeping you on the edge. The air around you felt charged, thick with the scent of your arousal and the oppressive weight of their presence.

Another hand, rough and confident, settled firmly on your hip, pulling you back just slightly, aligning your body with their demands. The head of a cock pressed against your entrance again, the heat radiating from it a stark reminder of what was to come.

“You asked for more,” the voice purred, satisfied. “So be a good hole and take what you’re given.”

The command was clear, the tone brooking no argument. Your body, trembling and desperate, responded instinctively, hips arching back, seeking that elusive pleasure that seemed just out of reach. Each touch, each command, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the role you’d willingly accepted and now had no choice but to fulfil.

And just like that, one of them was inside you, one thrust, hard and deep, claiming you with a dominance that left you breathless, gasping. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, another thrust and another, each one driving you deeper into the bench, the world around you falling away as you clung to the burning sensation that seared through your every nerve.

“Tight, so damn tight,” he panted, a mixture of awe and lust in his voice as he continued to pound into you, relentless and merciless. The rhythm was all-consuming, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only thing that broke the silence, punctuated by your strangled moans and their low groans of pleasure.

The bench creaked below you, cheap wood protesting under the onslaught of their hips, of your desperate grinding as they fucked you, each thrust driving you further and further from reality, from the world you thought you knew.

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” another voice hissed, words punctuated by the wet slick of skin on skin. “Bet you’re clenching so tight on him.”

And it was true, your muscles were clenching, contracting around the invading cock, gripping and twisting as if to hold onto the pleasure, to extend the moment indefinitely. You were a hot, wet cavern around their length, taking them in, welcoming the intrusion with a slickness that spoke volumes.

"Fuck, you're so tight," the man inside you groans, his words a low, deep growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your world narrowed to this, to the cock inside you, to the feeling of raw, primal lust, the faceless man ravishing your body, reducing you to nothing more than a hole for their pleasure. The humiliation only fueled the fire in you, stoking the flames of your arousal as they brought you closer to the brink.

"Cum for us, whore," one growled, their voices melding together, hands gripping you, pinching you, touching you until you saw stars.

Their words sent you over the edge, the humiliation and the need and the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly used combining into a white-hot ball of ecstasy that exploded through your veins, your entire body convulsing around the invading cock.

“Look at you,” the first voice chuckled, triumphant, as your pussy spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his climax from him, his hot seed filling you, “Dirty slut.”

Their words echoed in your mind, even as the world around you blurred into a sea of colour and sensation, even as you lay there, panting, spent, and utterly broken in the best way.

You almost missed the feeling of a dull point against your skin, dragging and looping against the surface, lifting and then pressing. Writing.

More, you wanted them to touch you again, needed something to replace the emptiness. More, more, more. You wiggled in place against the drag of the marker. It only earned you another swat to the smarting skin of your cheeks.

—

‘Dirty slut,’

‘Dick here →’

‘Cumdump,’

Every time they came, they’d write on you - a brand, a claim, proud and stark against your slick skin. It only ended when the marker stopped running, clogged by all manner of fluids - cum, sweat, spit.

The four men watched, satisfied and sated, as your holes twitched and leaked, your legs slumped and weak and quivering, toes barely scraping the floor.

Kyle had gone first, as agreed. Johnny too eager, Simon too big, the captain too rough.

They took their turns, in order of largest to smallest, longest to shortest, in all the ways possible until it devolved to whoever was ready to go again, until your body was nothing but a mess of aching muscles and abused orifices and marker streaks and bruised cheeks.

“Fuck,” Johnny groaned from where he had slumped in the corner, hands twitching against the ground and his pants half-heartedly tugged back over his thighs. “Do we hafta leave?”

One of your legs twitched out and kicked, and the captain huffed a laugh, “Poor thing has nothin’ left in them.”

Price’s hand skated along the mess of cum and sweat and ink, collecting it on his fingers, and you flinched against the touch, still so sensitive, overstimulated.

“Might have broken them,” Simon snipped, flat, but not even he could act unaffected, his chest visibly rising and falling, sweat coating his visible skin.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, strained, sliding a hand down your back, “But it was bloody worth it.”

“Not going again, are ya?” Johnny guffawed from the floor.

“Much as I would love to see that,” Price drawled, but his tone was fond, “we gotta go. Time’s up.”

“Fuck, man,” Kyle groaned, parting with one last pat on your cheeks.

“I know.” Johnny helpfully added, voice wistful. “I’ll miss this ass.”

“Then next time, don’t come so fast,” Simon muttered, and it was the exact wrong thing to say, because they all laughed.

“Next time?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “Fuck LT., I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time, I have nothin’ left in me.”

—

"Hoooo-lyyyy shit," Kyle blurted, gripping Johnny’s arm as if to steady himself, though his gaze remained glued to the phone in his hand. His voice trembled with disbelief, excitement, and a tinge of something more. He was practically buzzing with the revelation, his eyes wide in awe as he absorbed the image.

"Jee Sus, Mary, and Joseph..." Johnny muttered under his breath, his Scottish accent thickening with astonishment. The look of disbelief on his face mirrored Kyle’s as he leaned in closer, trying to process what he was seeing.

“What are the two of you lookin’ at-” Simon started, only to cut himself off as he swiped the phone out of Kyle’s hand with a swift, almost aggressive motion. Kyle staggered slightly but didn’t bother protesting. His mind was too occupied with the image burned into his retinas.

Simon’s eyes flicked over the screen, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more intrigued. His gaze lingered on the photo: Price’s assistant, the shy little thing that hardly said more than a few words at a time, stretching to grab something from a high shelf. Her shirt had lifted just enough to reveal faded, smeared ink scrawled across the smooth skin of her back, just above the waistband of her slacks.

The words, though blurry, were unmistakable.

The realization hit Simon hard, his grip tightening around the phone. He shifted his gaze to Kyle and Johnny, who both stood there, jaws slack, equally stunned.

"Fuck me," Johnny breathed out, breaking the silence, still staring at the screen like it was some sort of hallucination. "The assistant? Who would've thought she had it in her?"

Simon finally exhaled, passing the phone back to Kyle with a grunt. "Price has a way of... managing things, doesn’t he?" His voice was low, filled with a dark suggestion that hung heavy in the air.

Kyle glanced down at the phone again, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Never would’ve pegged her for that type. Quiet little thing, but..." He gestured vaguely at the phone, at the faded writing that told an entirely different story.

Johnny laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Looks like there’s more to that lass than we thought." He shook his head, still trying to reconcile the image of the shy assistant with the evidence on her skin.

"Wonder if she knows who got her marked up like that," Johnny mused, puffing out his chest with a wide smirk.

Kyle’s phone pinged with another photo from their captain, and Simon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, she knows."

[moonlitdesertdreams]

The Beach

A/N: Shirtless Bucky? Shameless fondling? I think so Relationship: Bucky Barnes | Winter Soldier x Reader (implied/established relationship) Tags: bucky barnes x reader, bucky barnes x y/n, The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier!Bucky, fluff WARNINGS: consensual petting, FLUFF Summary: Post CATWS, you and Bucky have found temporary refuge somewhere warm and tropical. Now, you both enjoy an early morning on the beach.

Word Count: 1.1k+

You’ve decided you like the beach. 

Ten months after escaping HYDRA, you find the warmth of the sand and the sound of the ocean therapeutic. Your worries ebb and flow with the tide, peaking at night in your dreams and subsiding as the sun rises. Skin, previously pale and dry from captivity, is now sun-kissed and glowing. You even changed your hair, allowing it to grow in a way HYDRA never would. The little shop down the street sells hair dye, and you might purchase some when it feels right. 

Even Bucky, impenetrably serious and ever-vigilant, seems to share your sentiment. 

You wake in a haze of orange light, sun creeping over the mountainous horizon. Rays of light slink into your tiny bungalow from the sliding door, and the smell of coffee rouses you from your sleep. The bed- one you shared to keep each other from waking up screaming - is empty, second pillow cool to the touch. It’s been strange, waking up without a name or past in a place so beautiful, but you’ve kept each other motivated with shreds of memories. The bond you shared was deep, hardened by the torture you’d been subjected to together and solidified by blood. 

In the kitchenette you find a mug of coffee on the tiny counter, a note placed underneath that simply says ‘beach’ in sloped cursive. You try to sip the coffee, only to find it cool and bitter. It ends up running down the drain while you rinse the mug, deciding instead to follow the note outside. You change into a light blue sundress, stepping out of the sliding door to make your way to the water with journal in hand.

It’s warm already despite the early hour, and you trail your fingers across bright green trees and fauna on your way to the sandy beach. Crystal clear water greets you, a lone figure bobbing in and out of the waves. You sit cross-legged in the sand, content to watch him get his morning exercise in. A practiced hand makes note of the date and time, recording everything from the cold coffee to the creamy smell of ripe coconuts on the wind. You lose yourself in the words, adding tens more to the journal already bent from furious scribbling. 

Bucky either decides to keep up his laps or doesn’t notice you, paddling back and forth through rolling waves. You’ve close the journal and set it to the side, purposely slapping the cover shut to catch his attention. He must have been oblivious to your arrival, as he changes his course to immediately swim towards shore. You pad across the sand to meet the Winter Soldier- Bucky- soft hands coming to rest on his mismatched shoulders. He’s shirtless, wearing a teal and gray pair of boardshorts. 

A mischievous look crosses his face for a brief moment, and you just barely choke out a protest before he tries to tug you into his sopping wet body. 

“No!” You backpedal playfully, stepping out of his reach. “My clothes are dry.”

Bucky steps closer, coy smirk turning the corners of his lips. “Clothes can be changed.”

You scowl with no heart, growling his name in warning. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s to no avail.You’ve spent countless hours sparring with Bucky - with The Winter Soldier- and predict his pounce before he leaves the ground. Leaping out of his way is easy, but you forget the speed his titanium arm possesses. It strikes like a cobra, wrapping around your ankle and pulling you down into the sand. You catch yourself with your hands and roll, using your other foot to send a jab to his abdomen. It’s not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to release his grip on you. 

“That was good.” Bucky compliments, climbing to his feet and dusting sand away from his damp torso. He stands with his back to the water, casting a shadow where you’re still sitting in the sand. A hand reaches down to you, offering help up. 

You reach up to meet him, realizing too late that he had you beat in the wits category this morning. As soon as your fingers wrap around cold metal digits his hand pulls back and lifts. You’re scooped into his arms, and he takes off at a run into the waves. 

“Bucky, don’t you-” You’re cut off when both of you plunge into the drink, your clothes soaked beyond help. 

The water is shallow enough to stand, and you find your footing while soft waves rock your body about. Bucky is laughing when you surface, hair wild and plastered to your face. Your dress is in a similar state, every curve and contour of your body highlighted. You do your best to put on a serious face even though nothing but affection is moving through your brain. 

“You are in trouble.” You poke a finger into his chest, and he uses it to draw you into the embrace he searched for just a minute earlier. 

This time, you allow it. Sunshine warms the surface of his prosthesis, glinting into your face and twinkling through drops of water. His body is a familiar comfort, slotting into your arms with the ease of a final puzzle piece. A flesh and bone hand combs through the ends of your wet hair where it brushes the surface of the water. Bucky nuzzles his way down from your crown, nose nudging sweetly against your forehead before plush lips press against yours. 

He tastes like salt and fruit, the sweet tang of pineapple nipping at your tongue when his own traces your bottom lip. A moan escapes you, lost in his mouth as he pulls you in with an iron grip. Your hands creep up his chest, one sliding up to tug not-so-gently on the hair at his nape. His teeth nip at your bottom lip in response, hard enough to draw a whine. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” He murmurs to you, lips leaving yours to trail down the side of your neck. A series of love bites are engraved into your skin, the pain morphing into pleasure as he soothes each spot with his tongue. 

“I could say the same to you.” You purred, nails scraping along his good shoulder. 

A fistful of his hair is locked in your grip when his teeth tweak a pert nipple through the fabric of your dress. 

“Buck…” You turn to look for any stray people walking down the beach, unwilling to be found by any government due to getting carried away with each other in public. 

He chuffs his displeasure with your warning, hot air dancing across the already sensitive skin on your neck. Bucky’s teeth graze by each of the love bites again, and his prosthetic hand squeezes the round of your ass. 

“Let me take you back inside, then.” He kisses your lips in between words. “Show you how beautiful I think you are.” 

Strong hands glide down your curves and squeeze, brushing by the most sensitive parts of your body. 

So, yeah. 

You’ve decided you like the beach. 

