#TOO MANY SPINNING PLATES !!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alphabetboyluvr · 8 months ago

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I just finished watching season three and oooooo i wanna write more for this au now

dance with the devil | jjk

REQUEST | jktaee3 on wp

VIBES | angst, royalty - bridgerton vibes, childhood friends to enemies to ?luvrs?

SOUNDTRACK | die for you - joji

HOLLY'S NOTE | (originally posted april 2023) so fun facts, i've never watched bridgerton. i actually put it on in the background as i was writing, which is where the lil line about being diamond comes from. i also do fuck all world-building in this, so just... use your imagination lol. i have no idea if this is like... correct? i dont read nor write period pieces and haven't done since school so.... go easy on me hahaha <33

also!! went for jeongguk instead of jungkook. feels more dramatic? time appropriate?? idk! mix of eng and Korean inspo for titles / locations!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

There are easily a hundred pairs of eyes on you as you walk into the ballroom. Maybe more. The room is grand, gilded in gold—grotesque in its display of wealth, but nothing new to you. You've been in a dozen rooms like this within the last month alone. More money than taste—but you can't buy class.

Despite the influx of unwelcome stares, there's just one you can actually feel. It comes from a pair of deep brown eyes in the corner of the room; a glass of red in one hand, the gloved fingers of your least favourite cousin in the other.

Dark and brooding, Jeon Jeongguk has no right to look at you in the way that he does. Duke of Busan, womaniser of more counties than you care to imagine, he's troubled wrapped up in a waistcoat and ruby-encrusted signet rings.

But you've always liked trouble. Shame.

The grip that Lord Min of Daegu has on your hand tightens. He can notice it too; Jeongguk's stare. Your satin gloves are silky against Lord Min's skin, and he must admit he enjoys being the focus of Jeon Jeongguk's envy. He thinks it's about time that the over-egotistical tyrant of hearts had his comeuppance.

"Remember," Lord Min whispers quietly to you as the crowd watches on. He's a trusted confidant; not suited for marriage. At least not with you. It's the county's worst-kept secret that he retires to the boudoir with Master Park each and every evening. No one at the ball is under any illusion that he is a suitor of yours. "You're a diamond in a mine of sapphires."

"Oh, but sapphires are far prettier than diamonds," you pout, voice dulcet as you scan the room. It's approaching your birthday, and time is running out. A suitor needs to be found, and found promptly. Too much time squandered on frivolous pursuits during your youth had prevented such a search.

It's something you're reminded of whenever your eyes catch Jeongguk's. Endless days spent under beating midsummer sunshine; burnt skin and freckled cheeks. Youth well-spent. Youth wasted.

"So? It matters not." Lord Min smiles. "Diamonds are far stronger. Sharper. And still just as exquisite as sapphires. Do not sell yourself short."

And by that, you know exactly what he implies: steer clear of the Duke of Busan.

It would be a fruitless endeavour. No good would come from it.

Years of your childhood had been spent in a whimsical land with him, full of castles and fairies, and witches and warlocks. Potions had been made in his garden using his mother's best perfumes and items stolen from the pantry; make-believe scenarios came to life in the forest between your family's estates.

Summers had been frittered away together by the sea; Winterton Manor the backdrop of your dreams, your hopes, your fears.

But the Duke did as Dukes so often do; embroiled himself in debauchery and distasteful pleasures.

You had watched on, bemused for the most part, and also intrigued by what compelled him.

Had you not been enough?

Grapevines whisper, and Jeongguk had spent far too much time frolicking in vineyards. Drunk on the delights of his youth, he'd forgotten that there would be life beyond the present.

It's a price he pays, now. A debt he hadn't realised he had racked up.

One that he's reminded of every single time you glance his way. He cannot afford a diamond.

Somehow, however, he can seem to afford the audacity of approaching you in the powder room towards the end of the evening.

You've had lacklustre dances with half a dozen bachelors, and they've all been uninspiring. Only two of them managed to make it through the waltz without stepping on your toes.

Time is running out.

And Jeongguk?

He's running in circles trying to get you out of his head.

Seems apt that he'd bump into you at some point.

Not like he sought you out. Not at all.

Not like he handed the maids by the staircase a few silver coins to divert other partygoers elsewhere, either. He wouldn't dream of doing such a thing.

The Duke of Busan knows you well.

Knows that it takes all of your might to not glance in his direction as he makes his presence known.

"Really?" He asks with a cocked brow and arrogant smirk, leaning against the doorframe. You're preening at your hair. Making sure your pins remain in place. "That's what you chose to wear? To a ball of this grandeur?"

You're wearing white. It's tight against your chest. Too tight. Pleated beneath the satin ribbon under your bust, encrusted with sequins and finished with lace. It's beautiful. Matches the white satin gloves that finish just above the crease of your elbow. You carry yourself with elegance.

In fact, your posture is so well-poised that Jeongguk is the only attendee of the ball who has noticed the split in your skirt. When stood, it is hidden by the pleats. When dancing, it is camouflaged by the lace. When you lift your skirt to meander up the stairs? He becomes reacquainted with the curve of your ankle. The split is no larger than the length of a letter inviting him to tea, but it feels overwhelmingly large.

As far as the Duke is concerned, you may as well be wearing lingerie.

You smooth the skirt of your dress and consider rearranging your tits just to give him something to stare at. You decide against it. Think he would enjoy it far too much.

"Oh precisely," you respond with an equally arrogant grin, before turning to face him. You're haughty in the way you position your body, almost as if you're trying to entice him. "Haven't you heard? I've a suitor to find."

He scoffs. "And you think dressing like a whore is going to find you one of any value?"

A whore.

Very rich of him, you think, as if the entire party doesn't know what he gets up to in the dark. And the daylight. And just about any time of the day, actually.

What they really don't know?

That he used to get up to it with you.

"Absolutely not," you smile. Your father might want you married off, but there's no suitor here for you. Not tonight. If you have to bring a man home, it unquestionably has to be one that your father won't approve of. "That's the point—although, now I come to think of it—this dress did seem to find you, didn't it, Jeongguk?"

He stays quiet for a moment. He doesn't enjoy you being correct. It's part of the reason you bicker so much. You're always correct.

"White really isn't your colour," he tells you with an ambivalent shrug. "We both know that."

Innocence. Purity. Virginity.

For once, The Duke is correct. It really isn't your colour.

Humorous, how he's dressed head to toe in black. Perhaps you should be, too.

"And green isn't yours," you tease, walking towards him. "Yet you seemed to be full of it when I entered the ballroom with the Lord of Daegu."

He remains silent. Can sense you have more to declare.

"Moreover," you hum, proving him right as you pause beside him, "as I'm sure you're well aware, Duke, it's the colour beneath the dress that counts."

"And what is beneath the dress?" Jeongguk husks, not looking over towards you. He doesn't want to let you know how much you affect him, still.

"The same lace that greeted you last summer in the stables of Winterton Manor."

Red. Fuck.

His favourite.

"Tell me, Duke," you tease. He deserves it, you think. "Does the Viscount of Gwangju like red?"

"Hoseok?" Jeongguk scoffs, addressing him by name, not title. The lack of respect shown by the young Duke is asinine, truly. A show of his immaturity. "Despises it."

Truthfully, he has no idea of Viscount of Gwangju's preferences.

"Good," you taunt. "I'm enthralled by the prospect of a challenge."

Jeongguk will be damned if you end up betrothed to the Viscount of fucking Gwangju.

"He concedes easily," he says. This is another lie. He just doesn't want to give you any further ideas. "Do not expect a challenge. Anticipate disappointment."

"Oh, but Duke," you laugh and it's so exquisite that he thinks he might just melt. "Disappointment has always been your forte, has it not?"

During the balls of recent years, where Jeongguk would only ever offer his hand to other women, and never you? Yes. Disappointing.

In the smoky parlours, where he laughs and jokes with the other gentlemen, about which debutantes are simply destined to become spinsters? Oh, incredibly disappointing.

In the drawing room adjacent to his bedroom, while you had waited beneath his sheets for his return, as he was agreeing to court your cousin instead of you? Perhaps the most disappointing he'd ever been.

It's been a year—the worst of your life.

"You've made your bed, Duke. Sleep in it."

"I've tried," he says sternly. He doesn't want to joke any more. Doesn't want to flirt. "I cannot bear to sleep in it without you."

You shake your head. Such a devil.

"You seem well rested enough."

"It's a facade."

And you find yourself quite annoyed; frustrated by his apparent disdain for a life he chose. A destiny brought upon you both by his inability to be discreet—though you're unaware of this caveat.

You see, everyone does know of his reputation, but he always kept your pursuits of passion hidden. Private. To the world, you're pristine.

"What do you require, Duke? My pity?"

He knows he doesn't deserve it.

"I require nothing of you."

"Then seek me out no longer. Do not pursue what you cannot commandeer, Jeongguk."

It's a lesson he would have done well to learn many moons ago; one remembered by you even if it was lost on him.

And yet, at quarter past twelve, as he loosens the black satin bow of his collar in his bedroom, Jeongguk pauses.

A knock has just sounded at his door. His chambermaid, he assumes, just checking on the fire—or maybe Master Park's chambermaid, instead (though Jeongguk's business with Master Park's staff isn't ever entirely 'business').

Regretfully, he thinks it could be Lord Kim Namjoon of Ilsan, here to reprimand him for his manners. His mentor in all fashions, Namjoon is always the first to discipline the young Duke following his nights of debauchery—though all things considered, he feels he's been quite well-behaved tonight.

He sighs as he rests a palm flat against his bedpost, and bellows, "Enter."

A sternness settles on his brows, hard and uncompromising, as he turns to the door. There's a dishevelled nature to his hair, undone and falling slightly over his dark eyes. His loosened collar and unbuttoned waistcoat only aid to make him look even more rugged.

He's marred in vulnerability, though. His pretty pink lips rest ajar, as his eyes fall on the intruder of his thoughts.

Amusing, you think, how the bedroom is where he domineers best, and yet is always where he seems the most unfortified.

Perhaps he hadn't been lying about his facade.

Perhaps he really doesn't sleep well without you.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you might indulge him one last time.

"Tell me, Duke"— You walk into his room and close the door behind you, eyes not leaving his —"Do any of them compare?"

He watches you strut past him and crawl on the luxe quilt on his bed. Oh, how you've missed it.

"Any of who?"

"The maids," you shrug. You aren't naive. You know exactly what he does, and who he does it with. "Master Park's maids? Surely Lord Kim's, too. And the working girls. The debutantes—need I go on?"

"No," he says, watching as you loosen your heels and kick them to the floor. They land with a thud. He knows the noise will have echoed throughout the house. "You needn't."

The truth of the matter is that his escapades are well-known amongst high society. He has a reputation, which is why his courtship with your cousin was forced upon him.

You're surely too good for him, but he's of too much value to remain without an heir.

A marriage is needed for him before the end of the year. His father says so.

Contrarily, your father would never agree to the Duke of Busan proclaiming you as his Dutchess.

Jeongguk knows this, for he's already asked.

Of course he has.

Last spring. Kept his mother's ring in his pocket just in case. A proposal was planned for early summer, before your trip to Paris.

He thought perhaps he would go with you—a pre-honeymoon, maybe—but your father had refused his request for your hand, and who was Jeongguk to go against the will of the man who had raised you?

Jeongguk won't burden you with this knowledge. Your life will be far more fruitful if you remain silently furious with him for never giving you what you deserved.

"And do they?" You enquire once more. unaware of his anguish. "Do they compare?"

Jeongguk leans down to his boots. Unties his laces and stands on his heels to remove them. He kicks them away. Is just as undressed as you are. Equal.

"Do you think my bed would be empty right now if they did?"

"It isn't empty," you tease.

"No," he acknowledges. "But it has been. It's been empty for months."

"Months?"

You don't believe him.

"I've had an empty bed since I returned from Winterton last summer," he declares.

"Though your hands have been full?" You sneer, painfully reminded of the way he'd held the hand of another woman in the ballroom that evening. You've had to bear witness to it on multiple occasions by now. It never gets any easier. Your fucking cousin, of all people.

"Pay no mind to the fact my hands have not been empty in ballrooms," he speaks quietly, shame washing over his features. Yes, it would be far more desirable if you were to be furious with him, but he wants to alleviate the hurt that you are quite clearly encumbered with. "As I said, it's a facade."

"Why? What are you hiding, Duke?"

As if you don't know—he laments—that I'm utterly besotted with you.

He glances away from you to watch the fire as it crackles in his hearth. He wonders if it would be less painful to tear his heart from his chest and roast it in the flames, than it is to be in love with you.

"I hide nothing from you," he says with a broad smile as he turns to face you once more. Jeongguk is adept at falsifying his discretions. "But I am without at a dance."

You grin, now. "A dance?"

"I'd love one," he smirks as he holds out his hand. He twists your words almost as elegantly as he used to twist you around on empty ballroom floors; just two of you after the parties had died down and the revellers had hung up their dancing shoes.

He strides to the side of the bed. Satisfaction sinks into his features when your gloved hand slips into his palm. He pulls you up. Pulls you closer. Rests a hand upon your waist and positions himself perfectly for you. He was raised a gentleman after all, even if grew up to be a rogue.

"May I have this dance?" He says quietly, only needing to whisper.

You're so close you probably count the beat of his heart.

One, two.

Does anyone dance better than I do?

Three, four.

Do you lose your breath when someone else draws you closer?

Five, six.

I could dance with you forever.

Seven, eight.

Would that be agreeable?

Nine, ten.

As if you can read his thoughts, you just nod.

"You may."

#i probably wont #spinning too many plates atm!!#but it would be fun!!#jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff

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caffeinewitchcraft · 3 months ago

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AITA for going no contact with my brother after he pulled a scare on my husband?

EDIT: For those of you coming here from my brother’s post (X) to shit on me, you look like idiots. Try to have an original thought and really contemplate who’s telling the truth after hearing both sides.

I (32f) am one of three siblings. We come from a very well off family. My dad is a former Cryptid and he pioneered the Hook Man in the 70s, so he still gets residuals off of that. We grew up very comfortable and with the ability to do anything we wanted in life. My older brother went to a very prestigious school and my dad gave him the money for tuition. Because my older brother got scholarships, he was able to save some of that money. Right now he works in human tech (very lucrative), but his long-term plan is to use the money to start a Cyber Spook business once he is satisfied with his knowledge foundation.

I ended up taking a gap year before going to community college, but I never felt anything click. I worked part-time jobs spinning out scarer costumes and even did some part-time work as a slasher before deciding it wasn’t for me. I finally found my calling when I offered to help cater for my high school reunion, and now I run a fairly successful catering business.

When it came time for my younger brother, “Steve,” to get his money, he didn’t tell anyone what he was going to use it for. He was working as a Slasher at a small firm in town. We all assumed he’d either go to Scare School or invest the money to start a business like our older brother did.

So when Steve showed up to Halloween dinner one day, six feet taller with extra joints in his arms and legs, we were all shocked.

Dad was furious. He gave us all the same talk about the scare industry when we got our first part-time jobs documenting missions at his company. He told us that scare work was hard and backbreaking. We couldn’t buy our way into it or use his connections to become successful. If we were interested in it, we had to work our way up from the ground like he did. If we didn’t, we’d more than likely end up dead at the hands of a final girl.

He especially emphasized that mods had to be considered carefully and were NOT a substitute for skill.

Steve thought they were. When his company didn’t pay him back for his body modification AND didn’t promote him from Slasher to Regional Nightmare, he quit. But the surgeries drained his cash and he couldn’t afford his apartment anymore. He had to move back in with Mom and Dad. As always, Mom totally coddled him. She said that he didn’t have to pay rent and agreed with whatever he said when he’d go on these long tirades about his former company.

I could tell Dad wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but he’s never been able to go against Mom. So he mostly kept his mouth shut though he did try to get Steve a job at his old company. However, last I heard, Steve was set against anything corporate and was spending a dozen hours a day driving around using the app SlashDash to find jobs.

About a year and a half ago, I was over for dinner with Steve, Mom and Dad. Steve was talking about work. He said SlashDash wasn’t working out for him and was taking too many fees out. I offered advice since I’d done Slashing in high school. I recommended sites like Scarework and Midnighterr to get more gigs.

Mom told me I interrupted Steve. She gestured for him to continue and tell me about his exciting new setup.

Steve told me he was beyond the sites I recommended. He said he’d bought a scanner so he could listen to broadcasts of active corporate missions. When those fail, he arrives on scene to kill any straggling humans before the scare company in question can send a cleanup crew. And since he’s a Slasher on their scene, they have to give him emergency pay for doing it. It’s a total ambulance-chaser, bottom-feeder move.

Dad was just staring at his plate, not saying anything, but I could tell he was ashamed of Steve. Steve was bragging about being a vulture in the profession Dad helped build.

I asked Steve if he was proud of himself for living off of leftovers. Steve blew up at me, but so did Mom. She chided me for not respecting my brother’s hard work and that his idea to get a scanner was genius, not predatory.

After that dinner, Steve and I rarely talked. Most of the news I got about him came from our older brother bitching about Steve badgering him for scare connections or Mom bragging about Steve killing and “meeting quota.” She would get very cold with me when I told her he was finishing a quota someone else started and not doing his own work. She told me if I couldn’t respect Steve, then I was welcome to not come over while he lived with her.

(Yes, Steve’s always been the golden child.)

I stopped interfering with Steve and focused on my own life. Shortly after, I met my wonderful fiancé “Reginald” while catering an event at Dad’s old company. Reginald is the head of sanitation and he’s the one who gets sent out to clean up any unexpected events during a Scare (like any magical residue or body parts that can’t be explained away through human means). He used to want to be a Cryptid, but he’s got a heart condition that prevents him from working in the field. He says that he’s happy being the “janitor” and happier being with me 😊

Reginald and I got engaged after only eight months of dating. Dad always says that when you know, you know. I invited everyone in my family to an engagement party. Steve didn’t bother answering the invitation. Even though Steve and I weren’t on good terms, I was still hurt when he didn’t show.

When I confronted him about it afterwards, he said that he’d been promoted to Regional Nightmare and he was patrolling his territory, and that’s why he couldn’t come. I asked him what company he was working for, and he said he was still using the scanner.

I pointed out that he couldn’t be a Regional Nightmare without a state license since only the state can assign territories. He started going on and on about being his own ��Monster” (and let me tell you, extra joints DOESN’T make you a Monster, those guys are way more committed) and that he had passed the state exam.

When I told Reginald about my brother calling himself a Regional Nightmare, he was concerned. He works closely with the legal department, and he said that Steve is opening himself up to lawsuits by declaring public slashing grounds as his “territory.” He offered to talk to Steve.

We went over to Mom and Dad’s house together to confront him. Dad didn’t know he was calling himself a Regional Nightmare and he went pale when I told them why we were there. Reginald explained to Steve and Mom that being certified was different than being licensed. Legally, Steve is a Slasher even if he can control shadows now (which is a VERY expensive talent to acquire if you aren’t born with it. I think Mom may have paid for it).

The conversation didn’t go well. Steve said a lot of nasty things about Reginald not hacking it as Slasher and claimed he was just jealous. He picked on Reginald’s health which I had me seeing red. I asked Steve what there was to be jealous of since he still mooches off of our parents? Mom got involved and it went downhill from there.

All this to say that I didn’t expect Steve to show up at my gender reveal party less than 5 months later.

Reginald and I weren’t planning on kids this early, but we knew it was meant to be as soon as I got that pregnancy test back. We decided to put off our wedding so that our baby can be part of the ceremony that makes us a family. That being said, I did still have a lot of things ordered for the wedding so I turned the day into a baby shower/gender reveal instead.

That brings us to the party my lovely brother wrote about. First of all, he wasn’t invited by me. Mom invited him, and when I found out, I wasn’t happy with her, considering he never apologized to Reginald after our last fight.

Reginald was stuck at work (some idiot brought together a whole summer camp of final girls and the aftermath was brutal) so I had to force myself to be a good hostess. It was mostly fine. We have good friends and my older brother was very kind in helping me with some of the baby games we were planning to play when Reginald finally got there.

Steve, however, was NOT helpful.

He was annoying the whole time. He messed with the kitchen and he hounded the guests. I’m PREGNANT and the smell of raw meat triggers my gag reflex. He took the meat off the heat without me noticing and basically prevented me from eating lunch with everyone else.

Additionally, Steve claimed in his post that the party was dying??? Reginald and Dad have a lot of friends in common so the party did NOT die. They were all interested in talking to Dad. Dad’s voice is very quiet and raspy from strain over the years, so everyone was being quiet to hear him better. Steve was the one practically screaming over him to talk about his scummy job. The new Hook Man who succeeded Dad was there and Steve basically treated the poor man like a novice even though he’s a Cryptid.

Reginald finally got home and I could tell he was exhausted when I met him at the door. He still put on a smile for me though and said he didn’t need to miss out even when I told him it would be okay. He wanted to be there in our big moment to celebrate our family. He went upstairs to change.

I went back to the guests to tell them that we would start the games soon. That’s when I heard Reginald scream and fall down the stairs.

I’ll never forget the look on Reginald’s face. He was lying at the base of the stairs and looked like he was dying. He was gasping for breath and clutching at his chest. I was terrified his heart was giving up. I asked Hook Man to call an ambulance.

That’s when Steve started laughing.

I lost it. I screamed at Steve to get out. He told me to calm down, he’d just scared Reginald a little bit as a joke. I told him he knew about Reginald’s heart condition and that it was incredibly disrespectful to scare my fiancé in our own house.

He said he didn’t mean to scare him that bad, but that he was just better at it than he thought. His scares were too powerful. He seemed smug and was still laughing.

I accused him of intentionally hurting Reginald because of the licensing versus certification argument we had. I said he was a bully and an idiot.

Mom jumped in and said it was an accident.

Dad FINALLY said something. He shadow-walked (the first time in YEARS) up the stairs and hooked Steve by the neck. He dragged all twelve feet of him down the stairs and told him to get out.

Steve said, “For what? It’s not my fault that weak-hearted son of a bitch can’t take a joke.”