-

Thank you for reading, much love ❤

Masterlist

[plasticferal]

fuck the fight out | matt sturniolo.

warnings: slight dom!matt, fem!reader, swearing, mentions of an argument and explicit sexual content.

authors note: i wrote this one quickly, no one asked for it, but i thrive off angst. enjoy!

he’s been giving you the silent treatment the entire night, the argument you had earlier still lingering in the air, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

you don’t even remember what it was about, and quite honestly, you were over it. matt on the other hand, was still holding onto the bitterness.

he saunters into the bedroom, his face furrowed and shoulders tense. you watch from your side of the bed, adjusting the covers over your body as you follow him with your eyes. he doesn’t even look at you before he pulls his hoodie over this head, kicks off his ugg slippers, and drops onto the bed.

he sits up against the headboard, so close to the edge of the mattress. usually, he’s practically on top of you the second he gets into bed. you frown, observing him pull his phone out and scroll through whatever app was currently open.

he just looks so content, yet frustrated. it’s weirdly attractive. you know he’ll come around eventually, but he needs to cool off. he’s biting his tongue. you know matt could continue the argument to rest his case, bring something back up that he didn’t like, but he’s choosing not to.

it never usually takes long before he’s crawling back to you with his tail between his legs, apologising, needing your touch. tonight was different. he wasn’t budging.

you shift toward his body until your shoulders are touching, draping your leg over his waist. you rest your hand on his thigh over his sweatpants, and matt sighs.

you lean closer, kissing under his ear, his sharp jawline contrasting your soft lips. he nudges his head to the side, not breaking eye contact with his screen.

“i’m not in the mood,” his voice is low, almost so gentle that if you weren’t so close, you wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, your fingers toying with the waistband of his pants.

he doesn’t respond, he just grabs your hand and drops it onto the quilt, rejecting your advances. not that you would ever do something to make him uncomfortable, but generally speaking, all of your heated debates in the past have ended in great sex. this move coming from a man who is nothing but utterly obsessed with you, you thought would make you upset, hurt even, but it’s just left you feeling like you needed to fight for it harder. want him more.

“that’s okay,” you respond, pulling away. you fling the sheets off of your body, revealing your lace underwear. it’s peaking underneath matt’s t-shirt that you have covering the top half of your body. you’re not wearing a bra, so the cold air hardens your nipples prominently against the white material.

you feel his eyes on you briefly, trying to maintain the fact he’s not looking at you, but it becomes difficult when you part your legs and shift your hips upward. you position yourself in the middle of the bed, head comfortable on a pillow and arm draping inbetween your legs.

“y/n, what are you doing?” he sounds annoyed and tired in his tone, knowing your gesture is a scream for attention.

“you might not be in the mood, but i am,” your eyes close softly, neck tilting back every so slightly and a soft moan parting your lips the second your cold fingers slide between your heat and under the lace.

your mouth parts open, and even though you can’t see, you know matts’ eyes are now glued on you. you roll into the palm of your hand, middle and ring finger rubbing gentle, yet desperate circles around your clit.

“fuck,” you hear matt exhale. you feel the weight of the mattress shift dramatically as he gets up, and you assume he’s leaving the room in a huff.

instead, you feel a tight grip on your ankles, dragging you to the edge of the bed. you gasp and your hands have to choice but to lay by the sides of your head.

you support yourself on your elbows and see him brush a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek. he slips his thumbs into his sweats and begins to shuffle them down to his ankles, kicking them off.

“matt-” you try to hide your smirk, watching him grow harder in his boxers.

“don’t speak,” he demands, beginning to crawl over you. his much bigger, more coarse hands pin your wrists where they are. his necklace dangles over your face, and his face leans closer so his shaggy hair is dancing across your skin.

“and don’t be a brat,” before grazing his teeth over your neck, sucking lightly, then letting go. he pushes his hips into you, forcing your legs either side of his figure, and you naturally wrap around him. your heels dig into his lower back.

you feel his dick against your heat, as he presses closer to you. he hasn’t even taken his boxers off, but knowing he’s twitching against you has you needing him more.

“ugh, please matty” you beg, and on any other day he’d give you what you want. tonight you’d have to fight for it.

he pulls away from your neck, looking you in the eyes. supporting himself hovering above you with one arm he uses his other hand to grab your jaw, squeezing lightly, surrounding your face in his grip.

“keep running that mouth. i’ll find another use for it,” his tone is so deep, you lose your train of thought.

you nod, feeling him give your face a small squeeze before pulling you to his mouth. he kisses you gently, contrasting his next moves as he runs his open palm down your neck, to your chest, and finally squeezing your breast hard.

“take it off,” he orders, his voice isn’t stern, but it’s direct. he never sounds argumentative in his tone as much as he sounds impatient. you do as he asks, taking your shirt off, exposing your now half naked body, ready for him.

he moves his face down to your chest, taking your nipple between his teeth, then sucking hard. he hums, kissing around your breast, biting a mark into your skin and you throw your head back again, taking a hand to his hair and running your fingers through which messes it up.

he follows down your body, past your belly button, finally to where you desire him the most.

before you get any sensation, or a touch from him, he slides a hand behind your back and flips you over, so you’re straddling him as he lays on the bed.

he nods toward where your crotches meet, and you look down, following his eye movements.

“take them off,” he orders again. you start to slip your fingers through the waist of your panties, but he stops you.

“not yours, mine. you can wait.” he’s so nonchalant with his words you’re almost stunned, and you want to speak back. you’ve already tested him once tonight, so following your better judgment you oblige.

you shuffle down his thighs, pulling his boxers off and letting his cock spring out. you don’t need to take any further instructions before you’re leaning over him, wrapping a hand around his shaft and looking up at him through your eyelashes while you spit on his tip.

he instantly grips for your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles. you open your mouth and puff your cheeks to take him down your throat. you feel him brush past your tongue and you swirl around, tasting the pre-cum before sucking back up, taking him, and repeat.

you gag slightly, really trying to satisfy him, and focus on your breaths. you hum, pulling up to catch your breath and lick up his shaft, twisting your wrist up and down his cock. he watches you, trying to not flutter his eyes closed. he bites his lip, making a small grunt in his throat.

“ngh, fuck- take it all, sweetheart. i know you can” and he squeezes your hair in his fist, guiding you back to his dick. you continue to work him with your mouth, tears in your eyes the further and further you tempt the back of your throat with.

he tugs on your hair to tell you to come up, and you wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist.

matt plants his hands on the backsides of your thighs and pulls you back up so your cunt is hovering over his dick. he doesn’t pull your underwear off, he just moves them to the side. his arm reaches out past the bed, tapping around his bedside table drawer to pull a condom.

you’re so impatient, and throbbing as you’ve already started on yourself, that you subtly try to slide your fingers over your clit again.

matt tears the packet open, and tilts up, seeing you play with yourself.

“y’gonna finish yourself off?” he teases, but he’s serious. you almost feel guilty that you’re thinking so selfishly about getting off, but he makes you so hot and heated that you actually can’t control yourself.

“no, i wanna ride you,” you respond, taking the condom from his hands and rolling it on for him.

“you’re gonna ride my dick but you’re not gonna cum until i say so, got it?” he taps your thigh telling you lift yourself up, using his right hand to run his dick through your folds, cantering your entrance and you’re left waiting for his permission.

you nod, letting him know you understand. finally, he thrusts into you, and you happily sink down, feeling him fill you up. you both let out a low hum, the contact long overdue, and your legs spreading further to allow yourself to slide your knees up and down on the bed, bouncing as rhythmically as you can.

matts fingertips dig into your legs, fixated on your movements.

“you feel so good,” you cry out, hands cupping your breasts as you continue to slap your skin together, the sound hitting the walls and filling the room.

“grind baby,” you hear him breathe out, and you quickly wave your hips in an almost literal cowgirl movement. he moans, and you lean back with your hands on his shins, needing to balance yourself.

he never once slides out of you, helping you by pushing his hips up and timing every single push. your stomach buzzes and you clench tighter, knowing the more you squeeze the closer you are.

“matt i’m- i’m gonna cum,” you moan, and he clings his hands onto your hips.

“keep going,” he ignores your plea, and raises his hips into you even harder. he uses one of his hands to rub your clit, and you shut your eyes so fast that you’re dizzy.

“fuck matt, please, i-, i need-” you hear his hitched breaths and his chest is rising and falling underneath you.

“let go, sweetheart” he exhales to your relief, and you gasp feeling his climax in you. your core heating up and your stomach knotting so hard that you’re sealing your screams, biting your lip with a shake in your breaths.

his body relaxes, and you slowly guide yourself off of him. he pulls the rubber off and tosses it into the bin next to him, but keeps his free hand on your rib cage, tucking you into the side of his body as you roll over next to him.

you cuddle into his side, hand on his glistening chest, and once again, hiking your leg over his torso.

he puts his arm around your shoulder, letting your warm bodies be as close as they can be while you calm down. it’s quiet for a moment, and he sighs continently.

“what were we fighting about again?” he looks down at you, even though you’re peacefully resting into his shoulder. you laugh against his skin, and slap his chest playfully.

“i don’t know, but we should do it again.”

[aweina]

Pookie oral fixation w mikey!!!!(reader has an oral fixation and just wants his cock and fingers in her mouth)

ᰔ. creamsicle : mike schmidt — nsfw under the cut !! + ft. dumbification

omg the way mike would indulge in your little obsession with having your mouth filled.

you guys would just be chilling on the couch, the same old channels blare through the muffled speakers, his fingers warmed by the heat of your tongue — dribble of sweet saliva spilling from the corners of your mouth, suckling and twirling your tongue while he idly clicks the remote like this was something normal.

mike would even scissor your mouth, catching your kitten licks between his fingers while tugging on the wet muscle gently, chuckling at your lack of protest. a dumb haze clouded your mind every time he would shove his fingers down your little throat. each sputtering gag and deep adjusting inhale gets mike hard — reminding him of how he would use your trained throat with his cock.

that’s when his pants pool around his ankles, with you immediately scrambling over his bare thighs — the sight of his swollen cock making you drool uncontrollably. you always seem to make a slobbering mess all over your flushed face and his exposed skin. coating your warm honeyed saliva between his legs, adorned with your muffled gurgling and loud suckling — your soft tongue twirling around his tip like it leaked addicting nectar, just how mike liked it.

his own little noises fall off his lips as well, sugar-coated praises sounded so hushed from his endless whimpers and groans. dribble of his own drool run down his chin, completely mind fucked from your scorching mouth. he doesn’t need to guide your head, you do it all yourself. with his hands tightly gripping on the cushions, mike looks down with hazy eyes to see you bob your head so fluently, gently petting his bare thighs to ease his quivering knees — the built-up pleasure becoming too overwhelming for mike to bear.

when his heavy load coats your mouth, you immediately suckle onto his reddened head like more of his cream-like come could ooze out — the tip of your cute little tongue profusely licking over your molars to scoop for more of his taste. the bitter salty flavor was sugary sweet on your taste buds. the way it goes down your throat gave you a warm euphoric feeling. the quake of his thighs never seems to stop even after his peak, the low grunts and sweet nothings playing like a broken record.

you look so proud too, the lewd mixture of his pearly seed and your thin saliva spread all over your cheeks and chin, topped with a cute smile. mike simply rewards you with his thumb, your used mouth chasing the digit with a darting tongue — the scrape of your teeth pinching his skin from your fastened suckling. he makes sure to sprinkle in some praises too, softly petting your chin with his longer fingers.

mike never fails to be impressed by your oral fixation because he knows this will happen the next day but in a different scenario. it could be when he comes back from a dreadful shift or when he wakes up, rubbing his tired eyes in the quiet mornings to see weird ruffling under his bed sheets — only to find you desperately tugging at his waistband with your plush cheeks rubbing against his morning wood. hell, you even tug at his calloused hands when he’s getting ready for work, peppering kisses on his palm — taking his fingertips with short little sucks before you slowly run your soft tongue over his rough skin whilst you push it past your balmy lips.

you could say it was a problem to have a brain rotting obsession like an oral fixation, but mike was an enabler. he’ll gladly fill your mouth, as long as you chase him with your pretty little tongue or desperately tug at his hands and waistband — there’s nothing like a fixation so sickly beautiful.

[merakiui]

I reread your Azul princess au fanfic, the thing that first introduced me to your blog and omg....OTL....All I can think about now is cruel cecaelia Azul... Truly you introduced peak.

I like to imagine the idea in a more modern setting, working as a marine biologist or something and being assigned the strange octo merman to take care of and study as he slowly opens up to you . Eventually the intrinsic cruelty of the deep sea creature leading to him dragging you into the frigid tank water with him, taking advantage of you. I LOVE CRUEL CECAELIA AZUL !!!!! ╰⁠(⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠´⁠꒳⁠`⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠⸝⁠)⁠╯

Peak tako is when he's a pathetic cecaelia who just wants to love you without any barrier, but you don't understand him or you're scared. >_< so he just has to take you by force. </3 I love the idea of Azul in captivity,,, just the thought of bitter octopus, who hates the humans who have trapped him here and poke and prod at all of his sensitive areas, slowly warming up to one particular human. Gradually befriending you, learning to trust you, feeling comfortable around you to the point where he seeks you out himself, sweetly curling a tentacle around your ankle or wrist in greeting......