Dad lost it. He told Steve a REAL scarer wouldn’t use their abilities like that on their own families. He told Mom and Steve it didn’t matter if he meant it as a joke. The fact is he used his scare tactics on a layperson, and he could get blacklisted from the profession for it.

Dad kicked Steve out and told him he wasn’t welcome back into the basement until he got a REAL job. Steve kept arguing, but the paramedics arrived then and I lost track of the rest of it.

I went with Reginald to the hospital where Reginald insisted we both get checked out. The stress wasn’t good for the baby and doctor told me it might be best to go on maternity leave sooner rather than later. Reginald is also going to be taking a leave from work. He had a heart attack because of my brother.

Things could have ended worse, but they didn’t end well. I told my parents that I refuse to have Steve at my wedding or even to see my child after they’re born (and now I STILL don’t know the gender! Only our older brother knows since he got the gender reveal cake).

Mom started to protest, but Dad said he understood. He said that both he and Mom just wanted me to be happy and healthy and that they would take care of Steve.

So now I leave it up to you. Having read both of our posts, who do you think is the real asshole? My brother for being “proud” of scaring my fiancé into a heart attack at our baby’s gender reveal party? Or me for never talking to said brother again for the health of my future family?

AITA?

----

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to support me and/or see these stories a week before I post them here, please check me out on Patreon (X)!

See you next week!

This week's story is based on this (x) prompt from Writing-prompt-s:

You are a person who covers your counter space in clutter and inadvertently makes a shrine to a long forgotten god who shows up to thank you.

#my writing #reddit parody #aita reddit parody

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ubeb0nes · 2 months ago

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Sevika x Fem!Bar Owner!Reader - The One Who Pours the Drinks

Pt. 3 (can be read as standalone)

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Summary: After their (very homosexually-charged) estrangement a few weeks ago, Angel tries to bury the sour Sevika left in her heart. Sevika does the same, dismissing any meaning to be found in how she still makes sure to walk by the Five-Copper Furnace at least twice a week.

But one thing remains true: No one threatens the one who pours the drinks.

a/n: i'm a dirty filthy liar, i finished pt. 3 for bar owner reader before i even started my warmup for writing sevika's character LMFAO. will still do that prompt at some point!!

w/c: like 4.3k ish

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The world doesn’t stop spinning because of one person.

It’s a sentiment you were forced to be fond of in your life before the one you had now. People had always come and gone, it was the nature of the crime life, and it was certainly the nature of the Zaun one too. To stop and mourn for too long was to die.

And you had a business to run.

You did your best to count your lucky stars every night, reminding yourself as you wiped down the bar that there were other people. Plenty of women with smokey laughs and eyes like the moon. You were a good-looking bastard, you’d find the next one. You had all the time in the world now, away from the strife that used to follow you like a shadow.

Pay no mind to how you always swiped harder at the bar as you had these thoughts, slamming tumblers and plates into their places beneath the bar with extra vigor. Nor to how Zaun was about as different from Bilgewater as steel to iron.

Sevika’s men and their presence started to dwindle with hers, albeit more slowly; many of them almost seemed hesitant, apologetic. You caught one of them on your way into the bar to open it for the evening.

“I’m real sorry, Angel,” he’d said.

“I’m sure she’s got other work for you,” you said, waving him off as if it was- and indeed, it was- nothing personal. You only had problems with one ex-frequent of your bar. You weren’t even all that inclined to include the heavy muscle she brought in with her on the last visit.

“Always other work where the boss is concerned,” he affirmed, “But… this has been one of the better gigs.” You stayed static outside your bar for a moment as he walked away, your key still stuck in the lock.

It’s not like you needed protection in the first place, you were more than capable. Not that Sevika knew that. You grumbled to yourself as you organized the prep area behind the bar; you hadn’t had to give much mind to security the past several months, Sevika handled the matter in its entirety without you so much as having to ask.

You’d have to add that back into your list of tasks. Along with putting all the stools up at closing time. And what were you supposed to do with all these damn cigarillos you had behind the counter? You didn’t smoke nearly as much as she did.

You smacked a hand that wasn’t yours away from the aforementioned stash, smirking when you heard a small, “Ow, jerk!”

“You’re not old enough to smoke.”

“It’s Zaun, babies would smoke if they could,” the boy, a little tail of yours named Kix, retorted, pouting as he hopped up on the counter. You sighed. “I finished that book you gave me.”

“Yeah? How was it?”

“Pretty good! And, I think, as a reward for finishing it, I should-”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there,” you said, stepping away to move the lemons you just sliced into a container. Your tail, of course, followed.

“Fine, can I at least finally get a knife?”

“When you can wield one of those batons without smacking yourself in the face, yeah. ‘Til then, hell no.”

“That’s a bad word!”

“Like you care!” You could only breathe out a laugh. The children of Zaun were sharp, often leaving you deeply amused and incredulous.

“Ugh,” he said dramatically, flailing against the bar. You shot one of your patrons an apologetic look at the antics of Stray Wet Cat #1. “But you have so many, Angel!” He exclaimed, “How’d you get those anyway? Did you kill somebody?”

I killed a lot of people, you wanted to say, but something told you that wouldn’t have been appropriate. “I told you before, Kix,” you started, voice gentle like a teacher’s, “Zaun isn’t the only place in the world where you need to defend yourself. The world is way bigger.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered to himself, pushing away from the bar and trudging back to the lounge area connected to the kitchen, where a few of the other kids spent their time. You frowned as you watched him walk away, then looked down at the paring knife in your right hand.

For the children of Zaun, life depended on which end of the knife you found yourself on, and oftentimes nothing more. How much were you really doing for them, giving them sandwiches to eat and rudimentary lessons on how to hold a blade? They all had to leave the bar at the end of each day, stepping back into the streets waiting to swallow them whole on their treks back home.

“Don’t be so hard on ya’self, Ang’,” the patron you’d shared a look with earlier interjected. You looked up at him in a daze, quickly putting on a thoughtful smile.

“I’m okay,” you replied simply.

“And so are those kids, thanks to you,” he said, “A little bit goes a long way in Zaun. These kids can stretch an inch of kindness, always have been able to.”

You saw eyes like slate in your mind as the gentleman went back to nursing his drink, and your smile faltered.

Weren’t these the kids Sevika claimed to be doing her righteous work for? What could she tell them as she chipped away at their safe haven, showing up bi-weekly just to take away a little more? You growled lowly as you swiped a cigarillo from beneath the counter, abiding the thought to linger in your mind- as if you could condition yourself to hate her faster.

You were busy staring down the end of the cigarillo as you lit it, almost too busy to notice how a wave of quiet had washed over the Five-Copper Furnace. Your eyes flicked to the door just in time, though.

Your busy mind halted all thoughts more trivial than the now, a low voice reminding you of the shotgun beneath your bar, the knives in your sleeves, and the preeminent experience in violence that scarred your skin. Four men wearing all manners of weapons, and gleaming belt buckles of meridian silver, stalked into your bar.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

Sevika was, for whatever reason, a woman well-versed in the department of odd and unwanted talents. Being weirdly good with kids was at the forefront.

“Oh! Captain-General Metal Arm Lady!” Well, she knew which kid that was*.*

“Why is my name so long?” She muttered to herself as she stopped anyway, and turned on her heel to face him. The boy, one of Angel’s little henchmen named Kix, skidded to a stop in front of her. “What is it, kid?” She asked gruffly.

“Where’ve you been? Are you and Angel having a lover’s quarrel?”

Isn’t he like twelve?? Sevika picked her jaw up from the ground as quickly as it’d fallen. “Who the hell even taught you what that is?” She asked incredulously.

“That’s a bad word. And I read it in a book. Are you coming to the Five-Copper?”

“No, I’m busy,” Sevika said flatly. Her brow furrowed at the way his face fell. Not like a child who’d been told no, but a boy who had something to fear. “…Why?”

“Well, uh… m-maybe you could just stop by?” He rocked back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at the bar in question. He’d caught Sevika so close to the place, he just needed to get her through the door… “I think Angel might… u-um…”

Sevika sighed. “Before tomorrow, Kix.”

“I think Angel might need you.”

Sevika scoffed, turning with a small flare of her cloak (drama queen), “She’s a big girl, she can handle herself just fine, kid. I gotta go.” A small, surprised grunt rose out of her when she felt a tug on her metal arm. She looked down at the boy, shooting him a glare that lacked even an inch of fire.

“Please, Miss Sevika! A bunch of guys just walked in and I don’t know them, a-and they have really ugly, scary faces, and-”

“Okay! Okay. C’mon, let’s go,” Sevika rattled her arm out of Kix’s grasp, sweeping it back beneath her cloak. The boy let out a small cheer as her broad form turned in the direction of the Five-Copper Furnace, and he fell into step under the cover of her shadow. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Sevika’. Just Sevika is alright,” she made a small, grossed-out sound.

“Okay! Does that mean we’re friends?”

“No,” she replied, giving his head a small nudge as they walked.

“Ack! Bully!”

The smile that began to flicker across her features promptly melted back into her perpetual frown as she watched almost half a dozen patrons leave the Five-Copper in succession. “How many of them were there, kid?” She asked in a low voice.

“Uh, I think four?”

Sevika hummed, stopping beside the entrance. She pulled Kix aside by the collar with her, as even more patrons filed out. “Are your friends in there?” She asked. The boy nodded. “Okay. Go get ‘em through the back. And go home.”

“But-!”

“Uh-uh. She’s already pissed at me enough, can’t imagine how mad she’d be if you brats got hurt once this goes down.”

“So…” Sevika felt a few grey hairs grow in at the same time Kix’s frown faded into a grin, “…it is a lover’s quarrel?”

“Kix!”

“Okay, bye Sevika!” He hopped up and down as if to charge himself up before sprinting off. Sevika watched as he nearly tripped over himself when he quickly halted again. “Uh… you won’t let them hurt Angel, right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Sevika said. She sighed as his feet stayed planted in the ground. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, “You have my word, kid. Angel will be okay.” He gave her a final grin, before darting off. Sevika cracked her neck as she zeroed back on the entrance to Angel’s bar. “Guess collections is early this month,” she muttered wryly, before pushing the door open.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

“These people don’t even know, do they?”

You breathed out tendrils of smoke from your nose, lowering your voice in line with the bounty hunter’s. His friends had stayed mute, opting to survey your patrons and the bar itself like three angry lighthouses.

You smiled slightly at those who hadn’t left yet, whose postures were coiled tightly like metal springs.

“I can’t imagine it’d change a thing,” you replied. You picked up the wanted poster (old fashioned, you were aware) he’d thrown on the counter, giving it another flippant once-over. Your likeness had been- rather skillfully- illustrated in the center, with meaningless words like ��Wanted’ and ‘approach with care’ swimming around it.

God, I’m good-looking, you thought with a smile and a nod.

“And yet you have ‘em call you a different name. Bury your old one with the rest of your money, huh?”

“Oh, that isn’t buried. Not one bit,” Your face spread into a grin, wolfish teeth crushing the filter of the cigarillo. You saw the hunger that flickered in his eyes, a greed so romantically entwined with the people of Bilgewater that men died for it. Like this one would.

“Well, good to know! Between that and the hundred Golden Krakens on your head, you’ll make a fine cashout,” the rancid man said, “Angel.”

Your eyes widened slowly, mockingly. “A hundred Golden Krakens?” You echoed, “…Can I turn myself in?” Your eyes flicked casually to the door as you heard it open once again.

“Very funny. Now…”

Whatever the hunter had to say ceased to matter as you watched her walk in. Wide shoulders curved inwards, entering with the same intent your remaining customers all had. Sevika met your eyes immediately.

On one hand, not only was your safety further secured, but a return in a casket to your old city was all but out of the question now. Sevika wouldn’t let you die, at the very least, you knew that much.

On the other hand… Sevika was in your bar. Your eyes narrowed at her, and you gave her a look that practically screamed ‘piss off’ in spite of your other senses relaxing. She shook her head at you, matching your rising agitation with an annoyed curl of her lip.

Kix, she mouthed. Oh, thanks, kid. What a wingman.

You would’ve found it silly the way she stuck to the walls as she moved through the bar. Trying to get closer to you, you realized. A hand slamming down on the table and another grabbing your collar brought your attention back to more pressing matters.

Sevika felt her heart jump higher in her chest, and she resisted the urge to rush right to you and pluck that man’s head from the rest of him. A firm hand on her shoulder was all that prevented her, and she leveled her gaze with the fool who’d stepped in her line of view.

“We called dibs on this job, you’re too late,” the hunter said. Sevika furrowed her brows in brief confusion, but the pieces came together quickly in a mind as sharp as hers.

Bounty hunters? For you?

He gave her shoulder a shove, and Sevika let herself be moved. Some distance to deploy her left arm’s blade, good. “Go on,” he growled.

A scream from the bar counter swiveled all heads in that direction.

Sevika’s eyes widened as your name started to rise in her throat, until she saw the main perpetrator sink like a stone in water… his hand left behind in your grasp. You wiped the knife on your apron, throwing your still-burning cigarillo at him as he writhed on the floor.

Sevika threw her cloak to the ground before her sensibilities turned to steel.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

You would’ve made a fine alchemist, if you hadn’t chosen the more profitable industry of alcoholism instead.

You also would’ve been far less likely to have ever encountered Sevika and the all-consuming rage she inspired in you if you’d started an Apothecary. What with her- very much expected- aversion to seeking out any medical assistance of any sort.

“Ow.”

“Stay still.”

“Ow.” Sevika hissed when you pressed the tonic-doused cloth to her wound with the exact same vigor as before, thrashing away from you. You sat up straight, leveling her with a look that seethed with your indignance.

“You’re acting like a wuss.”

“And you’re acting like a child who didn’t get her way,” she snapped. Your eye twitched, and so you closed them to take a moment to gather yourself.

You missed the way Sevika’s gaze fell slowly to your lap, eyes creasing as she frowned at your battered hands. You hadn’t had time to pull your gun from beneath the bar before shit went down, and so you’d resorted to hacking with hand and blade. Sevika had been at your back like a magnet, sticking to you and letting the hunters come to her. You’d held your own valiantly.

She only serviced you a lukewarm glare as you moved back to her, this time gently easing the cloth onto her wounded cheek. You held her in place by the other side of her face. “You can take a punch but not a wound disinfectant,” you quipped.

“I took more than just a punch recently, princess.” Sevika side-eyed you when your touch faltered, letting out a shallow huff from her nose.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered.

“Who the hell were those guys? What could they possibly want with you?” Sevika asked. You jutted your lip at her in annoyance when her movements shifted the cloth.

She looked down to ponder the fight from a few hours ago (the lower floor was still an absolute wreck, but that was a problem for you to deal with tomorrow). Silver teeth; and weaponry not at all reminiscient of anything you’d find in Zaun, or Piltover. They had moved with an erratic tick to their attacks, not completely unlike the Shimmer-dependent henchmen Silco kept; although their addiction ran strictly red.

“They weren’t Zaunites,” she mused aloud.

“…No. They weren’t. They were from Bilgewater.”

You freed your other hand to reach for your wanted poster you’d nabbed before heading upstairs, and handed it to Sevika. There was a hanging silence between you as she read the same words over and over again.

“They got your likeness wrong,” she said. You pursed your lips, waiting. “Your head is bigger than that.”

“Shut up.”

Sevika chuckled; or at least gave a limp attempt at it. Her hand holding the poster fell with a soft crunch as she sighed. You let your own hands rest in your lap as she closed her eyes, and leaned her head over the back of your couch.

She had such a pretty neck. The lines of that strange scar were like wisps of blue smoke on her skin. You wanted to reach out to touch them, to thank her sweetly for defending you even as you spat fire on her wounds. You wanted to kiss all the smooth and rough patches you could see, lull her into a soft sleep-

“This is gonna get back to Silco in a couple of days tops.”

You scoffed. “What, is he gonna raise my rent? Doesn’t he have a revolution to claim to run?”

Deep down, you were impressed with what Sevika let you get away with saying to her. Inadvertently discounting her life’s work was no small thing, and you’d seen her put others on the ground for less. It was even more surprising when she gave a real answer to your poor-faithed question.

“You should’ve kept your head low. And let me deal with it. Not- cut a guy’s hand off.” She shook her head, rubbing her forehead. You opened your mouth to refute your lost honor, but she beat you to it, “You’re too… competent. He’ll wanna bring you in now. And you’re no good to the Undercity if he pockets you.”

You’re about to ask her why the hell does she work for him then, but another piece clicks into place before the words surface. Sevika watches the realization cross your face. “So that’s why you…”

“Trust me,” Sevika took hold of your wrist as she raised her head to stare scrutinizingly at your wall, and guided you to press the cloth back to her face. “The collections I take from you are cheaper than really being under his heel. You should see what he takes from that Sheriff up in Piltover.” She breathed out a humorless laugh. Your eyes widened, as the scope of Silco’s reach did too. **

You were a fool. Had going straight truly dulled your cunning mind? (Or was it just the handsome woman sitting in your living room…)

“That’s the discounted price too, by the way,” she muttered. You were pulled from your thoughts with a soft laugh.

“I knew you were fond of me.”

“I like what you do for the kids.”

“It’s nothing,” you said softly, surveying the injury on her face and deeming it sufficiently stabilized to move onto the next. You were glad, at least, that the brunt of the pain had been inflicted on you two rather than your good-willed customers.

Sevika’s brow furrowed as she watched you go through the motions of prepping her next injury. Truthfully, she didn’t know why she let you drag her upstairs in the first place; the way you coupled your attentive- if not presumptuous- touch with barbed jabs at her gall for walking into your bar should’ve pissed her off. But she let you move her like you were a breeze.

Your movements were practiced, like you’d spent a whole lifetime sweeping up the broken pieces of stupid, pointless fights. Sevika looked down at the wanted poster again. “…How much is 100 Golden Krakens?” She asked.

You hummed as you tried to think of the best comparison in Zaun’s economy, “Probably eightteen months’ worth of what I make running the bar.”

“Janna-”

You laughed heartily as you carefully peeled the wax paper from a bandage. Subconsciously, you rubbed over the wound once it was patched to soothe the ache, not noticing how Sevika’s gaze immediately went to your nimble hand. “Why, you thinkin’ about turning me in?” You teased.

“Funny,” she deadpanned, “Would be one less pain in the ass for me, though.” She gave you a pointed onceover. Her feigned exasperation melted into a grin when you slapped her leg (albeit very weakly).

“You just said you like me!”

“That isn’t what I said,” she said, still feigning dismissal so smugly. You hated how well she wore a petty smirk, or how pretty her teeth were when she gleaned a real smile.

(You wanted to kiss that stupid look right off her face.)

Instead, all you did was roll your eyes, collapsing on the opposite end of the couch. In Sevika’s mind, she just won that encounter.

“You mind if I smoke?”

You waved your hand, looking out the window of your kitchen, “Worse has happened in my house today.” She didn’t pull your gaze back to her until you heard her shifting around for a longer amount of time than it should’ve taken for someone to find a cig and lighter. “Lose your lighter?” You mocked, taking in the cigarillo hanging out of her mouth as she patted down her pockets with mild frustration on her face.

“One of the bastards must have knocked it out of my pack,” she said with an agitated sigh. Her eyes perked up at the metal clink of… your lighter. You laid your head back against the arm of the couch, resting the open lighter slightly above your abdomen. Sevika’s breath caught as she realized how close she’d have to get to you- how close you’d make her get to you- to get a light.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare as they slid up to meet your gaze. She wasn’t about to make a coward of herself now, though. She held your expectant stare as she leaned down between your legs, one of her hands boldly bracing on your shin with a slight squeeze. She cupped her hand protectively around yours as she lit the end of her cigarillo. The way your eyes widened and your chest stopped rising with breath wasn’t lost on her.

I take it back, Kix, she thought, I don’t think she’s all that pissed.

She turned her head to the side as she blew smoke from her mouth. “Tell me something,” she said, her voice nearly a purr. You had to fight with your own goddamn eyes to tear away from the small puffs of smoke that left her mouth as she spoke. You cocked a brow. “Were you a pirate or something?” She asked. Her eyes widened slightly when you met her with silence. “Oh, sweet hell…”

“Don’t laugh!”

She laughed. You loved that she did.

“That was… a long time ago,” you waved your hand like you could bat the memories away, but they’d never felt more with you than today. You had nearly forgotten how easy it was to snatch someone’s life away. You’d made a fortune on it once, and yet… the muscle of ruthlessness had grown weak and disoriented with lack of exercise. You frowned to yourself, shaking your head. “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

Sevika shrugged, taking another drag. “We don’t choose where life puts us,” she replied. You shouldn’t have been surprised by such a… thoughtful sentence leaving her mouth. But your brows still raised slightly as you looked at her. “I’m not gonna be the one to judge you around here.”

You frowned, guilt jabbing in your gut. “But I did you.”

“Maybe you weren’t wrong for it,” she retorted softly. Your eyes widened. She inhaled softly before continuing, swiveling her gaze to meet yours again. “I used to try an’ push Silco to do more for the kids. Get books smuggled in in between all the Shimmer requisitions,” she scoffed, shaking her head. Your heart squeezed as you watched her carefully begin to pull the curtains around her true self back- for you. “Give people resources, just… something. I didn’t realize I let four years go by ‘til I saw you doing all that for the kids the moment you touched down here.”

You sighed, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch to rub your face with both hands. “You really think I won’t be able to help them at all once Silco comes knocking?” You asked, biting your lip as you felt like what was the only answer was slowly enclosing around you.

Immediately though, Sevika shook her head. Your mouth opened slightly in confusion as she stood up from your couch. “No. I’m gonna handle this,” the determination in her step would have been beyond adorable if it weren’t for your utter bemusement. “I… owe you,” she said slowly. You wanted to laugh at how her fierce bravado seemed to come to a skidding stop the moment she had to make an admission on her pride.

“Oh yeah?” You teased.

She rolled her eyes as she pulled her cloak back on over her shoulders, concealing that absolute unit of a figure from your prying eyes. You smiled at how her broad shoulders were still very apparent, and the beginnings of her v-line peeked out with that damn cropped vest- get it together, Angel. “He’s gonna know I was here anyway, might as well make something out of it,” she explained (right, you bought that…), pausing again to scrutinize you, “You’re all good?”