And then the way that touch turns into something sinister when he's yanking you into the tank so forcefully. Suddenly he's not your sweet, gentle Azul whose touch was a comfort and a curiosity. Now he's a reminder that, as many human characteristics and behaviors he might have picked up from observation, he's still a creature from the deep with unparalleled strength. Aaaaa maybe his handling of you is so hasty and rough that he squeezes your leg too much and it breaks the bone, and the only thing holding it together is your tight wetsuit...... how horrifying. orz all while he's so tunnel-visioned, so focused on tearing at your suit to get to the space between your legs.

By his logic, you accepted all of his courtship gestures without even knowing it. Misunderstandings that lead to something dubious. ;;;

[seattlesellie]

knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️

an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗

cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.

the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.

how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.

you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.

you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.

you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.

sometimes it all is simply too blurry.

for now, you choose to believe.

the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.

“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.

her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.

she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.

she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.

and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.

“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.

and yet you seem to be an exception.

you seem to be an exception for lots of things.

and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.

“do you like being a knight?”

you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.

“ellie?”

and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.

then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.

“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”

and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.

you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”

and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.

then you met knight ellie.

it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.

but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.

so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.

“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.

she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.

she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.

“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.

t'must be the armor, the decides.

then she decided it's not.

it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.

“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.

she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.

“yes” you reply like she’s serious.

then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.

“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”

“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”

ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”

“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.

you might actually be the death of her.

[inkformyblood]

bury the lead (SVSSS)

Pre-relationship BingQui / BingYuan; early in canon before the Abyss.

Shen Qingqiu folds his hands into his sleeve, his fingertips brushing against the blade concealed there. It’s a clumsily made thing, the handle splintering and held in place by a fraying twist of string. It would slice his own fingers open just as neatly as any attacker, but it is better than nothing. A twist of bitter nostalgia loops around his throat, squeezing tight for a moment before he clears his throat, and speaks. “We’re about to achieve a tremendous victory that we do not want.”

Dark eyes blink up at him, one beneath the fall of each sleeve, and several others clustered around his feet. He can’t move forwards to gesture at  the map stretched over the table, the clusters of painted figures scattered across the marked surface, so he waves his fan at it instead. 

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe leans forward, rising onto his toes so he doesn’t have to sacrifice his prized space at Shen Qingqiu’s side. His hair swings free from behind his ear and he shoves it back roughly without losing his focus. “This student is confused why a victory would not be desired.”

Ning Yingying tugs at Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve, her face already set into a comically pronounced frown. Her frustration only grows as Shen Qingqiu cracks against the shore of his self-control and ruffles her hair, a small section coming free from her hair tie, and she swipes at his hand with a grumble. 

Shen Qingqiu — Shen Yuan, kicking his feet in sheer delight at being able to perform any small variance from his scum villain designation — only smiles down at her, blunts his expression behind his fan. “You had a question, Ying-er?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Luo Binghe’s pout, bright and beautiful like the sun and that is how he has to watch his protagonist grow, in digital fragments so he doesn’t break in the face of what he will do. Sticky little lamb. 

“Yes.” Ning Yingying puffs out her cheeks before she pops into speech. “A-Luo is right, why wouldn’t a victory be wanted? In the scenario, the enemy are clustered beneath a hill that is known to be unstable. A careful explosion would send the hill plummeting down on top of them without needing to risk our own troops in the process. Any competent spy could plant such a device without being seen so it is available to non-cultivators.”

Shen Yuan will allow himself a moment. Just a moment. He’s a fanboy down to his blackened bones, his determination forged through the most insistent of internet forums and his own spite that saw him spawn countless copypastas and a viral Youtube series documenting his best comments. Behind his fan, Shen Yuan bites the side of his cheek to contain his grin. His thin face wouldn’t allow anything more than that, no tell-tale stain of colour of his cheeks to tip off his too observant students clustered around his ankles like they want to crawl inside his robes and shelter there. 

Like cats staring out of the clear window in a modified hoodie. 

That could be something. Not a hoodie, the collective of the other Peak Lords would collapse in a screaming fit if Shen Yuan tried to wear anything more fitting than his assortment of robes. Hell, Yuan Qingyuan wouldn’t even look at him when Shen Qingqiu’s robes tore at the mid-calf during an argument at a budget meeting. A modified array stitched into a bag, maybe a tent?

Luo Binghe is motionless at Shen Qingqiu’s side, a restless energy thrumming through his limbs. He’s grown slightly since Shen Yuan’s last notice, his limbs overly long on his slight teenage frame, promising broad shoulders and a powerful build in the future, if Shen Yuan is alive long enough to notice it.

“An explosion would require luck to function correctly,” Ming Fan argues, leaning around the bulk of the students separating himself from Shen Qingqiu. “Too many factors could influence the direction and strength of the explosion, and if our spy is uncovered then the enemy will have additional resources to use against us!”

Shen Qinqiu chances a glance at Luo Binghe, a tip of the lashes, nothing more. The boy’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, his gaze locked onto the pieces, and then beyond them. Excellent.

“Both are excellent and worthy points to consider when counselling a strategy.” The System beeps, some minor fluctuation in Luo Binghe’s happiness at someone else being praised. Shen Qingqiu ignores it. “Luo Binghe. You have an idea.”

Not a question, a statement, an expectation, everything that Shen Yuan hated when one of his private tutors inflicted it on him — fractions laid out between the beeps of his heart monitor like some specially constructed torture — but it is a delight to use so he can look past it. Just.

“It is the hill, Shizun.” Luo Binghe chews his lower lip, his shoulders rounded beneath his ears. “Beyond it is farmland. If the hill is destroyed, then their lands will flood in the coming season. They will have no crops, the victorious army will struggle for food in the upcoming months.”

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu grins, breaking his carefully crafted facade for a moment, a singular instance to inspire his students to work hard in the future. He leans forward, his sleeve gathered in his free hand so it doesn’t hit Ning Yingying’s well-aimed pout, and nudges the figures to one side with his fan. Not bad for someone who used to only play Risk online and quit after a few  easy games.

“It’s important to keep this in mind. As strategists, you are not just planning for the immediate moment, but for the future.” Shen Qingqiu punctuates by snapping his fan open, hiding his satisfied smile behind it. There’s a strange gleam in Luo Binghe’s eyes, a look of such intense focus that the beeping of the System in celebration can’t negate the chill running down Shen Yuan’s spine.

Note: Binghe in the future turns up after the Abyss with his well-detailed plans for their wedding and joint tombstone: as you taught me, Shizun <3

[yandere-fetish]

Story Thought 💭

I've had this story idea since 2019 but I haven't had time. Here's a sneak peak. Should I continue or nah?

warnings: kidnap, yandere, possesive

Jacques is pronounced Jocks in French, but is pronounced in English as Jah-k-x.

"Where are we going?"

It was dark inside of his house as he led me down the stairs in the dark. I was slightly afraid since this was my first time over at his house. His hand was securely in mine as he grabbed a hold of my waist with his other.

"Jacques?"

"It's okay, baby. Trust me," his voice was smooth and soft as he whispered those words into my ear. Swallowing a giggle, I nod my head. "Good girl," his thick accent made me squeamish as he wrapped his arms around my waist and leaned his chin onto my shoulder blade.

His torso felt so nice on my back as he curled up to me from behind. I let a smile glide onto my face as he led me to the garage— from what I assumed. He had pulled me to a stopping point and I began to reach out for something. Before I knew what was happening, he was gliding me into the garage.

The coldness bit at my skin, making me shiver from the feeling. "Jacques, why is it so dark in—"

I was pushed onto a car. A gasp left my mouth as I felt the coldness of the car touch my naked skin. The clothes I had on were somewhat helpful with the cold. Before I had time to adjust to the temperature of the metal, I felt Jacques in front of me. His lips caught mine as he grabs my legs and hoisted me up onto the trunk of the car that I have yet to see.

I was so taken aback by the kiss that I had let Jacques' tongue into my mouth. I gasped at the feeling and let out a sound when he pulled me closer to his body, kissing me harder. When he pulled away, I barely knew how to react. Jacques had taken my first kiss.

What do you even do after having your first kiss?

"You're the one, (Y/N)." Jacques said in that perfect French accent. "And you're all mine," he kissed me once more before I felt him pull his hands behind my back.

Rope bound around my wrists and I pull away from Jacques. I was about to say something when he finished with the rope and gagged me. My eyes widened at his sudden act. I was soon blindfolded. I began kicking my feet as much as I could and tried to make as much noise as I could. However, I knew no one was going to hear me.

Jacques picked me off of the hood once he was able to tie my ankles together. I tried moving as much as I could, but as soon as I was placed in the backseat of the car, I started to cry. I felt his lips on my noise as he caressed my cheek with his slender fingers.

"Don't worry, mon amour," his accent was rich and made a shiver run down my spine, "I'm bringing you home."

Teenager (Y/N) has no idea what life has in store for her. She is a normal teenager with an attitude and worries. But for some reason, she can never land a date. And she doesn't really want to either.

On the first day back from winter break, there's a new kid in school and he's in her French class. But get this, he's French. He had the accent, the style, and the chivalry down to a T.

He's the perfect gentleman.

So when he suddenly takes interest in her, she doesn't know what to think. And the fact that she's failed on one test in French, doesn't help her at all.

And so the tutoring of French begins!

But when Jacques confesses that he likes her, he tutors her for free. It's all fun and games until she's kidnapped by him and shipped across the world.

Now (Y/N) must deal with his bitter ex-lover, the siblings, and the French culture.

Oh, and let's not forget the fact that his parents are the ones who want more grandchildren. Now.

[omgfangirlland]

Btw I did great on the exams I A++ them

So question, About Dami and perhaps Jon, is there gonna be a 'healthy' relationship between them? Is Damian gonna pursue a relationship with Reader? Is he gonna be 'nice' ? I need to know

Plus points if Jon is dragged along (I just love the cinnamon roll he is)

Or so, how do you plan their relationship to be.

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

Thing number two, about the chap 15 sneak peak about Dick, I gotta know if there's gonna be beef between the Grayson's as in Dick vs Mark, is our big old bro Mark gonna get mad? Jealous even?, that some random dude that put his baby sister aside is claiming to be biologically related to their sister? Or what did you exactly meant by the sneak peak..... It's About Dick right? Or I'm getting lost?

(I'm just to invested)

-your favorite Nameless💜 Anon

OMG IM SO HAPPY FOR YOU, GOOD JOB!!!!

Well- he'll definitely go out of his way to meet reader, and Damian will be nicer, he's not the same "I need to prove my worth via killing anyone who stands in my way" 10 year old, the boy is going to be 16-17, and Jon will definitely make more appearances. Will it be healthy? We'll live and we'll see :))) dami/jon romance wise, I honestly haven't thought. It'll be a slow happening in the story as a bg thing if I decide to go that route. I feel like they rub off on each other, right? Dami became softer to others and learning to voice his feelings in a better way because of Jon and Jon growing a backbone and more sarcastic due to Damian- I strongly imagine Damian as a morticia/gomez type of lover so the obsessive love is already there. Hmm, hmhmhm, thoughts to consider further.

Yeah, Jason is the one! It's okay, no worries, it happens 💚 oh, Mark and Dick will have mad beef(trying not to spoil stuff very much cuz I have this thing somewhat planned out but eveytime someone asks I am so close, fighting demons, cuz I'm excited to tell :))) ) like just from what batsis told Debbie, Nolan and Mark, they already have this superiority over the bats, they're the better family, the better Grayson, this other Grayson barging in trying to take you? Trying to fix what he fucked up?

Mark is becoming a rabid ankle bitter, and Debbie is debating buying a gun. Nolan is just waiting in the shadows. Not to murder, nah, that's the old him. He wants to do psychological damage now. Oliver would be too small for a while, but he'll remember.

Mark will see a glimpse of the man and immediately remembers every little thing Dick did, every event of batsis he missed. Dick breathes too much in your direction? "Oh, remember her high-school graduation party? It was so beautiful, all the family and her friends gathered and she was smiling so much- oh. Wait, right, you weren't even present at her kindergarten graduation." Mark will become a menace, specifically to Dick.

Thank you for reading my story 😭💚 take care, and I hope to see you grace my inbox again 💚💚💚

[naeverse]

The Beast Within (1/2)

~ Ｖｉｃｅ ＃１ ~

𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 

(𝐎𝐜𝐭. 𝟏-𝟔)

----

𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦: 

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘰�� 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 

-

"𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘴 '𝘐.'"

Ｍｕｓｉｃ：

“𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴” - 𝘐𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘓𝘢𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘢

“𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬” - 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰

Art was found on Pinterest.

All credit goes to the original artists, designers, and photographers.

🐻staring: Beast!Miguel O’Hara x Explorer Fem!Reader

      ✒️preview: 

He cleared his throat, crouching down to your level as you sat on the edge of his bed. “My body is craving a new mate, little twig,” he bluntly stated, his face full of seriousness.

“I haven’t cared about mating in a long while, but you’ve reawakened the urge,” he explained, his hands constantly seeking to touch you, now running along your arms. “So for my… price,” Miguel’s eyes locked onto yours, taking in your emotions that were hard for him to read.

“I want to mate with you, humanita.”

❄️summary: The Monster of the Great Mountains was a tale that spread far and wide—a story of a creature that slaughtered anyone who dared enter the snowy peaks of the Great Mountains. Fueled by the growing fear propagated by the media, you decided to take on this legend. As a supernatural explorer, you sought out hauntings, monsters, and creepy artifacts, determined to prove to the world that they were simply tales told in the dark—nothing more. 

But with your latest discovery, you may soon find that not every story is just a story.

🖤tw/cw: Big Dick Miguel, Blood (Just a smidge), Body Worship, Cock Bulge, Claiming, Cunninglius, Dirty Talk, Gore, Marking, Multiple Organisms, Non-human AU, Olfactophilia, Oral Sex, Ownership, Pussy Worship, Scent Kink, Size Kink, Size Different, Riding, Violence, many more…

🏔️Pet names: Gusano (Worm), Humanita (Little Human), Terca (Stubborn One) 

     📘Rating: 18+ explicit I SMUT I

 🤎 Word Count: 11k words 

Crunch…

Crunch…

Crunch…

The snow cried out beneath the heavy footsteps of the beast. His narrowed eyes glared out into the snowy landscape of the Great Mountains, his home—a place that would never be taken away from him.

It was the middle of winter, the harsh snow season, as the bear beast knew it best.

The chilled breeze rustled his dark brown fur, threatening to send him shivering if it weren't for his heavy coat. His massive form stomped through the snow when his nose caught the scent of…

Smoke…

A deadly growl erupted from him.

Smoke in the Great Mountains meant fire, and fire meant…

Humans…

The bear despised the weak, inferior creatures known as mankind. They were a species that never seemed to die and held a craving that could never be sated, like a crackling, hungry fire in the lowest pits of hell.

Being the guardian of the Great Mountains, Miguel followed the scent. His once slow pace quickened into a run. The beast's massive form was unbothered by the ankle-high snow, trudging through it until the bitter smell was so potent he could taste it on his tongue.

Crouching down, he peered over the hill, spotting a man below, setting up camp. Miguel snarled, watching the human not care at all about how he handled the beast’s sacred land.

Soot from the smoke covered the ground; metal cans lay crumbled while the stupid human babbled and stumbled amongst the garden of aluminum he had created at his feet.

“Foolish, puny human.” 

The beast thought, irritated by the man's obliviousness. Moving from his place, Miguel made his way to the intoxicated man below.

The putrid scent of alcohol, sweat, and piss engulfed the bear, causing a low growl to erupt from his chest. Drool trickled down from his fangs, hungry to rip the human to shreds for plaguing his mountain with their wretched existence and, worse still, for roaming along his lands like they owned it.

With almost silent footsteps, despite his huge size, Miguel approached the slurring man from behind. The wind masked his presence as the human stood, pants drawn low and his puny cock out, pissing upon the ground, turning the once white snow a grotesque yellow.

Without uttering a word or growl, the beast's large hand ripped through the air, grasping the man by the nape and yanking him around to face him.

“What are you doing here in my lands!?” the monster bellowed, his fangs protruding from his mouth and his mahogany eyes darkening in blood rage.

Startled, the man babbled while being held off the ground by his throat like a mere doll, trying to explain in a drunken slur. “H-holy shit! I-i-it's you, the f-fucking…” The human stammered in shock from where he dangled in the air. Miguel’s grip on the man’s throat tightened, causing him to scramble in his hold.

“You will answer me, debilucho!” the bear hollered. “What are you doing in my lands?”

“E-Exploration!” he cried out in terror, his voice cracking as he trembled.

The bear’s nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, body heat rising beyond its usual warm temperature as the human continued. “U-uh…a-a colleague and I w-were sent to explore th-”

A loud roar erupted from the depths of the beast's chest, ringing out through the mountains and instantly bringing soberness back to the fool, silencing him.

Miguel tugged him close, the scent of cold, musk, and wet fur invading the man’s senses. “You humans are a plague,” the beast uttered, the venom unmistakable in his voice. “A sickness that seeks to taint everything it touches.” Miguel growled, his eyes glancing at the filth of bottles and cans the man had left upon the snow; the sight only fueling his fury.

His claws dug into the man’s throat, breaking skin as he held him against the tree's trunk. The human’s tears, screams of agony, and drunken pleas were nothing to the beast; his heart froze solid, just like the snowy hills of the Great Mountains. “If your kind wishes to continue to infect—continue to seek claim of the Great Mountains—my mountains,” the bear snarled, warm blood from the human beginning to stream down his nails and forearms, dripping onto the snow, painting it red.

“I'll happily rip every single one of you apart until the Great Mountains know no other taste but human blood.”

The beast promised in a menacing hiss, determination and bloodlust gleaming in his eyes. The human wheezed in response, hands grabbing at the creature’s arms in desperation to cease the monster’s deadly grip, but his attempts were no use.

The beast watched the lowly being struggle, seeking to breathe air and escape death, despite staring it directly in the face.

Just like all the others…

With a harsh yank of the man’s throat, the beast tore the sensitive flesh from its base, causing blood to spurt everywhere and killing the weak being in a matter of seconds.

With indifference, Miguel watched the liquid soak his pecs and fur a deep red, the warmth of the kill like fresh air in his lungs.

‘Another sacrifice for the Great Mountains is all these wretched beings are good for,’ he thought, dropping the piece of flesh along with the body onto the snow like bloody venison after a hunt.

“When will these humans learn? The Great Mountains will never be for them for as long as I draw breath,” he muttered, clenching his fists that were still drenched in the corpse's deep red essence.

The man's previous words were all senseless speech to the beast; however, one thing he spoke of did pique his interest…

“Another human? Here?” His eyes darkened in anger, the familiar rage rising in him once more. “Just like the others, they’ll meet their end, by my hand or the mountains,” he rasped, knowing that the sacred lands of the Great Mountains, like him, didn't take kindly to outsiders—especially the weak.

As quickly as he appeared, he stalked off, stomping over the fire and snuffing the flames underfoot, disappearing into the thick fog once more.

You heaved a sigh, stumbling through the heaps of endless snow for what felt like hours, your heavy gear crushing your poor back. “Gosh, did Greg set up camp yet? I swear that guy can’t do a thing without help,” you muttered, looking around to try and find the familiar warm glow of a fire amidst the foggy cold, but found none.

The Great Mountains loomed around you, their peaks lost in the thick, swirling mist. The snow crunched under your boots with each step, a huge contrast to the muffled silence. Pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, you groaned in annoyance.

‘Did he seriously get drunk again? He had one job!’ you thought, kicking the bothersome snow at your feet, knowing that giving such an important task to your careless colleague was a bad idea; it’s why you always did things yourself.

Trusting others always led to disappointment…

With your newfound situation, you didn't want to stress—worrying never helped—but you were certain of one thing…

Greg's mistake was going to cost you…

This was why you enjoyed working alone. No partner meant no one to bother you—no one to burden you. 

Like Greg…

Due to your colleague's drunken oversight leaving you stranded, you set about making camp. “When I was assigned to work with Greg, I should have persisted, told my boss, ‘I work better alone,’ but no, they wanted photos, and apparently, I can't journal and take photos at the same time,” you grumbled to yourself while locating the appropriate items to make a fire: dry sticks, paper from your heavy bag, and your trusty lighter.

With a flick of your igniter and a gentle blow between clasped palms, a fire was born before you. You beamed, watching the small flames start to sprout, proud of your handiwork. “Perfect,” you whispered, closing your eyes to enjoy the heat on your face, no matter how faint it was due to the tiny fire.

Taking a seat upon a log nearby your miniature camp, you settled down. Heaving your heavy sack from your back onto the ground with a thud, a groan escaped you at the refreshing lightness of your body. You glanced back at your pitiful fire, watching it try painstakingly to flare and spark despite the harsh winds that sought to snuff it out.

You stoked the fire with a stick, hoping it would keep the flame alive. “Come on, don’t fail me now,” you sighed, knowing your survival skills were exceptional and always dependable; they had never failed you. But it seemed any minute, your fire might disappoint you and poof before your very eyes.

Around you, the fog seemed to thicken, swallowing the world beyond a few feet and darkening the space. The sky was a mixture of grays and blues, seeming to be perpetually stuck between dusk and midnight. Shadows grew long and sinister as you huddled close to your small fire, its flickering light casting erratic shapes upon the snow.

Amidst the silence and fog, your fire was a comfort, keeping your sight clear and your body from freezing solid underneath your puffy jacket, layered pants, and heavy boots. You’d hoped that as the night progressed, the fog would lift, but it didn’t. With the heavy haze came a wave of uneasiness, one that drew you back to the reason you were here in the Great Mountains to begin with.

The Great Mountains—a land of snowy slopes with year-round winters and sometimes terrible blizzards—held a story that seemed to rattle many, especially the neighboring townsfolk. The tales were so enticing that they caught your eye, leading you to embark on this exploration in search of it…

The being in question went by many names: “The Monster of the Great Mountains,” “The White Walker,” and so many more, but to you, it was known simply as “The Beast.”

The beast’s appearance and origins are unknown. Some believe it to be an angry creature like Bigfoot; a few think of it as a rabid animal gone mad; others even suspect it to be an evil spirit cursed to roam the Great Mountains, killing anyone who enters its territory.

‘Yeah, right.’ You thought with a scoff, finding the idea absurd. Despite not knowing what the beast was, the Great Mountains seemed to be a death zone for any being, particularly humans.

Numerous missing hikers, tourists, and other individuals have emerged over the years, raising enough alarm to support the idea of such an “entity” living among the peaks. ‘As they say…’ you whispered, believing the beast to be merely a tale and that the weather of the Great Mountains was the true monster here.

Unzipping your bag to pull out a pen and your trusty leather-bound journal—where your writings from previous discoveries were kept—you turned to a fresh page and began a new entry.

---

October 6, 2024

The climate of the Great Mountains is just as harsh and chilly as it’s known for; no wonder so many have lost their lives here. There’s said to be a tale about a creature—a being that lurks among these mountains with a ravenous hunger and a huge disdain for humans. I would believe such a monster existed if I hadn't traversed these mountains for almost two days in perfect condition, except for being abandoned by my idiot partner and left shivering by this tiny-ass fire.

Thanks a lot, Greg!

The neighboring town spoke of many deaths and missing persons in the Great Mountains over the years, all of which are “claimed” to have been caused by the beast. Yet, the appearance of this creature is never the same.

A handful believe it to be tall and massive, while others describe it as short and stubby. Some say there is more than one beast, while another swears it isn’t a monster at all, but simply the dead who are doing the killings.

It seems these townspeople are either bat-shit crazy or there are hundreds of beasts running rampant in their backyard—beasts that, it seems, only I have the capability of uncovering the truth about.

But, as I anticipated, Greg and I are separated in these mountains due to his stupidity, and a thick fog has cast itself down upon me. After resting up, I’ll continue my search for this “beast,” but I just hope Greg’s mishap doesn’t ruin my exploration. This beast story has honestly intrigued me, and I’m eager to see this massive, short, tall, tiny, or perhaps ghostly being before my very eyes.

Might even be able to get a picture…

-Y/N, Explorer of the Supernatural

---

You closed your journal with a plop, your thoughts drifting to the stories you’ve heard—tales of the formidable creature with eyes of glowing embers and claws that could rend flesh from bone. You chuckled in disbelief and amusement, shaking your head. “Gosh, if it wasn’t for me, these people would be in an insane asylum with their tales.” You laughed when a shiver ran down your back—one that, creepily enough, wasn’t from the cold.

Your eyes darted around, checking your surroundings with a newfound sense of wariness and unease, something you had never felt before.

Typically, you’d go on expeditions alone, taking on jungles, deserts, and even caves all on your lonesome, as solo exploration was something you enjoyed.

You had become so used to being on your own that partners held you back and made things more difficult than they needed to be, as being an explorer wasn’t easy work.