Trigonometric equations started floating around in your head as you tried to decipher what she could possibly mean with that question, until her arched brow turned judgemental at how long you were taking to answer.

Oh. She was just asking about your… general wellbeing. Aw!

“O-oh, yeah, I’m all good,” you said. Truthfully too, you were more used to fighting the Bilgewater types than her, and had come out of the confrontation mostly unscathed. Your jaw stuttered as if to say more when she hummed and took a swift step forward, tilting your head up with her index and thumb.

“You’re not lying?” She asked lowly, turning your head gently from side to side.

“E-even if I was, it’s none of your business,” you snapped defensively. Dumbass. Did you have any idea how red your face was?

With an amused exhale from her nose, Sevika gently let go of your chin, fleetingly brushing her crooked index over your cheek. “Whatever you say, princess,” she said. She didn’t even give you a chance to shoot back something clever (as if you had something prepared) before she was sweeping towards the door, fixing her cigarillo in the corner of her mouth. “Your bar’s a mess,” she quipped over her shoulder, just to be a dick.

“Fuck you!” You called after her, the smile on your face crystal-clear in your tone. The last thing you saw was her pretty side-profile as she half-glanced at you with smug amusement lining her face, before she closed the door behind her.

You slumped back on the couch, letting out a heavy sigh. “That goddamn woman…” you muttered, “Fuck.”

#sevika #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #ubebones writing #arcane #angel the pirate

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keferon · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 of Jazzprowl mecha! >:D

Previous chapter

Under the cut⤵️

Jazz thinks Prowl is fucking weird.

With space around him and aliens and fucking teleportation and all that crazy shit...Prowl's weirdness isn't too obvious at first. But once Jazz stops marveling at the view outside the window, his attention shifts completely to his new companion.

And. Well.

"'Your plates are so squarish.'"

Prowl takes a break from reading something on his tablet and raises his eyebrows in surprise

"They are."

Jazz moves closer curiously

"No offense okay but isn't it... Hmm. Stupid?"

He raises one hand and lightly slaps the edge of his palm against the center of Prowl's chest.

"What's the point of making armor this shape? And with so many wide gaps? All the strikes will go straight through. It's kinda dangerous. "

Prowl purses his lips in confusion.

"Excuse me? As if your armor makes more sense."

"It does."

"You...wha...you know what. Humor me, explain what you mean."

Jazz shrugs.

"It's round. And the gaps are...uh. What's the right word. They're thin? It's very hard to grab with your teeth or get under with your tentacles. See? You are. Dude, no offense, but you're like, really grabbable."

Prowl just silently opens and closes his mouth for a couple seconds, trying to think of what to say in response. Finally he decides to focus, but not on the part Jazz might have been expecting

" You... were built to fight the Quintessons?"

Jazz nods

"Course I was. Why else?"

Prowl looks....Very worried and somehow sorry for Jazz.

That's weird.

Jazz lets this detail just linger in his mind. He's not sure what conclusion to draw from it yet. And it's very likely that his poor knowledge of the unfamiliar language is setting him up. He's not sure.

------

Prowl has wheels. Jazz gives himself a mental smack for not paying attention to them in the first three seconds, but it doesn't matter now.

Because Prowl has freaking wheels in his shoulders and Jazz has a bunch of questions in his head.

Why the fuck does he have wheels??? In a place like this??

Prowl looks up at him.

"Something wrong?"

Jazz reaches out his hand mesmerized and spins one of the wheels.

The wheel spins.

What an amazing world.

Prowl looks confused again

"Jazz?"

"What are they for?"

Prowl faintly twitches one of his weird little wings.

"To drive."

Jazz spins the wheel again

"But you can't drive them! I mean, they're...uh."

He tries to find the right words in his head to say "inside your shoulders" but. Shit. He doesn't know how to say it so he accepts his linguistic defeat and helplessly twitches his horns.

"...They're on top."

Prowl tilts his head, clearly missing the point, and turns one of his legs around

"I've got another ones here...?"

Jazz instantly squats down and. Yep. There are wheels in the legs too.

Prowl moves his foot away before Jazz can spin that wheel too.

"I can just show you if you want."

That's a great idea. A fantastic one. Jazz is hellbent on seeing how it would actually work, because all his brain offers him is "fall on your back and awkwardly drag yourself along the ground?"

Prowl doesn't fall anywhere.

Instead, he suddenly ALL starts moving and freaking folds into himself? Jazz isn't sure what exactly he was expecting to see, but watching another mech fall apart like lego sure as hell wasn't that????

Not falling apart, he realizes a moment later.

Is it reassembling? Into something else???

A second ago, Prowl was standing next to him, and now there is a

Is that a fucking car???

Jazz can't say anything more clever than a loud "HAH???"

It is indeed a car. The design is very odd and Jazz can't recognize the model, but it looks like something vaguely race-y?

He pats the roof of it.

"That's so cool!!!"

The car somehow manages to look awkward and moves away from him sideways like some weird metal crab.

What the- what the hell-

------————————-

Prowl's mech has an amazing face.

Not that Jazz is staring, but he can appreciate the amazing attention to details. The eyes, the nose, even the lips. Who and why would make a mech with such lifelike face? That ..would make sense if Prowl had to appear in front of a camera, wouldn't it? Maybe he's some kind of celebrity like Blurr?

Jazz doubts it. Prowl doesn't strike him as someone who's used to attention.

But it's a good face, yeah.

Prowl valiantly ignores his staring, but after ten minutes gives up

“What?”

Jazz shrugs. He's been doing that a lot lately.

"You have a really cool face."

Prowl chokes on air and looks confused again. If you look closer. What is this face even made of? It looks metallic but it bends??? Literally...how?? How does it work?

Jazz is taller than Prowl, so he has to bend down to get a closer look. He wants to ask if the mech's face was modeled after the pilot's, but. Shit. How do you put it into simple words ?

Man. Okay. Uh. Appearance. How do you say "real?" True-positive? Wait, no, true and false are from English, this new language must contain one state word for true and false at the same time.

Prowl watches Jazz's struggle with the patience of a true buddhist monk.

What word even summarizes the state of being true or false? Hot and cold is "temperature", heavy and light is "weight" and then..

Jazz fumbles his fingers helplessly.

"What's the word for. You know how."

He claps his hands hard, and then again, barely audible.

Loud and quiet.

"Sound-positive, sound-negative, right?"

Prowl nods.

"But if I speak. I-mouth-positive."

He claps once more, quietly, barely audible

"I-mouth-positive. Sound-positive. Word-question?

If I do “quiet” but say “loud”. If I do one thing and say another, that's called-?

Prowl twitches his little wings.

"Ah. That would be veracity-negative."

Jazz makes happy finger guns.

"Yes! This..."

He points to Prowl's face

"Appearance-veracity-positive?"

He could probably phrase it more...accurately. Jazz chews his lips in concentration and tries to elaborate

"Appearance-veracity-positive-you?"

Prowl tilts his head

" Uh. Yeah? That's what I look like. I didn't change anything. It's..."

He pauses uncertainly

"Why are you asking me that?"

Jazz gives a thumbs up

"How do you say 'impressive'? Something like "eyes-positive-emotions-positive." Or it would be "good." Good sounds kind of cheap.

Jazz decides to add a couple more positive modifiers on top just in case. He's always been generous with compliments.

Prowl's wings bounce up funny.

One of the passing lilac aliens whistles.

_______________________________

Prowl thinks Jazz is fragging weird.

Okay, to be fair. Prowl has never had to be anyone's guide to interplanetary interactions.

He'd heard that races making contact with the rest of the galaxy for the first time tended to be weird. It's alright. He can understand that. Which of course doesn't mean it's any easier for him to be at the center of it all...everything.

Jazz is clingy. Friendly. He's definitely never been off his planet before, so everything around him surprises him.

Prowl's obviously “surprising” too, but there's this weird familiarity in Jazz's attitude towards him.

Prowl thinks it's because they're both mechanical life forms. It's the only guess he has that makes sense. But Prowl realizes pretty quickly that Jazz only looks like a Cybertronian at first glance. It's the details. Small and disturbing details.

Jazz was built to fight the Quintessons. His entire body, his entire design was made for it.

Now that Prowl knows that, he's starting to see it. Now that he knows where to look, he can't stop noticing.

All the plates are either round or streamlined and sharp.

He has no face, but his head is shaped in such a way that it would be very hard to grab onto. Or to hit it.

Prowl's processor involuntarily tosses him numbers.

Every bend and edge. Every detail. The visor isn't just curved, it's arched at the most perfectly calculated angle to take hits. His chest plates have the perfect ratio of thickness and curvature so that any direct hit ricochets or slips without going through the plate directly.

And Prowl is scared to even begin to analyze the structure of those legs. He originally saw their design as something similar to Empurata's. But no. The Empurata had always made it their goal to humiliate and diminish their victims. The limbs that the Empurata created were simple and often horribly, impractically awkward.

Jazz's legs are an engineering marvel and Prowl honestly almost wants to take a closer look. They bend at...how many? Five? Six places?

He leans forward quietly, pretending to want to change his posture, trying to get a better angle. There's at least one more joint under the front plates. Seven then?

Huh.

Jazz snorts

"Like what you see?"

Prowl flinches and quickly looks away. Idiot. Just because Jazz’s head is pointed in the other direction doesn't necessarily mean that's where his gaze was pointed as well.

"I apologize."

Jazz chuckles

"Hey, don't be sorry. You're giving me a reason to show off~"

Prowl gives up. Okay. Maybe it's just that Jazz's weird openness is contagious.

"Your legs are pretty..."

"Cool," Jazz offers

Prowl nods diplomatically.

"Unusual. I think cool too."

Would it be too weird to ask exactly how many joints are in them? Perhaps yes, that's personal medical information after all.

Jazz takes a few joyful little leaps

"They let me walk on walls."

"I have to admit that's impressive."

______________

"Can I join you?"

The little furry alien folds their arms across their chest and says something that...sounds disgruntled. Jazz honestly can't understand a word of it. He just saw the aliens playing something remotely resembling cards and he got curious. He doesn't remember having a fight with any of them yet.

The alien stares at him expectantly for a couple seconds and then waves one of their limbs and switches to a language familiar to Jazz

"No. Go back where you came from."

Uhm. Rude.

One of the lilac creatures smiles guiltily

"We don't play with robots."

Jazz stiffens

"But I don't..."

His attempt to explain is interrupted by the furry alien

"I don't care what you say. Whatever's underneath the metal, whatever scientific nonsense you come up with. This..."

He gestures toward the entire Jazz’s mech.

"...it's a machine. We don't play with machines. It's an unspoken rule. So go back to your corner and stay out of our way."

The lilac alien folds his limbs in embarrassment

"Hey, there's no need to be so rude."

"I'm just stating facts!"

"You could have done it politely..."

Prowl raises his eyebrows and moves away, making more room for Jazz on the bench.

"Kicked you out?"

Jazz sits down next to him and confusedly begins to play with his own fingers

"They wouldn't even let me explain."

Prowl taps him on the shoulder.

"It's hard to explain anything to them. They think you're a soulless machine just because you look like one."

Jazz snorts

"Well, that's just stupid."

Prowl shrugs

"They think you don't have a soul, so you shouldn't participate in their social interactions."

Jazz twitches his horns angrily

"That's..fucking idiotic."

"Well yeah" Prowl picks up "how can they judge whether we're sapient or not?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Where's the evidence that they themselves have more 'soul' than mold?"

"Ye..Wait what?"

(..What the hell??)

Prowl frowns.

"I should probably be more...sorry. You're new to this topic and...I'll try to explain in an unbiased manner."

Jazz nods awkwardly

Prowl pinches the bridge of his nose

"In general. We don't really meet their standards of ''alive and sapient being'' and they don't meet ours. Because of that, we...don't get along."

Jazz senses that something doesn't add up. Something dramatically big and obvious. But Prowl already looks annoyed, and Jazz is uncomfortable stressing him out with another game of charades. Probably should hold off on discussing such complicated topics until he's talking better.

____________

Prowl finds himself mentally reevaluating Jazz.

He no longer thinks Jazz is just weird.

Jazz is terrifying.

When their transport is attacked by a bunch of Quintessons, Prowl's processor tells him they're totally screwed.

The monsters have the numerical advantage, the ship is full of tiny, fragile organics, and Prowl only has one random tourist on his side who's in space for the first time.

When Jazz excitedly jumps up and asks to be let "outside to have some fun" Prowl's processor says it's suicide. If you squint and tilt your head, the stats numbers add up into a neat little ship that goes down swiftly and surely.

Then he has no time for statistics. Because one of the organics opens the airlock for Jazz and before Prowl can say anything his space tourist is already out the window.

Frag.

Frag, frag frag frag frag frag frg

"Jazz wait!"

Prowl climbs out onto the roof of the transport just in time to see Jazz tear a limb off one of the Quintesson monsters.

The sight is...creepy.

Jazz obviously doesn't have enough strength to just yank it off, so he sort of grabs the tentacle with his hand and then very quickly rotates his forearm a bunch of times literally twisting it off. The monster screams and wriggles and tries to rip Jazz's arm off, but he just lets it clench its teeth on his plates.

Prowl is in pain from just looking at this.

The monster clenches its jaws.

Its teeth cut furrows in the armor.

Jazz doesn't even twitch.

Things only get more interesting from here on out.

Earlier, all Prowl had was Jazz's word. Jazz said his job was to fight the Quintessons. Prowl automatically assumed that to have a job like that, Jazz had to be at least somewhat good at it.

This? It's not "good". It's a killing machine.

And Prowl is, just a little bit, fascinated.

Jazz tears through monsters with more than skill. No.

Prowl's processor is speeding up, analyzing the data.

These moves aren't just devastatingly efficient. They're habitual.

Jazz rips off limbs and locks jaws. Jazz knows exactly where to strike and for how long that strike will knock the creature down.

At one point, he just takes a moment to jump on top of one of the monsters and Prowl can have the pleasure of watching the sheer panic and confusion on the face of the usually inexpressively furious creature.

Quintesson twists and twitches and struggles to throw Jazz off, but he doesn't seem at all bothered by the constantly moving and shifting surface. He's clinging on tight as a damn insecticon. In a way that Prowl himself, with his angular legs, probably never could.

He also doesn't seem to react to pain whatsoever.

Either so used to it or unable to feel it at all? Prowl's not sure.

Jazz takes dozens of hits. He's been dropped, scratched and bitten. His plates are full of fresh grooves intersecting older ones, but they go completely unrecognized.

It's creepy. It's unnatural.

Three monsters at once try to squeeze Jazz into a circle, and Prowl curses himself for not thinking to ask for Jazz's comm. There's no sound in space, making screaming impossible, so Prowl just pulls out his rifle and shoots one of the Quintessons.

The creature twitches in agony and loses all interest in the battle struggling to shake off the sudden source of pain.

Jazz smacks one of the remaining monsters in the face and quickly bounces back to a more comfortable distance from the huge teeth and looks toward Prowl. Spotting a rifle and happily making finger guns again.

Prowl looks at the fresh teeth marks on Jazz's hands and thinks...wow...that's some wild dangerous alien slag.

Then he looks at the angular visor and the little moving horns and bouncy movements and corrects himself. Not slag. And not that weird. Probably.

The weirdest thing he's seen was organic life and he highly doubts that anyone or anything can overtake it.

#maccadam #prowl #jazz #mecha pilot jazz au #jazzprowl #the moment you realize that Japanese classic mecha designs were designed like tanks #you can't unsee it #the whole thing about triangular or round chests #look at them #they're just like front parts of different war machines in real life #or armor☝#knights armor #they made to make the hits “slip”#while transformers are very square #like. sorry my guy but anything you're getting hit with? yeah it's going straight through #Mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha jp writing

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studiopeached · 1 year ago

Text

THREE, TWO, RUN. ft. Peter Dunbar

♡ SUMMARY: After fleeing from your boyfriend, it isn’t long before the two of you reunite, against your will or with it.

♡ CONTENT WARNINGS: pwp, afab, fem!reader, ex-boyfriend!peter x reader, peter being a serial killer, moderate description of gore, NONCON/DUBCON, fingering, oral (fem receiving), big dick peter—not great prep, p in v sex, rough sex, biting/marking kink, fear play, predator/prey dynamics, size kink, bondage

♡ WORD COUNT: 2.4k plot, 1.9k smut. 4.3k total

♡ STREAM NOTE: SMUT BELOW THE SECOND NSFW BANNER. this is a spin off from my @peachedtvs blog called 'Til Death Dont We Part'

♡ MASTERLIST. cumming soon! Main blog @peachedtv

Peter felt you were quite silly, even from when his eyes first laid upon you through the windows of your diner.

So silly, in so many ways.

You were silly in the way you spoke. Expressive, lively, words filled with kindness and rhythm. Words Peter wanted to lock away for only him to hear. Your voice always melted into his mind like honey. Soothing, calming, just like the music he’d hum to silently as he got rid of your recent obstacles. A heavy saw in his hand slashing back and forth, splitting bone into two before stuffing remains of human flesh into a black tarpe—or when he'd bring the nuisances back alive. Screams of pain, terror, and torment vastly contrasting a smooth melody muffled through his earbuds.

Your smile was silly too. Loud, boisterous laughs pairing with it each time as you’d close your eyes tightly, breaths jagged as you’d brace your stomach from the joy. Your smile so mesmerizing Peter wanted nothing more to lock it away behind a key. To melt away in the melody of your laughter, to spread it across his lips and adorn the smile as sweetly as you do.

What was even sillier was how silly you made him feel. On the surface, the twist in his stomach was sweet. An admiration, an appreciation of something so pure. Although,

Peter always fell apart.

Even in the room of his own heart.

Every silly thing had something inside of him twist. A strange twist, a bubbling feeling that had his gut wrench around itself—curling around and laying discomfort deep into his heart, where it stood mockingly. Unable to be buried beneath other thoughts, placed behind distractions, or replaced with another. And this bothered him.

Peter was always in control.

Control of his job, control of his victims, the police, his therapy, the growing police patrols in your city. So why couldn’t he control this?

What were you doing to him?

He thought it was uncomfortable at first. But that strange feeling was quite addicting, stacking tenfolds in intensity ever since the first time he felt it with you.

“Are you okay?”

By now, this memory had occurred over 3 years ago.

The first day you two had met, Peter was not in a good mental space. His family was in ruins, the relationship between he and his mother deteriorating until he had finally decided to storm out of the house and leave for good. Leave his home for good.

With nowhere to go, and a rumbling stomach, Peter decided the best course of action was to first fuel his appetite. Damn Diner was loud, painstakingly so. There was a mess of voices, the clash of plates, cutlery, dragging of chairs against tilted floors, chaos that hummed against a muffled out melody of tunes through the ceiling speakers. Everything was so loud. There was a child in the booth next to his. A mess of ketchup and mustard spraying everywhere, a glob falling onto his cheek as his eyebrows knit together in annoyance. There was a couple in the booth across, arguing over the cries of their child whining for a crumb of their attention. There was yelling from the kitchen, scolding as a worker had done something wrong and sent an order to the incorrect table.

And then, there was you.

Timidly, you rushed over to his table. Clumsy and expressive as you stared down to him with empathy, apologizing profusely as you explained the mess around the diner. And there, all the loudness stopped. Your voice muffled, muffled until it became strikingly clear and the diner around him seem to slow. Peter's eyes traced your face, how you were out of breath, how kindly you looked to him, how you asked if he was okay. And in this world of distain, you were pure.

And there was the first twist.

Peter spent nights going crazy.

Absolutely insane.

When he had first broken into your apartment, his heavy steps drowned out by the moans of your roommate through the paper thin walls, he thought he would melt into the floor when he first inhaled the scent of you room.

It was a soft aroma, something that had his eyes rolling into the back of his skull when he saw you laying peacefully on the bed. Your head was smushed between a folded pillow, covering your ears as your face was scrunched in discomfort.

"Lucy's being so loud tonight, isn't she, Darling?" Peter spoke softly, the back of his hand gracing your cheek as he sat on the edge of your bed. Careful to dip your mattress slowly so as to not wake you. Carefully, his other hand trailed up the curve of your torso, hip to waist, before entangling with your fingers.

Your hand felt right in his.

Soft, smooth, and warm against his cold skin. And there, he knew even fate was in his hands the moment he had yours in his.

When Peter had mustered up the courage to approach you in the park, he felt his heart beating out his chest, his mind going hazy from everything he wanted to do to you—from hearing your voice up close again. It had been nearly a year since you two had first met at the diner, and it seemed as though you had forgotten him completely. Luckily, Peter knew enough about you through his year of...supervision, and was soon able to swipe you off your feet. There, he became yours.

Your boyfriend.

And you, his girlfriend.

Often the two of you shared late nights after your dates. The hum of cicadas drumming into the background as you'd lay into the grass of the park the two of you 'first' met in. Your hands would intertwine together as the other would hold the grass below. In this park, the two of you would often talk about your dreams, aspirations, or talk shit about whatever seemed to bother you in your life at the moment. And Peter always listened.

In other moments, the two of you enjoyed each other's company. A silence paired with the ambience of howling wind, crickets, and a glint in your eye from the reflection of the moonlight and stars twinkling above. And through this silence, your heart spilled.

“I want to be with you forever, Peter." You spoke softly, you eyes still stuck on the starlight above.

A twist, something twisted once more.

For the first time, Peter eyes looked away from you—a blush traveling to his cheeks, a pale red hue over his soft features.

“Forever, then, Darling."

And forever meant forever.

Years together flew by, and you both had your own jobs—despite Peter's insistence for you to stay at home and allow him to care for you. Although, you wanted to work. You wanted to experience the world. But what you didn’t want were the unreasonable hours of overtime your boss had subjected to you. Much to Peter's dismay, many late afternoons he would return to an empty home. Full of furniture, light, decoration, but never with the person he truly wished the presence of. Every evening, you would trail home hours after him. Enervated, dragging your feet along the floorboards as you slumped into his open arms.

“I missed you, Peter.”

Your voice was like honey.