But this time, something felt…

Off…

Looking out at the foggy abyss before you, your vision was limited to only making out the black silhouettes of the trees in the distance and the falling snow from the heavens above. Your eyebrows furrowed as you giggled nervously. “Come on, don’t lose your mind, Y/N. You’d be no different from those conspiracy theorists if you do,” you uttered, gripping the lapels of your coat and tugging them closer to your body, trying to warm yourself.

The uncomfortable silence, chilly winds, and empty fog made you even more unsettled. You decided to read over your notes in hopes of finding peace, always enjoying anything related to your job.

Plus, you were here to find a beast, so it would be beneficial to refresh your memory on what to be on the lookout for.

Opening your journal and flipping to the section that held the facts about your targeted being, you began to read aloud, mostly to fill the brutal quietness around you and comfort yourself.

“‘The townsfolk speak of hearing loud, gruff roars from the mountains,’” you read from the first bullet point, humming softly to yourself. “So that rules out being a wolf, fox, or coyote,” you murmured, the cold air escaping your lips and circling your head while the small fire crackled softly in the background.

“‘Only two deceased victims were found to be tied to this entity. Their bodies held massive bite and claw marks. One was missing an arm from the shoulder and had a face so disfigured they were unrecognizable. This individual died from the blunt trauma to the head that shattered the skull,’” you said with a grimace, remembering the photos shown to you during your visit to the morgue where the bodies were examined.

“‘The other was so brutally attacked that hardly any of their limbs were intact. They died from shock and blood loss—’” Your words instantly ceased, your attention snapping to the small fire that had just blown out in the wind, encasing you in hazy darkness and arctic chill once again.

“Damn it.” You cursed, your vision completely obscured by the thick fog. The temperature seemed to drop as the wind picked up, blowing cold, harsh breezes at you that made your face numb. “Gosh, I can't see anything,” you chattered, your hand wandering aimlessly until it brushed against your bag, where you hastily tucked your journal in and zipped it up.

Suddenly, a thunderous, monstrous roar resonated through the night, cutting through the silence mercilessly like a blade slicing the air. The sound made your body tense, your head snapping up in shock, believing you must have heard wrong.

‘Goodness, hallucinations now? Don't tell me I have hypothermia,’ you thought, willing to believe your impending death by freezing rather than the existence of a being you deemed nothing more than fiction.

But no matter how much you tried to convince yourself this beast was false, your chilled blood, racing heart, hyperventilation, and fear were very much real.

You needed to move—get away from this spot that obviously had attracted an animal of some sort and not some savage creature…

Scrambling off the log, your heavy limbs dragged you down due to the freezing temperature as you began to move again. The snow seemed to deepen, your boots sinking into the chilling depths further than your ankle with every step you took. The wind lashed against your face, striking you like a cold whip each time and sending you shivering.

In a matter of minutes, you discovered the reason behind the developing currents…

A blizzard had descended upon you…

The blizzard howled across the Great Mountains, a storm so furious that it began to blur your world into a frosted nightmare. The gusts sliced at you like a thousand ice shards, stinging and stabbing through your layers of clothing. Raising your arm, you tried desperately to shield your face; yet the cruelty of the storm was relentless, causing the freezing air to seep through every barrier and continue its assault.

Your teeth chattered, fingers feeling numb under your gloves, and muscles stiffened to the point that moving became painful. ‘Come on. Move. Just a little further.’ You persisted, the thought of a mere snowfall being the potential death of you, Y/N, the renowned supernatural explorer, left a foul taste in your mouth.

You walked aimlessly, not knowing where you were going, nor having any sights of the direction you were wandering toward, as visibility was nearly impossible.

The blizzard continued, churning a cyclone of snow and wind, whipping the flakes into a swirling vortex that made it hard to discern what was right, left, or even ahead. The storm’s bellowing seemed to come from all around—a dissonance that drowned out all sounds but its own, soon making even thinking impossible.

Your breathing became labored, your throat dangerously dry, and your vision blurry as your chest felt so heavy one would believe a boulder was slowly smothering you. Stumbling over a lump of snow, you crashed onto your knees, falling onto the cold pile of powdered ice.

A sharp pain shot through your dying limbs, awakening all your senses. “F-Fuck!” you gasped, wincing and groaning. You shivered uncontrollably, certain even your blood was running cold. Wheezing, you cradled yourself, trying to bring any form of warmth to your body that was slowly being killed by the blizzard.

Looking up, you found yourself wishing, hoping for rescue from anyone out there to come and save you from your cold grave—and like a miracle, one did.

Through the chaos, you caught a glimpse of something—a human-like figure emerging from the fog!

Your heart skipped a beat, dull eyes widening as you weakly lifted your arms, waving them to try to get their attention from your kneeling position. “H-Help! Help me! Please!” you croaked out in a voice so hoarse and ensnared in coldness that it was painful to shout, but cry out you did.

Relief flooded through you as you saw them turning and walking toward you. But as quickly as you were alleviated, fear struck back into you like a clap of thunder as you watched the human-like figure transform among the fog, realizing that it wasn’t a human after all.

It was a monster…

An enormous silhouette moved with unnatural grace through the blizzard. The shape was massive—a dark, looming figure that confirmed every terrifying tale, theory, and story you had ever heard about the beast.

Your heart pounded, a primal fear gripping you at the creature’s presence as it slowly approached, its existence undeniable.

‘It’s real!? I was wrong, so fucking wrong!’ You could only think over and over again. The sight of it was more horrifying than any story, causing an overwhelming feeling of dread to engulf you.

Astonishment and terror kept you rooted to your spot, unable to move no matter how much you wanted to, only able to stare at the creature that was walking toward you in the distance, getting closer and closer.

A roar, similar to before, erupted through the hazy night from the monster, and you watched in horror as it broke into a sprint, racing right at you.

Scurrying onto your wobbly legs, you took off in the opposite direction, the bellowing having broken you from your petrified state.

Your heart raced in your chest, the once-chilling needles of ice that pricked your skin now the least of your worries. Your heavy sack smacked against your back, but you could hardly feel the growing bruise, fear and the need to escape consuming your thoughts.

You ran and continued to run, believing any stumble or trip could leave you maimed like the two victims ever recovered from the mountains. The images of the maimed face, missing limbs, and brutal displays filled your head, only pushing your weak legs further.

However, no matter how fast you sprinted, you felt terribly slow.

The fog seemed to close around you, seeking to entrap you in its chilling haze, but you pressed on. Kicking your leg out and down, leg out and down, leg out and down. Each step felt like plunging your feet into cold quicksand, icy hands tugging you down, making it seem like you had hardly made any progress at all.

The wind grew louder, more chaotic, seeking to match your panicked state. It whipped, turned, and tore about, shouting in pained shrieks.

You couldn't hear him, didn't want to see him, but you knew he was there—charging behind you like a bull, the blizzard just a mere breeze to him, oh, you were certain.

Your heart raced, compelling you to go, get farther, move, despite how hard or quickly you appeared to be going; you were sure he was right behind you.

A thunderous sound from in front of you made you come to a halt. Wide-eyed, you looked through the mist, trying to find the source, believing it to be him.

‘No, no, no, what is happening!?’ you thought in a panic, stepping back on unsteady feet. ‘He can’t be here, not that quickly, not that—’ Your heart dropped, all the blood draining from your body like life escaping a man's eyes.

You felt the ground tremble beneath you, shaking as though something massive was coming—something big.

Before you could react, a wave of snow parted the thick fog, coming right at you. Your heart dropped as you watched the avalanche of snow surge violently, sweeping you off your feet in seconds and engulfing you in a torrent of white.

Like an unforgiving wave, you were tossed about haphazardly, the world becoming a chaotic blur of freezing snow.

Desperation overwhelmed your senses, but the storm’s ferocity and the avalanche’s cruel force left you feeling little hope.

The blizzard, the beast, and now the avalanche left you in a nightmare that you were sure would end in only one way…

‘I can’t die here.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I can’t.’

Was the only thought that surfaced—a chant echoing throughout your mind until your entire world faded into darkness.

A/N: Terrible way to leave it off, I know lol, but it's Vicetober—the anticipation is supposed to be torture. I hope you all enjoyed the first part of The Beast Within! I also tried a new look for my story while participating in this mini event with my older sis, @powerful-niya, so let me know if you like it!

If you're hyped for this event and can't bear another moment to get your paws on the next part of The Beast Within, be sure to like, comment, reblog, and follow!

Hope you all have a wonderful day and stay safe!

🐻Click here for the finale:

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[ravenssilver]

first time posting on here, very nervous :’)

Phantom/Aeon hurt, no comfort, if you please.

He watched from afar, something he had grown accustomed to over the last 8 months.

The pack laughed with each other, spent time together, held each other. And where was he if not in the shadows, his lilac eyes hyper analyzing every movement through wet eyelashes.

He watched the way that Rain, Swiss, and Dew huddled together on a big lovesac—the way that Mountain had his tail twined with Dew’s yet held all the ghoulettes in his arms.

Aurora in his lap.

Aurora with the pack.

Aurora bathing in the light of love and acceptance.

He should be bitter. He should be resentful and angry for being tossed aside. And he was, for a while.

But then he wasn’t.

Aeon watched as Swiss pressed little kisses to Rain’s jaw, worshiping his skin with little love bites as Dew kneaded at his stomach, happy purrs coming from their trio.

His heart ached as he watched the way Aurora’s hair was braided by Cumulus, Cirrus’ hands gently caressing her body, her nails following the trail of the borealis-esque flows of color that was set in her skin. The Quint’s nose twitched as he smelled the lavender coming from Mountain, lulling the girls in his arms to sleep as a deep purr rumbled low in his chest.

His heart ached at the way he stood there for seven whole minutes without being noticed once. His scent of smoked ozone filtered through his own nose, his pain quickly overpowering the calming lavender of Mountain’s ever shifting element.

Aeon turned on his heel and silently walked back to his room, his ankles aching with the bitter cold of the stone floor, the rug having been all tousled up with the excitement of the pack rushing to get a cuddle pile together.

His tail drooped, the spade dragging along behind him as he gave up on holding posture.

Aeon woke up with a start, feeling as if something was wrong. His eyes ached as he scanned his room, his mind slowly processing how the sun was up and peaking through his curtains from high in the sky.

He sighed, feeling his heart sink with the weight of all the angst he felt as his body sagged back into his bed. Aeon’s eyes remained open as he scanned his room, searching for some reason to not let himself fall back asleep just to pass the time and get this day over with.

He saw his blank white walls, his dresser, his helmet and his boots, his guitar, his desk-

Aeon jolted upright and flung himself out of bed, rushing to get himself dressed into his uniform. He stumbled into the wall as he dragged his pants on, hissing when his heel accidentally came down on the spade of his tail. Aeon stumbled forward into his dresser to get the pressure off of his tail, groaning at the ache and in annoyance when his elbow slammed into the old wood.

He shook himself off and glanced at the digital clock, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to remember if it looked the way it normally did when he had to go to practice. The numbers made no sense to him, and he had no names for the lines on the clock, the only thing in his mind was a desperate hope that he wasn’t late.

He scrambled to get his boots and helmet on, not sparing himself a glance in the mirror before he rushed out of his room and down the corridor, his knees aching as he pushed himself to run to the practice room.

As soon as Aeon walked into the big room, he ran right into an overly hot body. He looked up from the floor when he heard a low, familiar growl, his eyes flashing with a mix of emotions when he saw Dewdrop glaring right back at him.

“I’m sor-“

“Get your guitar. We started 10 minutes ago.” Dew grumbled, his tail flicking as he adjusted how his guitar rested on his shoulders. He turned away from Aeon and went back to his position in the practice room, scoffing at something Rain said to him in passing.

Suddenly grateful for his helmet, Aeon tilted his head down as an embarrassed flush heated up his face. He walked over to his Fantomen and hauled it up to hang from his body, his hands shaking as he plucked the strings to make sure it was in tune.

“Everyone ready?” Copia asked, his mismatched eyes scanning the eight ghouls in the room.

Aeon nodded, ignoring how badly he wanted to put his guitar right back down and run back to the summoning room to beg to be sent back to the pit.

Aeon was alone again. His hands trembled with exhaustion, the joints in his fingers locking with how overworked they were. He sobbed as he flubbed a note in Watcher for the seventh time, his body doubling over his guitar as he finally gave up.

Aeon’s shoulders wracked with sobs. He tossed his guitar down to the floor, whining at the immediate guilt that flooded his system from the stupid action. Despite his wails, his curled into himself, burying his nose into his knees as he continued to shake like a leaf.

His heart hurt.

He felt his soul starting to wither, the empty sighs of abandonment starting to take their toll on his very being. His resolve crumbled, his need for connection becoming so strong that he could do nothing but bawl, knowing how his pack couldn’t feel his pain. They couldn’t smell his anguish, they couldn’t see how his eyes dimmed with every passing moment, or how his posture slouched more and more every day.