“I missed you more, Darling.” Peter greeted you softly. There it was again. Something twisted. Peter looked down to your visage. Dark eyebags staining your soft skin, a pout dragging your lips, your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you sighed from exhaustion. His gut was twisting stranger than usual. A mix of annoyance for those who have exploited you, an annoyance that made his stomach curl inside.

Peter did not want you to continue working.

Your boss had gone missing for a couple days now.

The company was in disarray, having strangely lost employee after employee ever since you were recruited. The once bustling, lively atmosphere became quiet, dull, and empty. And with the new loss of your employer, there wasn’t an office cubicle you could return to. For the first time in months, you returned home before Peter.

Although, something felt off.

With Peter home, it was always lively. The ambiance of bustling trees against the wind outside, a hum of the dishwasher from the kitchen, a low vibrato of your home's ventilation system, and the comfort of your boyfriend's presence. He was such a soothing soul. Without him, the home felt strange. You felt the presence of another, many, an overbearing amount. As though invisible strings clumped together to weigh you heavier into the floor boards, creaking the dark oak louder than usual.

Without Peter, it felt as though something was calling for you—and curiously, you began to explore. Exploring the home you resided in, as this home empty of your lover didn’t feel like a home anymore. And that lead you to the door that stood at the far end of the first floor. Tucked beside the laundry room, you stood still and seemed confused.

Was there always a lock?

A sturdy lock it was. Heavy metal weighing it flush against the wood, holding the door firmly shut to keep everything in out. There was a strange smell, too. A scent that leaked from beneath the dark oak doorway, filling the air with a musk of cooper and spoiled eggs. Your hand reached for the lock, flinching when built up static pricked your skin. A warning. But you held firm. Giving a cautious, downward tug as the lock went slack. It was open. You pushed the door back slowly, a low creak humming your presence, a flood of a strange meat stinging the view in your eyes.

Firmly, a familiar hand held your shoulder.

The hand of your boyfriend.

You were terrified.

“Darling, what are you doing?”

You couldn’t think.

Not with the view of mangled flesh, the smell of copper and iron so strong your head began to haze strangely. No, you couldn’t think. Even more so with scattered limbs decorating the floor—being the remainder of the morbidly intact heads of your former colleges and employer, of your missing boss. Pieces of them did not fit like a puzzle. Limbs, skin, so much of their bodies were missing.

What was that dinner Peter served these passing evenings?

And it seemed as though fate enjoyed sparking your memory.

This time around, nearly three years later, it was not scatttered corpses, blood, or flies that greeted you. You stood before the door of the fourth apartment complex you were going to apply to. Advertised as a gated community of safety, an exorbitant lot you were willing to hack up the money for to get away from him.

Although, just as three years ago, just as you were able to arrive to the complex, nails dug into your shoulder, holding you in place. A voice low, strange, and terrifyingly familiar. The grip dug into your flesh this time, keeping you from running—just as you did in the home you shared with him. With a door you shouldn’t have opened, and a hand on your shoulder that felt larger than usual.

Your boyfriend's hand.

“I missed you, my Darling.”

You didn't know what was happening.

You scrambled fruitlessly, trying to shove Peter's hand off your shoulder when a burning wet rag was drowned upon your lower face. You kicked, muffled screams and sobs as you dug into the palm that pinched the bridge of your nose, your body growing increasingly more limp. You didn't know what was happening, but by the next moment, it seemed as though you were melting into the floor—the world around you sputtering and glitching as your vision faded out and back in as you fell back onto a large bed.

You couldn't recognize the monster that was before you.

You didn't want to recognize the monster that was before you. Although, a rough, large hand gripped the lower half of your face, covering your mouth and pinning you down into the plush duvet to muffle horrified screams, forcing you to look deep into a being empty of a soul.

Even back then, you always felt Peter’s deep eyes had an errie glint. They seemed dull, strange, and detached from any wonder or interest. All until his gaze would flit upon you. A spark of light dashing his iris, a soft smile spreading his lips. He only looked human when he looked at you.

Peter still kept that smile. A smile that had morphed after his descent into maddness. Sharp teeth and bloodshot eyes that contrasted against sharp blues. He looked terrifying. His forearms were scattered with scars and wounds, peeled back scabs across his skin—likely from the amount of struggling you had done while in his arms. Your name was etched into his skin. Over and over and over, hearts and sharp lines littered as keloids formed in the place of his artwork. His size dwarfed you, a wolf to rabbit. Predator to prey.

“Pe—“

"You remember the time when you'd say it back, don't you, Darling?" He leaned down by your neck, breathing in shakily as though he couldn't believe you were finally here. With him. All to himself. "When you would say you missed me too." His voice was disfigured. A mix of insanity and dark undertone to his speech making your head spin and eyes well with tears. Your entire body was trembling, the skin on your back burning as every nerve in your brain set off sirens that resonated throughout your head. You felt too fearful to even choke out a pathetic sob, wanting to blend into the sheets below you.

Meanwhile, Peter felt himself going crazy. He couldn't help the way his mind ran a mile a minute as he stared down at your dicheviled form. You were always so pretty, absurdly so. Even as the strands of your hair fell misplaced over your face, even as you looked up to him with so much fear, hatred, and terror, his stomach twisted just as it did three years ago. That strange feeling laying addiction down into the lining of his stomach, soothing his body that felt run dry of how you made him feel.

He needed you. Now.

Peter brought a hand to his lips, hastily removing his right glove as he bit the fabric covering the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off by his teeth. His free hand pinned you pliantly down into the mattress by the lower half of your face, the other sliding beneath your shirt to tear the fabric off your body. You thrashed, muffled sobs and tears running down your cheeks, wetting the palm of his hand.

Your terror only fueled him further.

His hands groped and fondled every inch of your skin that one could imagine, a long tongue pairing with his touch as Peter licked a long stripe up your neck—sucking deep blotches and bruises of dark blue and purple hues across your neck and chest. Peter marked you as his, bit your flesh like a meal, and ruined your soft skin for his pleasure.

The mattress beneath you was in shambles. Inch deep tears lay by your head as Peter held back the urge to squeeze you blue, from ripping into your flesh, the torn mattress a goreish display of holding back the brutal cuteness aggression Peter got from the sight of you.

His hand slid from your mouth, gripping your neck tightly to restrict precious air from flooding your throat. He wanted you ditzy anyway. Nothing but a lifeless shell of who you were once he was done.

Pilant.

Obidient.

And what better way than halfway choking you out?

Your hands held his wrist desparately, nails scratching into his skin as he only smiled wider in response, stitches appearing on the corners of his mouth to prevent his face from ripping in two from his pure display of euphoria.

You hadn't stopped crying this entire time. Desparate pleas falling on deaf ears as you begged Peter that this was enough, that you'd listen, that you'd stay. And as convincing as it seemed, Peter was not giving you another chance to escape him. Not again.

His hand trailed down until it cupped your clothed cunt. Nothing on your body remaining besides your panties. A gift, perhaps—the best for last. Peter pushed your panties to the side, experimentally swirling the pad of his thumb onto your clit, causing you to wretch out a struggled moan.

"P-Peter—!" He only smiled in response.

"You've always been so sensitive, huh? It seems you haven't changed at all." His thumb pressed harder onto your cunt, rubbing your clit side to side as the palm of his hand pressed firmly down upon your womb. He watched you fall apart with glee, sliding his other hands between your thighs and gently nudging a finger inside of you. You threw your headback into the sheets, grabbing the duvet desperately, your hips trembling as you felt your sanity waste away to the pleasure wracked into your body.

You always fell apart so prettily.

Your hand shakily reached out to Peter, your lips quivering as a second finger curled into your cunt—the heel of his hand hitting the underside of your puffy clit as he kept toying with the bud. It burned, terribly so. Considering how much larger his stature was to yours, how much larger his finger would be to your own, it was a miracle you weren’t ripped in half yet. Although, it sure felt as though you were.

Peter stretched you out relentlessly, scissoring inside of you before curling the pads of his fingers plush against your g-spot. You arched your back desperately, crying out as your hips stuttered in response. And Peter kept prying there. His fingers pounding into your cunt, hitting your g-spot over and over and over until you felt as though you'd die from the overstimulation. As you reached out to Peter, he pulled a length of manila rope from his back pocket—grabbing your wrists before tying your hands together and in front of your chest as through you were praying—and perhaps you were. Praying to Peter to slow down, to be more gentle.

A third finger was nudged deep inside of you, pairing with the speed of his thumb on your clit increasing. His fingers pounded into you feverishly, sounds of your arousal soaking your inner thighs and his forearm—dirtying the sleeve of his pinstriped coat. You couldn't concentrate, no longer resisting against the firm hold his shadows had upon your wrists. No longer holding back your sweet moans.

A burning desire began to pool in your gut.

"Peter, p-please—"

A hand gripped your throat.

"P-Peter, please— I'm gonna cu—m!" He smiled to you. You were always so easy to please.

"Cum then, dear." His fingers sped up their speed inside your cunt, recklessly pounding and curling into you, bruising your g-spot painfully as you sobbed out, clenching your pussy around his cock as you squirt onto him. Peter smiled, leaning down to suck your clit and swirl his tongue around the bud as your mouth opened silently. Your hips struggled away, and yet his shoulders spread your knees firmly, the underside of your thighs thrown over them. Peter continued to bully your pussy past your orgasm, sucking and licking your clit as his fingers continued to curl and pound into you to ride out your high. You were crying endlessly. Begging him to stop, that it was enough. And yet, he didn't pull out his hand until you were merely twitching and whimpering in his bed. Broken.

"Have you lost yourself in the pleasure, Darling?" Peter was manic. Your pleasure felt like a high he couldn't describe. The way your fingers clenched around him, he felt as though it was a sign. A sign that all your struggling was only to encourage him to fight against you, a sign that you were only pretending to be scared.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Your eyes widened open when you felt the tip of his cock slide between your folds, Peter having removed his clothing now too. You struggled, trying to sit up when his hand once again held your throat warningly, choking you lightly against the mattress—gently enough that you could take slow, shallow breaths.

"Peter, it's not gonna fi—!" Your mouth fell open silently as Peter suddenly shoved the head of his cock inside of you. Your pool of arousal allowing him to slide in with just a minor amount of resistance—minor to his strength at least.

Meanwhile, your eyes blew wide as you whimpered out desperately, struggling against the binds on your wrists as your cunt stretched around him. He was big, painfully so. And you were thankful he decided to slide the remaining of his length in slowly, inch by inch. And yet, even when he was just halfway, you felt as though he was already plush against your cervix.

"Is she resisting, hmm? I guess I can be a little rough, you were always into that, anyways." Before you could understand what Peter meant, he slammed the remaining half of his length deep inside of you as you screamed out, your hands curling tight fists as your nails dug deep crescents into your palms.

Before you knew it, Peter pulled out to the tip, and slammed right back into you. His pace was unwavering. A hand gripped on your neck, the other pressing you into the mattress by a palm against your womb as he split you on his cock. Peter pounded into you, skin against skin as you soaked his cock, splashing your arousal onto his pelvis and lower stomach. He was big, too big. Tears streamed down your face, and Peter only wiped them with his thumb before licking it into his mouth. He wanted to taste your fear.

He wanted to rip you apart.