They didn’t see. They didn’t sense. They didn’t even care.

Aeon was alone, and that was that.

[dont-f-with-moogles]

Alright. For your NSFW requests. Can you do something with Levi, where you’re having a really shit day and all you want is for Levi to fuck the life out of you? That’s all I got at the moment. I’m a sucker for “I’m mad so fuck me” sex.

Smut Scribbles 26: "I want you to ruin me."

Bad Habit (NSFW) Characters: Levi x Reader Word Count: 775 words

Fiercely, Levi yanked your leg to his heaving chest, lifting your hips up so that he could sink his weight into you. Beneath him, your head was thrown back against the pillows, his name escaping you in strangled gasp. Insatiable, Levi pushed deeper, more insistently into you. Strangely, he found he was no longer concerned about the noise you were both making.

You hadn’t been expecting company that night. It seemed as though hours had passed as you had sat upon the lounge chair in your room, eyes glazed. You had been too exhausted to cry any more bitter tears. You stared at nothing; your body bowed forward so that one elbow rested upon your knee. Fretfully, you gnawed upon a bitten-down nail. One ugly thought surfaced, then another rose to take its place. Increasingly dark contemplations were emerging, leaping over one another; giving persistent chase around your mind. 

A sharp knock had brought you back to your surroundings. Hastily rubbing your face, you approached the door. There was Levi, concern tightening his expression as his eyes searched your face. Of course, he had heard about what had happened today. Yet, the last thing you sought was his kindness. It was far worse than his contempt. You glanced over his shoulder first one way, then the other up the darkened corridor.

“Did anyone see you?” 

“No…” Levi raised his eyebrows. He folded his arms, but did not cross the threshold. You turned your back to the doorway. There came the sound of a click.

“I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”

You coughed out a tearless sigh as Levi dropped his arms to his sides. He offered a half-shrug. You returned to your chair. Hesitantly, Levi made a brief motion as though he was about to leave again. Instead, with a gentle thud, he kicked off his boots by the door and took a seat beside you.

“No one’s making you talk.”

Exhausted, you sank against him. Your cheek rested on the collar of his jacket.

“This fucking day has been…” Your voice was hoarse. You gestured uselessly, buckled under the weight of such weariness. "I just want to forget it."

“I know,” came Levi’s reply, filled with doubtless reassurance. Beside you, he was real and solid and warm. For a moment, your pain wasn’t entirely insurmountable. Shifting slightly against him, your forehead rested against Levi’s chin. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Want me to stay?”

As his fingers tucked your hair away from your neck, you released your breath slowly. Levi had remained still then. You turned your head towards him. He did not move away. Then you gently brushed your lips against his.

"Levi..."

"Tell me." His fingers traced your chin, his breath lingering on your mouth.

“I..." You gazed at him, your heart beating with such fervour that you could feel its pulse in your throat.

"...I want you to fuck me. Right here. I want you to ruin me, Levi.”

You were both still learning each other’s patterns, rhythms, inclinations but, increasingly, your bodies were no longer strangers to one another. It was becoming easy to undress each other; safe to lose yourselves completely. It was becoming a habit.

Now your head was pressed into the pillows scattered upon your bed. Your legs were draped over Levi’s shoulders, so slick with sweat that they were slipping out of place. Levi’s hand clutched your ankle firmly. You were lost to an all-engrossing heat; one that was building so sharply, so agonising close. You hardly noticed when Levi’s fingers threaded through your own, gripping your hands as his thrusts became more desperate. 

Your whole body rocked on a wave of ecstasy. As the sensation crested to its peak, you choked out a few incoherent words between sobs. Heat flared within you. Every muscle in your body clenched. And then, the sting of pleasure was ebbing away. 

Levi’s movements were slowing. His eyes were closed; brow slightly furrowed in concentration; his cheeks flushed. Dark hair stood up, uncharacteristically unruly. Your chest pulled tight. You slid your hands up Levi’s back and into his dishevelled hair. Breathless words left you in a sigh. Levi’s body tensed. He drew back enough to look down at where you lay beneath him. Your eyes were half-closed; lips parted.

You knew he would not answer. Not until he was sure of what he had heard. Both of you shared the same secret but were too afraid to reveal it.

You took Levi’s warm face in your hands. Your lips met silently, softly. You held him there, and Levi showed no inclination to draw himself away, or to continue moving against you.  He was still inside you; stomachs pressed together; skin warming one another, as he kissed you again. Your bodies moulded naturally, as though they were made for only this. As though they could remain this way for the rest of your days.   ... Thanks for this, Bee! Because I’m such Levihan trash I’ve also written a Levi x Hange version here.

I’m taking NSFW head canons, so fill me up! 👉 Smut Scribbles 

[cynic-spirit]

Little sun i

sergei x reader

Sergei Kravinoff, known simply as Kraven in the shadows of the underworld, is a towering figure at 6'4", with piercing brown eyes that seem to hold a predator's intensity. His jet-black hair, often tied back or left wild, frames a face chiseled with sharp angles, a testament to years of hardship and survival. Every sinew of his well-built, muscular frame tells the story of a man forged in adversity, honed by struggle, and sharpened by conquest.

Orphaned as a boy, Sergei grew up on the fringes of society, learning to survive through sheer cunning and raw determination. His early life was a saga of perpetual movement; he traversed continents as a stowaway, slipping aboard cargo ships and trains, living in the alleyways of major cities across Europe and Asia. By his late adolescence, he had tasted the air of every major metropolis, mastering their streets, their languages, and their secrets.

In the heart of his travels, Sergei encountered an enigmatic shaman in the depths of Siberia who introduced him to a series of herbal potions said to awaken the primal instincts of man. The potions, bitter and potent, transformed Sergei from a clever survivor into something more—something unstoppable. They enhanced his natural abilities, granting him superhuman strength, speed, and agility. He could lift two tons with ease, sprint short distances at a blinding 60 miles per hour, and leap over obstacles with a standing broad jump of 20 feet. His stamina allowed him to exert peak effort for an unparalleled half-hour before fatigue set in. These powers, combined with the potion's ability to halt his aging, left him in the prime physical condition of a 30-year-old man, despite his advanced years.

But Sergei did not merely survive; he thrived. Over decades, he built an empire in the shadows. Rising from the gutters to the pinnacle of power, Sergei became a mafia lord whose name was spoken with reverence and fear. His wealth grew vast, his influence far-reaching, and his reputation as an undefeated titan in both physical and strategic combat became legend. Rivals who underestimated him found themselves crushed under his iron will, while allies basked in his unyielding protection.

Kraven’s presence alone commands respect; his movements are predatory, his voice low and resonant, like a lion surveying his domain. He wears his wealth subtly, preferring functionality over ostentation, though the sharpness of his tailored suits and the glint of his timepiece hint at the fortune he controls. Sergei is a man of action, a predator who views the world as his hunting ground and himself as its apex.

While his power makes him the envy of many, it is Sergei's undefeated streak that truly cements his legend. In a world filled with challengers, none have ever toppled him. His cunning, his strength, and his supernatural gifts ensure that Sergei Kravinoff, Kraven the Lord of Shadows, remains a force that no man or faction dares to cross. Yet beneath the veneer of wealth and power lies the soul of a hunter, ever seeking the next challenge, the next conquest, the next prey to keep his blood pumping and his legend alive.

The dimly lit room reeked of damp cement and desperation. Sergei Kravinoff sat bound to a steel chair, his wrists strapped tightly to the cold metal arms, his ankles shackled to the legs. His powerful frame, usually a source of awe, was now a picture of restrained fury, though his expression remained calm, almost indifferent. A single bulb swung overhead, casting erratic shadows on the cracked walls.

Before him stood Viktor Kalenko, a rival whose ambition far outpaced his wisdom. Viktor’s gang had cornered Sergei in an ambush orchestrated through treachery—betrayal by someone close enough to know his routes but foolish enough to believe Viktor could hold him. The prize? A trove of rare gold and diamond jewels Sergei had collected over years of conquests, treasures that were as mythic as the man himself.

"Where is it, Kraven?" Viktor demanded in thickly accented Russian, leaning in close. His greasy hair clung to his forehead as his beady eyes searched Sergei's face for weakness. Sergei said nothing, tilting his head slightly, as though Viktor were a mildly interesting insect buzzing in his face.

Viktor scowled, turning to one of his men. "I thought you said he could speak Russian?"

"He can," the man replied nervously. "At least... I think he can. He doesn’t seem to understand you."

Viktor slapped Sergei’s face, the sound echoing sharply in the room. Sergei barely flinched, his brown eyes locking onto Viktor’s with a quiet, predatory intensity that made the man step back instinctively. "Then we’ll need a translator," Viktor muttered in frustration, switching to English.

Sergei’s ears caught every word, though his face remained blank. Inside, however, he was already calculating. His knowledge of English was a carefully guarded secret, a skill acquired during his years in London, where he’d once lived as a phantom among the aristocracy. Viktor believed Sergei was just another Russian brute, someone whose intelligence was as coarse as his fists. It was a fatal underestimation.

"We’ll bring someone in," Viktor continued, still speaking English. "Someone who can make him understand we’re not playing games. Sergei Kravinoff doesn’t leave this room until he tells us where the treasure is."

One of Viktor’s lackeys, a wiry man with a nervous twitch, spoke up. "But it’ll take time to find someone who speaks both Russian and English. What do we do in the meantime?"

"Keep him tied up. Let him sit there and think about his options." Viktor sneered, glancing back at Sergei and switching to Russian again. "You’re not getting out of this, Kraven. Your empire ends here."

Sergei tilted his head and squinted slightly, pretending to strain for comprehension. He uttered a single word in Russian, flat and uninterested: "What?"

Viktor cursed under his breath. "Get the translator. Now!"

The men filed out, leaving Sergei alone in the room under the flickering light. For the first time, his lips curved into a faint smile. They thought they had the upper hand, believed him to be at their mercy. What they didn’t realize was that every word spoken in English had already given Sergei the blueprint to dismantle their plans.

As the door creaked open again and footsteps echoed toward him, Sergei settled back into his chair. His body remained motionless, but his mind was already hunting. Let them bring their translator. Let them try to interrogate him. The real game had just begun.

The door creaked open, and Sergei’s sharp senses picked up the subtle shuffle of footsteps. Expecting another of Viktor’s bumbling henchmen, his eyes lifted with mild curiosity—then froze when he saw her. She was a stark contrast to the grim room, a sudden vision of light in the oppressive darkness.

She was young, impossibly so. No older than twenty-three, Sergei guessed, her petite frame wrapped in a modest blouse and skirt that spoke of academia rather than violence. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a loose bun, tendrils escaping to frame a face so delicate it seemed out of place in this harsh setting. Her skin had the soft glow of youth, but her expression betrayed fear—a wariness that made her hesitate at the threshold.

Dr. Sylvie Williams. He had caught the name in Viktor’s muttered English instructions, though he hadn’t expected the translator to be a woman, let alone someone like her. She was no hardened criminal, no pawn of Viktor’s design. She was a professor, plucked from the safe, intellectual world of books and classrooms, thrown into this brutal chaos. It was clear to Sergei she didn’t belong here.

Her hands trembled as she stepped inside, clutching a leather satchel against her chest as though it were armor. She blinked rapidly, trying to take in the room, but her wide, terrified eyes kept landing on him. When their gazes finally locked, Sergei felt an unfamiliar flicker in his chest—a subtle, unbidden reaction he hadn’t felt in years. Her innocence, her sheer vulnerability, made his heart flip in a way that startled him.

There was a softness in her hazel eyes that disarmed him, a light that even the shadows of fear couldn’t fully extinguish. She looked at him with a mixture of pity and unease, and for a moment, Sergei forgot where he was, forgot that he was the one tied to the chair. He could see it in her demeanor—the way she shifted uncomfortably under Viktor’s impatient bark—that she had been coerced, likely threatened, into this situation. She didn’t want to be here. She was terrified, yet she stood her ground, shoulders tense but chin raised, trying to mask her fear with a fragile resolve.

Sergei’s gaze softened imperceptibly as he studied her, noting every detail. The slight quiver of her lips, the way her fingers gripped the strap of her satchel so tightly her knuckles whitened. She radiated innocence, but there was something more—a quiet courage beneath her fear, a stubborn resilience that hadn’t yet been broken by Viktor’s thugs.

The brute side of him, the hunter who thrived on power and control, stirred at the thought of someone like her being dragged into this. It was wrong. She didn’t belong in his world, yet here she was, standing in the lion’s den, her every breath betraying how out of place she was. And still, she met his gaze.

For the first time in years, Sergei felt his mask falter. His body may have been strapped to a chair, but his mind was already calculating how to dismantle his enemies. Not for his treasure, not for revenge—this time, it was for her.

Viktor stepped closer to her, his shadow looming over her much smaller frame like a predator circling prey. His voice, sharp and grating, cut through the silence of the room. “Listen to me carefully,” he said, switching to English for her benefit. His tone was laced with menace, his words slow and deliberate, as if savoring the power he wielded over her.

“You will translate everything I say to him into Russian. Every word.” He pointed a finger toward Sergei, whose expression remained unreadable, though his piercing brown eyes followed every movement. “And you will tell me exactly what he says in return. No games. No hesitation. No mistakes.”

Dr. Sylvie Williams flinched slightly but managed a shaky nod. The satchel in her hands acted as her only shield, but her knuckles were white from clutching it so tightly. Her lips parted to respond, but Viktor’s voice grew colder, cutting off any thought of defiance.

“Because if you don’t…” Viktor leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and sour. “You know what will happen. Don’t you?”

Sergei, still strapped to the chair, felt a fire ignite deep within him. His muscles tensed against his restraints, his powerful arms straining slightly against the bindings. Though his face remained composed, a storm brewed behind his eyes. He couldn’t stand the way Viktor towered over her, the way he used his bulk and threats to terrify someone so vulnerable.

“Yes,” she whispered meekly, her voice barely audible. Her eyes darted to Sergei again, as if seeking some reassurance, but quickly flicked away, afraid that prolonged eye contact might anger Viktor.

Sergei’s jaw clenched. His fury was contained but palpable, his predatory instincts clawing to the surface. He knew Viktor was trying to break her spirit, to reduce her to a tool, an obedient pawn in his sadistic game. It was a tactic Sergei himself had used on enemies, but seeing it turned on her made his blood boil.

Sylvie’s shoulders sagged slightly, her defeated posture cutting through the tension like a dagger. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to do this. It was obvious. But Viktor’s threats loomed over her like a guillotine, leaving her no choice.

Sergei swallowed his rage, forcing himself to remain still, calculating. He could feel the pulse of his heartbeat in his wrists, the slow burn of anger building with each passing second. He understood now—this wasn’t just a game to Viktor. It was a power play, a display of dominance meant to break both him and her. But Sergei wouldn’t allow it. Not for her.

Viktor straightened, smirking as though satisfied with her trembling compliance. He gestured to the chair where Sergei sat. “Good. Now, get to work.”

Sylvie’s voice was barely above a whisper, her words trembling as she summoned the courage to speak. “Can I… can I have some water, please?” she asked, her tone polite, almost pleading. Her hazel eyes darted nervously toward Viktor, her shoulders tense as if bracing for his response.

For a fleeting moment, there was silence in the room, the question hanging in the air like a fragile thread. Then Viktor’s face contorted with irritation, and he exploded.

“You’ll have water when you’ve earned it!” he roared, his voice booming and echoing off the cold cement walls. His sudden outburst made her flinch, her entire body recoiling as though the words themselves had struck her. The satchel she held slipped slightly in her grasp, her fingers trembling as she clutched it tighter, trying to ground herself against the rising tide of fear.

“Get it?!” Viktor barked, his sharp tone cutting through the air like a whip. He leaned forward, his towering figure looming over her, savoring her fear. His face twisted into a cruel sneer as she nodded meekly, her head bowing like a child scolded unjustly. “Good,” he spat, stepping back with an air of triumph, as though her compliance was some victory he had earned.

From the corner of the room, Sergei’s chest heaved ever so slightly as he suppressed a surge of anger that threatened to boil over. His muscles tensed against the restraints, the veins in his forearms straining as he gritted his teeth. Viktor’s words and tone ignited something primal in him, a rage so fierce it felt as though it might consume him.

In that instant, Sergei wanted nothing more than to kill Viktor. Not with a gun or a knife—no, that would be too quick, too merciful. He wanted to feel the man’s throat under his hands, to crush the life out of him with the same brutality Viktor wielded against those weaker than him. The predator in Sergei stirred, its instincts screaming for action, for blood.

But he remained still, his face an impassive mask, though his eyes betrayed the storm raging within. He locked his gaze on Sylvie, noting how she folded into herself, her fear so palpable it was almost suffocating. The thought of her being denied something as basic as water, treated with such callous disregard, only fueled the fire within him.

Sylvie nodded again, more timidly this time, and Sergei caught the way her lips pressed tightly together as if she were holding back tears. Her silence wasn’t submission—it was survival. He recognized it, the way she navigated the situation with quiet compliance to avoid provoking further wrath. It was the same tactic he had once used as a child, alone in the streets, facing men far larger and crueler than himself.

Viktor turned his back on her, barking orders to his men, his arrogance shielding him from the danger sitting right before him. Sergei’s mind raced, already plotting, already deciding that Viktor’s arrogance would be his undoing. And when the time came, Sergei would ensure that Viktor paid dearly—for Sylvie, for her fear, and for the disrespect that had kindled a deadly resolve in Sergei’s heart.

Viktor leaned forward, his tone dripping with malice. “Translate and ask him this,” he commanded. His voice was sharp, impatient, laced with the arrogance of someone who thought they held all the cards.

Viktor: “I want to know where the jewels are.”

Sylvie hesitated for a moment, her hands fidgeting nervously before she turned to Sergei, her hazel eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. In Russian, her voice trembled as she repeated the question.

Sylvie (in Russian): “Я хочу знать, где драгоценности.” (I want to know where the jewels are.)

Sergei's eyes softened as they fixed on her. Despite his rage boiling beneath the surface, his tone was gentle when he replied, his voice low and steady.

Sergei (in Russian): “Он тебя ударил?” (Did he hit you?)

Sylvie blinked, startled by the unexpected question. Her lips parted slightly as she processed his words, unsure how to respond. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice.

“What did he say?” Viktor snapped, his English cutting through the moment like a knife.

Sylvie swallowed, glancing nervously at Viktor. “He… he didn’t answer the question,” she replied, her voice shaky.

Viktor growled, his patience wearing thin. He slammed a fist onto the table beside him, making Sylvie jump. “Well, then ask him again! Or I’ll break his knees next.”

Her hands trembled as she turned back to Sergei, this time her words coming out in a rushed whisper.

Sylvie (in Russian): “Где драгоценности? Он сломает тебе колени, если ты не ответишь.” (Where are the jewels? He will break your knees if you don’t answer.)

Sergei, undeterred, leaned forward slightly, his lips curling into a faint, almost reassuring smile. His voice was calm, yet there was a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he spoke fondly to her.

Sergei (in Russian): “Ещё четыре минуты, и мы посмотрим, кто чьи колени сломает.” (Just four more minutes, and we will see who breaks whose knees.)

Sylvie hesitated, her hands twisting the strap of her satchel as she turned back to Viktor. Her voice was soft, barely audible as she spoke. “He says… in a few minutes, you’ll find out who breaks whose knees.”

Viktor sneered, his anger growing at what he perceived as defiance. Sylvie’s voice cracked slightly as she added, almost pleading, “Please… I don’t want to be here.”

“You don’t have a choice!” Viktor barked, grabbing her roughly by the arms. The force of the movement made her shriek, a small, frightened sound that pierced the room. Sergei’s eyes narrowed instantly, his entire body taut with barely restrained fury.

Not just knees, Sergei thought, his jaw clenching as he watched Viktor’s hand dig into Sylvie’s arm. He’ll lose that arm too.

The predator inside him roared, screaming for release, but Sergei forced himself to stay calm. His opportunity was coming—he could feel it. Viktor thought himself untouchable, a lion in control of his pride. But Sergei knew better. Lions fell, and when they did, it was swift, brutal, and inevitable.

He locked eyes with Sylvie again, his gaze steady and reassuring despite the chaos brewing around them. Four minutes, he reminded himself. Just four more minutes, and Viktor would learn the price of his arrogance.

----

The room erupted into chaos in an instant. A deafening explosion shattered the tense silence, sending dust and debris raining down from the ceiling. The dim light bulb swung violently, casting erratic shadows as the walls seemed to tremble. The door to the interrogation room burst open with a violent crash, and the unmistakable sound of gunfire filled the air, echoing off the cement walls like a symphony of destruction.

Sylvie screamed softly, instinctively dropping to the floor and scrambling under the nearest table. Her breath came in quick, panicked gasps as her hands clutched the table’s legs for support. She pressed herself against the cold floor, trembling as the world around her seemed to explode into madness.

Sergei, still strapped to the chair, remained eerily calm despite the chaos erupting around him. He recognized the sound of his men’s weapons—precise, controlled, and methodical. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Right on time, he thought.

The door burst open again, this time revealing two of Sergei’s men, clad in tactical gear and armed to the teeth. Their movements were swift and efficient as they dispatched Viktor’s guards with ruthless precision. Gunfire echoed around the room as Viktor’s men scrambled to respond, but it was clear they were outmatched. One by one, they fell, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground.

Within seconds, the restraints around Sergei’s wrists and ankles were cut, and he rose from the chair like a force of nature unleashed. Standing to his full height, he stretched his powerful frame, his muscles coiling with pent-up energy. His dark eyes zeroed in on Viktor, who was now scrambling backward, his earlier bravado evaporating in the face of Sergei’s unrelenting presence.

Viktor barely managed to pull his gun before Sergei closed the distance between them in a flash. With a single, brutal motion, Sergei disarmed him, the weapon flying from Viktor’s hand and skidding across the floor. Sergei’s fist collided with Viktor’s jaw, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground with a grunt of pain.

“Take him,” Sergei growled in Russian, his voice a low, commanding snarl that carried through the room. His men obeyed immediately, two of them hauling Viktor to his feet and restraining him with practiced efficiency. Viktor struggled weakly, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, but it was clear the fight had been knocked out of him.

Under the table, Sylvie hugged her knees to her chest, her wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her. She flinched as another explosion rocked the building, her fear rendering her unable to move. Sergei’s gaze swept the room, and when his eyes landed on her trembling form, his expression softened, if only for a moment.

He crouched slightly, his large frame moving with unexpected gentleness as he reached out a hand toward her. “Доктор Уильямс,” he said in Russian, his tone quieter, more reassuring. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

Sylvie hesitated, her heart pounding, but the steadiness in his voice gave her just enough courage to look up at him. The harshness she had seen in him earlier was gone, replaced by something else—something almost protective.

Sergei straightened, his towering figure looming over Viktor as his men dragged the defeated rival from the room. “Put him with the others,” Sergei ordered coldly. Then, his tone darkened further as he added, “Alive. For now.”

As Viktor was hauled away, Sergei turned back to Sylvie, his expression unreadable. Despite the chaos, his focus now was entirely on her, the frightened young woman who had been caught in the crossfire of his world.

As the last echoes of gunfire faded into silence, Sergei turned his attention fully to Sylvie. Her small frame was still trembling as she sat on the floor, her back pressed against the wall, her hazel eyes wide with lingering fear. He approached her slowly, his towering figure somehow emanating both power and calm.

Crouching to her level, he softened his voice to a tone she hadn’t yet heard from him, one so gentle it seemed almost at odds with the chaos he had just commanded. “Are you okay, my darling?” he asked, his words in perfect English, clear and smooth.

Sylvie’s head snapped up in surprise, her eyes locking with his. For a moment, she forgot her fear, her confusion cutting through the haze. “You…?” she began but couldn’t finish the question.

Sergei offered the faintest of smiles, his brown eyes steady and reassuring. “Yes,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I know English. I was merely playing him.”

The revelation should have angered her, or perhaps relieved her, but Sylvie couldn’t find the words to respond. Her hands shook slightly as they clutched the hem of her skirt, her mind racing to catch up with the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded.

Sergei’s gaze remained on her, unwavering yet patient, as if he understood that words might fail her now. But when she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, her plea carrying the weight of exhaustion and fear.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice trembling, “I just… I just want to go home.”

Her words pierced Sergei in a way he didn’t expect. This young woman—dragged into his world of violence, betrayal, and power plays—didn’t belong here. She was innocent, untainted by the darkness that consumed him and his enemies. And now, all she wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of the life she had before this nightmare began.

Sergei nodded slowly, his expression softening further. “You will,” he said firmly, his voice carrying a quiet promise. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Sergei extended his hand toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to startle her further. His large, calloused hand seemed impossibly gentle as he offered it to her. “Come,” he said softly, his voice devoid of the commanding tone it held moments ago.

Sylvie hesitated for a brief moment before placing her trembling hand in his. His grip was firm but not overpowering as he helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly, unsteady from the overwhelming events, and he instinctively steadied her with a light touch on her arm.

“Where is your home?” he asked, his tone calm and reassuring, as though he were speaking to someone fragile.

In one quick breath, as if reciting from memory, she rattled off her address and pincode, the words tumbling out in a single string, precise and clipped, like a schoolchild answering a teacher’s question. The innocent simplicity of it caught Sergei off guard, and for the briefest of moments, his hardened exterior cracked.

An almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The weight of the situation—the chaos, the violence, the danger—momentarily softened, replaced by something unexpectedly tender. He felt a strange sense of endearment toward her, as though her nervous precision was a glimpse of her untouched, untainted world, so far removed from his own.

“My name is Sergei Kravinoff,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, as if the words carried a deeper meaning than just an introduction. “You can call me Sergei.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes studying her face with quiet intensity. “You’re the only one who can, actually,” he added, almost as an afterthought, his tone shifting slightly, as though confessing something personal. “Everyone else calls me… Sir, Boss, or some other things.”

Sylvie said nothing, her gaze flitting to the floor and then back to him, but she gave a small nod. Sergei noticed the faint movement and felt an unfamiliar warmth stir in his chest. For reasons he couldn’t yet articulate, her quiet acceptance meant more to him than it should have.

“Try it,” Sergei said gently, his tone soft but encouraging.

Sylvie hesitated for a moment, her lips parting as if she wasn’t sure she should. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Sergei.”

A faint smile spread across his face, one that seemed almost out of place on a man like him. “Perfect,” he murmured, as if her saying his name had somehow made the moment whole. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned and walked to a small table in the corner of the room, where a dusty pitcher and a single glass sat.

Without a word, he poured water into the glass, the sound of the liquid breaking the tense silence. Returning to her, he held it out, his movements slow and deliberate, as though handling something fragile.

“There you go,” he said softly, his brown eyes steady as they met hers. “You wanted water, right? That bastard wouldn’t give it to you.” There was a faint edge of disdain in his voice as he mentioned Viktor, but it disappeared as he focused back on her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the glass from his hand with trembling fingers. She raised it to her lips and drank it in one go, as though it was the first water she had tasted in days.

Sergei watched her silently for a moment before asking, “More?”

She nodded, her expression still nervous but grateful. Sergei turned back to the pitcher, poured another glass, and handed it to her with the same care. This time, she drank it more slowly, as if the first sip had eased her frayed nerves.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice steadier now but still soft. Sergei nodded once, his expression unreadable but his presence steady and grounding. For the first time since entering the room, Sylvie looked a little less afraid.

Sergei straightened, his expression returning to its commanding intensity as he called over one of his men. The door opened swiftly, and a tall, burly man stepped in, standing at attention.

“You,” Sergei barked, his tone cold and authoritative, the gentleness he’d shown Sylvie moments ago replaced by the voice of the ruthless leader he was. “Take her to this address.” He rattled off her home location with precision. “And you will take her with utmost care. Do you understand?”

The man nodded immediately, his eyes flicking briefly to Sylvie before returning to Sergei, his posture rigid with respect. “Yes, Sir.”

Satisfied, Sergei turned back to Sylvie, his demeanor softening once more. He reached for her hand, his strong fingers encasing hers gently. Without a word, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the chaos she had just endured. Sylvie’s eyes widened in surprise, her breath catching at the unexpected tenderness.

“I have some work,” Sergei said, his voice dropping to a softer tone, “but I shall meet you again, my darling.” His words carried an unshakable certainty, as though it was a promise etched in stone. “You now have something very precious with you.”

Sylvie blinked, confused, her voice hesitant as she replied, “What do I have? I haven’t taken anything…”

Sergei leaned in close, his dark eyes locking with hers. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, meant only for her ears. “Моё сердце,” he murmured in Russian, then translated softly, “My heart.”

Sylvie’s breath hitched as her confusion deepened, the weight of his words sinking in. Sergei straightened, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before stepping back, the intensity of his presence leaving her both unsettled and inexplicably drawn to him.

[tunnelofdusk]

mlcb ficlet: red thread of fate, ot3

A soft ticklish sensation awakens Li Lianhua as he twitches his foot awake. Blearily, he opens his eyes and meets the twin gazes of Fang Xiaobao and Di Feisheng. They each have a hand wrapped around one of his bare ankles and the ticklish sensation that had awoken him is the sliding of red silken cord against his skin. Red thread encircles his ankles, flush against skin.

“It’s lotus silk,” Fang Xiaobao says. The natural curve to his mouth is nonexistent with none of his hurt outwardly to twist. Yet his eyes are dark and deep with a well of sorrow that Di Feisheng’s gaze mimics. Li Lianhua looks away.

Cautiously, Li Lianhua withdraws his feet from their calloused grasps, and he shivers at Fang Xiaobao’s parting stroke and Di Feisheng’s parting squeeze. There is a chill in the room that raises the hair on his skin. He shifts into a sitting position and brings his knees up to his chest. His robes fan down to cover his bare feet as a blanket remains crumpled at the foot of the bed where the other men sit like protective statues.

Like sliding on an operatic mask, Li Lianhua lets the disquiet of his awakening fade away to an insouciance that smooths the planes of his face. “Red threads?” he questions with a smirk tugging at the edges of dry lips.

Fang Xiaobao only stares at Li Lianhua, unperturbed by the mockery of the question. “For all that you want to die alone,” he says, “you should know that not even Meng Po could make us forget you.”

“Ah, Xiaobao,” Li Lianhua tuts, “even the moon waxes only to wane just as the flowers bloom only to fall.”

Di Feisheng scoffs. “Your sophistry does not negate our grief,” he says bluntly. “We searched the thirty-six cities of nine states, sixteen rivers, and the twenty-eight mountains for you.”

“Your shiniang found you before us,” Fang Xiaobao says devastatingly.

And Li Lianhua freezes as he circulates his qi through his meridians. Given time, he would be recovering the entirety of his power and on the cusp of immortality, he could even surpass his prior peak. A life for a life, he thinks, as his heart judders not from weakness but from the sorrow taking root in his chest. His chest burns; his throat burns; and his eyes burn as an ache works its way up.

“I did not want this,” Li Lianhua says with a shuddering breath. He wraps his arms around his raised legs; he feels like a child again. Even now, his mind betrays him as a memory of Shan Gudao arises. Once Li Xiangyi had burned with a fever on the streets—he had been shivering with cold and Shan Gudao had desperately embraced him. By then, his brother had been dead and he supposed that Shan Gudao had always liked being depended on. There was something about that embrace that had nestled deep into his soul; it was the uncomplicated intimacy of it that reality could no longer allow in his life.

Something in Li Lianhua shatters with the response Di Feisheng offers.

“Nobody wanted you to give up and die either,” Di Feisheng says. 

“Di-mengzhu,” Li Lianhua says hoarsely. “‘The bird in the cage longs for its former woods, while the fish in the pond misses the deep.’”

“You quote Tao Yuanming as if the jianghu is your worldly cage and we your worldly affairs to abstain from,” Fang Xiaobao comments.

“Li Lianhua,” Di Feisheng says slowly, as if savoring the name upon his tongue, “why run from those who love you?”

“If you loved me—,” Li Lianhua begins sharply.

“You wanted to die with dignity,” Fang Xiaobao says with a bitterness he must have cultivated from the seeds of the grief Li Lianhua planted. “You wrote that letter and you thought that all loose ends must have been severed…”

“It was selfish,” Di Feisheng says.

And Li Lianhua smiles as a tear finally escapes his pooling eyes to trail down his cheek, wetting the collar of his robes. “You found me—wasn’t that selfish of you? Was it so hard to fulfill a dying man’s wishes?”

“But you didn’t have to die,” Fang Xiaobao damns. “Why couldn’t you let us help you?”

“Help me?” Li Lianhua says coldly. “My shiniang is dead!”

“So, you’re the only one who can decide the terms of their death? Your shiniang wanted to help you. She was tired too,” Fang Xiaobao says.

Li Lianhua closes his eyes for a long moment, tears squeezed out in trails shimmering in candlelight. “Why couldn’t you let me go?” Li Lianhua finally says. 

“We love you,” Di Feisheng says. 

“The ending you wrote for us could never have worked—not when what we wanted was you,” Fang Xiaobao says. 

“A-Fei, Xiaobao,” Li Lianhua entreats, “you don’t love me. You love the ghost of Li Xiangyi. I don’t want to fight with you, A-Fei. I can’t be your shifu, Xiaobao. I’m so…tired.”

Without even a rustle of his robes, Fang Xiaobao leaps to his feet to sit at Li Lianhua’s side at the top of the bed. This is what he uses Yangzhouman for: to hug a ghost. His arms are warm and strong around Li Lianhua as Di Feisheng looms nearby.

Li Lianhua tries to swallow down the sobs in his throat, but it is like a drowning person swallowing the ocean to survive—inescapable. The porcelain of his heart finally cracks with the propagation of old and new hurts. In the candlelight, his mask cracks and saltwater leaks. His body shakes and he seethes with the shame of it—of his damnable weakness. It contradicts his intent to free them to live their lives; they did not need him.

Nobody ever truly wants to die. In the moment, death seems preferable, but in the next moment, the enormity of the loss strikes and for some, it is too late. For Li Lianhua, there is nothing wrong or right about this moment in Fang Xiaobao’s arms. It is a moment that needs to pass for too long has Li Lianhua lived in the stasis of Li Xiangyi’s character. 

Li Lianhua could never move on until Li Xiangyi was dead in one way or another.

(feel free to join my mysterious lotus casebook discord server.)

[severussnapedamagedlove]

More Than A One Trick Pony update

[Shane Walsh fic] {the walking dead}

[shane walsh x OC] [alternate universe] [mature explicit smut] [lori X rick grimes] [protective shane] [bitter jealous lori] [mature readers only] [accidental pregnancy] [canon compliant as possible][adult relationship] [one night stand turned boyfriend] [sassy flirt Shane]

SNEAK PEAK

Shane and Andrea emerged to collect Carol and Laini from the highway at the conclusion of the afternoon. Shadows shifted above their heads to going above the trees. The patches of darkness were getting deeper and darker the longer time passed.

The strength of Shane’s limp had grown. He winced with each step up to the car. His two hands lifted up to help her step down off the vehicle.

            “What happened to sticking close?”

            “Were you worried about me?” She teased.

Her eyes drifted down his legs to the injured ankle. He shook his head at her concern. Although the strong stagger of his limp did not convince her to leave the worry alone. She threw his arm around her shoulders to ease the weight on the thing.

            “You shouldn’t be without a weapon to protect yourself. Rick shouldn’t have let you go without a gun.”

            “I had a knife.”

It was produced to the light of day. The large jagged blade looked like a ragged murderous weapon.

            “That wouldn’t do a lick of nothing if they grouped up, got you surrounded.”

Andrea and Carol walked ahead of them. The body language read tense. Carol held herself. She looked away from the companion at her side, as it looked like Andrea looked sorrowful.

If only Laini had warned her not to look sorry for Sophia’s death. How it must stab Carol’s heart to see her beautiful daughter’s disappearance be considered a lost cause before her very eyes.

            “You even know how to use that thing?” His fingers pushed the blade down.

She shrugged. “Thought it was self-explanatory.”

            “It’s not. You’ve got to know how to utilize it to your advantage. Hand-to-hand combat is different than pointing and shooting.”

            “I don’t know how to do that either,” she replied.

            “That’s why you’ve got me, baby.” He said with a smile. “I’m going to teach you. Every gun we’ve got, you’re gonna learn how to aim and shoot and be good enough to hit your target.” He pulled the pistol up from his side. The black handgun was the same he’d worn in his uniform for work. His finger did not grip the trigger. She flexed her brow curiously. “Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. All you’ll do is shoot something you don’t mean.”

He slipped it out of sight once more.

They continued the walk back to the farm. She wished Shane would have just driven out there to save his ankle the pain.

She felt the weight of his body grow against the back of her neck. “When we get back, you’re resting that ankle. I’m getting something to wrap around it. You’re going to break it.”

He chuckled. “Startin’ to get comfortable bossin’ me around there, ain’t you?”

It took her by surprise. The observation.

They’d turned into such a casual committed relationship before she realized that’s what it was. She knew they weren’t sleeping with other people, but as far as being intimate in the care of the other, that was left to each of themselves.

Shane did not wash her hair or make sure she ate or took her medicine. She did not ensure that he washed his clothes or went to the doctor if he was sick.

It was their own personal responsibility. Before.

Now, they were very different. Shane took care of her when she did not feel good or was tired. He protected her when she was vulnerable. She washed him in the shower and cleaned him up from the hardest night of his life.

He gave up his peach for her to eat. She cared about him ruining his ankle.

And she had the gall to be floored by his question of marrying him.

            “’Salright, baby. I don’t mind a woman who knows what she wants.”

That was the thing. She did not know what she wanted. She just knew she didn’t like being without him.

His lips pressed against her forehead. “You boss me around anytime you want.”

            “Then take care of your ankle,” she grumbled. “I still got use of it.”

            “Hope you got use for more than just my ankle.” He crudely smiled. “My mouth, for example.”

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