Your chest heaved as his thumb came down to your clit once more, roughly pressing onto you before swirling it harshly. You arched your back, clawing at the wrist on your throat as you moaned, crying around his cock when the underside of it would press into your g-spot, when the head of it would slam so deep against your cervix you felt he might fuck himself into your womb. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, a hand gripping the torn sheets below you as you cried out when your pussy clentched around him.

"Please, please, can I c-cum—" You sobbed, looking down to where you and Peter where connected, seeing your cunt stretched impossibly wide for your ex-boyfriend's cock.

"Don't you dare."

"Please, Baby."

Fuck.

You drove him fucking crazy.

Peter swore he could’ve cum on the spot from hearing you finally call him baby once more, the name you neglected from him. The only name you should be calling him. Peter laughed.

"You truly know me so well, Darling." Peter's pace increased. His cock pounding into you hard enough to have your tits bouncing and the frame of the bed on the verge of giving out—your cunt clentching onto his fat cock even more.

"You can cum in three seconds." You nodded stupidly, too desparate to think.

Peter pulled back to the tip, slamming back inside.

"Three," His palm pressed into your womb, feeling the buldge of his dick against his hand, his cock dragging against your velvety walls. You swore you were going to die if you couldn't cum soon, Peter's counting teasingly slow as he fucked into you like a fleshlight. Like a pet.

"Two." Your pussy fluttered against him, Peter's fingers swirling your clit viciously.

"One," You whined, sliding your hands to his upper back as you raked down his skin.

"Please, please, please, let me cum." You were going crazy.

"Cum." You threw your head back, near screaming his name like a mantra as you clencthed around him, squirting for the second time that night as his cock continued to pound deep inside of you. Peter let go of your throat, his hands sliding beneath the underside of your thighs to push your knees into your chest—fucking you meanly in a harsh mating press as he refused to slow down. You felt like your soul was going to fall out your body, your pussy spasming as Peter continued to pound into you without any concern to your fresh orgasm and painful overstimulation that burned your walls.

"B-baby, Peter—please, I can'—"

And for the first time since three years ago, and for the first time together—Peter kissed you.

His kiss was soft, gentle, loving. His hips never stilled, continuing to rip orgasm after orgasm out of your poor little pussy. Although, his mouth was soft against yours, eyes closed and hand holding your neck lightly as the tips of his fingers graced your bruised skin. Bruised with the marks of his love, his obsession.

He held your face as kindly, as though you may be gone if he didn't keep you in his arms forever. Peter's tongue slid into your mouth slowly, and you moaned around him—letting him in. Your body missed him so much.

Maybe you still love him, even after it all.

Peter's pace became staggered, his hips slowing until he kept his cock deep inside and came directly into your womb. His load gushed out from the sides of your hole that stretched around him, stuffing you full. Peter allowed your thighs to rest by his hips, laying you back against the mattress as he continued to kiss you. His hands massaged your body, comforting the bites, hickeys, and bruises.

"I love you, Darling."

Peter spoke softly, pulling away from you. Admiring your fucked out state.

"So don't you leave me ever again."

You're watching...

#peter your boyfriend #your boyfriend peter #your boyfriend game #your boyfriend #yb game #yb peter #yb smut #yb fandom #your boyfriend visual novel #peter smut #yb peter smut #your boyfriend peter smut #peter your boyfriend smut

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fastandcarlos · 5 months ago

Text

Accept My Help, Love : ̗̀➛ Ollie Bearman

summary: the last thing your stubborn self needed was an injury, particularly when letting people in to help is a trickier job then it should've been

Your soft eyes looked at Ollie, with your arm wrapped in cast the most mundane jobs were suddenly your biggest challenges. In the Haas hospitality you stood, your plate of food ready to be eaten, but your hands unable to carry.

With Ollie talking to many of his future team members around him, you found yourself at a crossroads. The table you had wasn’t too far away, and with the strength in your arm getting better day after day, you were sure it was about time to challenge yourself a little more, placing your hands on the hot plate, making sure that your grip was nice and tight on it.

Usually Ollie was there to help you with most things, but with his career skyrocketing you didn’t have the heart to disturb. As you lifted the plate up, you were feeling pretty confident, surprised by how easy the weight was to carry. However, as you took your first step, your confidence quickly plummeted.

Before you knew it the plate slipped out of your hands and banged against the counter. The vibrations were loud across the hospitality lounge with several pairs of eyes darting in your direction.

“Babe?” Ollie questioned, one of those to quickly spin around and see what was going on.

You weakly smiled across at Ollie as his eyes looked around, piecing together what was going on. “Don’t say it,” you sighed, your shoulders dropping.

Ollie was used to you pushing yourself, asking for help was a job that you found particularly difficult, especially now that you had your injury too. All Ollie wanted to do was help you with your recovery, and remind you of just how capable your body currently was.

“Why didn’t you ask me to get it for you?” He asked, picking the plate up, leading you over to your table.

You hung back behind him, your steps slow and lazy as people slowly started to look away from you too. With a huff you dropped down into your seat, allowing Ollie to place the food in front of you before sitting opposite you.

“What were you thinking?” He questioned, keeping his eyes firmly on you.

Your expression was blank, the frustration was clear. By now you had hoped that you would be back to your usual self, hating the fact that you had to constantly rely on other people to get you through day to day.

“I just wanted to try,” you defended, “I should be able to carry my own plate by now, shouldn’t I? This is where you work, you shouldn’t be spending your day running around after me.”

Ollie’s hand reached across the table, taking a hold of your own and squeezing it gently. If anyone knew how hard this was for you, it was him. Accepting help wasn’t easy at the best of times, but now it felt as if everyone offered their help out of pity rather than concern.

“I’m fed-up Ollie, this is ridiculous.”

Your eyes stared down at the cast around your left forearm, doodles up and down the plaster that some of your closest friends had added to it as reminders to cheer you up whenever you were feeling down. As always, they were particularly drawn to what Ollie had doodled, the biggest heart he could fit on it that he knew you’d adore.

Your other hand brushed through your hair as you let go of a sigh, “I just want to be me again Ollie, I don’t recognise who I am right now.”

Ollie nodded understandingly, brushing the pad of his thumb over the back of your hand. “I get it, I’ve had injuries too when I’ve had to count on other people to get me by. But people do genuinely want to help you love.”

You slowly turned your head up, allowing yourself to see the concern in Ollie’s eyes. “I don’t like the fact that you’re constantly having to put yourself out for me, you can barely sit still because you’re looking around and worrying about me.”

Ollie continued to hold tightly onto your hand reassuringly, “that’s because I choose to do that, because I care and want to be there for you, whether you’re injured or not.”

You smiled weakly, feeling tears threaten to spill as a wave of emotion washed over you. “I just want this to end, to rip this stupid cast off now.”

A faint chuckle came from Ollie, since the day of your incident he had seen firsthand how frustrated you were, particularly as your injury wasn’t your fault to begin with. His heart broke when the doctor told you how serious the fracture was, the recovery period longer than you could’ve ever imagined.

It was never going to be easy but at the start, you were positive. However, the longer your arm took to fix, the less positive you were. Your negativity had taken Ollie by surprise, he’d never seen you so low, at times wondering if he was the right person to be able to pick you back up.

He too wanted to rip your cast off, but only when your body was ready for it to be done. “You know, I’m worried about what you’re going to be like when your cast comes off, because you’re going to be so much stronger, and tougher, if people are scared of you now, they should see you with a freshly healed arm.”

“Do you really not mind helping me out?” You asked Ollie.

His head shook straight away, without even having to think. “I’m always going to be there for you, injured or not. There are people around you who really do care sweetheart, it’s not embarrassing to ask them for help.”

“Thank you,” you smiled, watching as Ollie lifted your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it. “I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Ollie smiled, “you forget how amazing you are sometimes.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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anticipatedexhale · 28 days ago

Text

They are trying to cook for you, key word is trying!.

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, vander, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: they try to surprise you by cooking up a meal! (character)!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. Other than that nothing just sweet pure fluff, also not proofread yuppie!!

Mel Medarda.

Mel doesn’t usually cook, but she enjoys challenging herself to excel at anything she attempts.

She researches recipes beforehand and even practices privately to ensure she impresses you.

She insists on perfection—not just in flavor, but in presentation.

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When Mel told you she wanted to cook dinner for you, you didn’t know what to expect. She wasn’t the type to roll up her sleeves in the kitchen—her usual dinners involved lavish spreads delivered by Piltovan chefs. Yet here she was, dressed impeccably, her sleeves neatly rolled, slicing herbs with the precision of a master artist.

You sit on a stool, quietly admiring her grace. Every movement she makes feels deliberate, from the way she stirs the sauce to the way she tastes it with a thoughtful hum. “This needs a hint more acidity,” she murmurs, reaching for a lemon.

Finally, she places the plate in front of you—a stunning dish that looks like something from a gourmet restaurant. You almost don’t want to ruin the artistry by eating it, but the aroma convinces you otherwise.

After the first bite, you can’t help but let out a small moan of approval. “Mel, this is incredible.”

Her lips curl into a satisfied smile, her golden eyes gleaming with pride. “I’d hope so. I don’t do mediocrity—not even for a simple dinner.” She leans closer, brushing her fingers lightly against yours. “But seeing you enjoy it makes all the effort worthwhile.”

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Jayce Talis.

Jayce throws himself into cooking like one of his Hextech experiments—lots of ambition, not much planning.

He uses way too many ingredients and utensils, convinced that “more is better.”

The kitchen is a disaster by the end, but he’s proud of the chaos he’s created for you.

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“Jayce, what are you—oh my god, is that smoke?” you exclaim as you walk into the kitchen.

Jayce spins around, holding a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other. There’s flour on his face, and the counter is covered in an alarming array of spices, half-chopped vegetables, and what you think might be egg shells.

“Relax! I’ve got this!” he grins, though the sizzling pan in his hand suggests otherwise. He flips something in the air, but it lands half out of the pan. He quickly scoops it back in, glancing over at you sheepishly.

“You know,” you tease, crossing your arms, “you could’ve just let me cook.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he retorts, turning back to the stove with renewed determination.

When the food is finally done, he presents it to you with a proud flourish. It’s... not pretty. Some parts are slightly burnt, others undercooked, but you can see the genuine effort he put in.

You take a cautious bite, and while it’s not perfect, it’s oddly endearing. “It’s... not bad,” you say, smiling at his hopeful expression.

He beams like you just handed him an award. “See? Told you I could do it.” He pulls you into a flour-dusted hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Next time, though, I’ll definitely get it right.”

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Viktor.

Viktor rarely cooks, as his focus is usually on his work, but he secretly enjoys the idea of creating something special for you.

He’s not overly confident in the kitchen but is determined to make it a success.

He gets overly absorbed in the “science” of cooking, sometimes forgetting the practical side.

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

You find Viktor in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a cookbook propped open beside him. He’s frowning slightly as he measures ingredients with the precision of an engineer.

“You’re cooking?” you ask, a little surprised but mostly intrigued.

He glances up, his expression softening at the sight of you. “Yes, I thought... well, you deserve something thoughtful. But I may have underestimated the complexity of this recipe.”

You watch as he carefully stirs a sauce, only to realize too late that the pot is starting to boil over. He yelps, stepping back quickly, and you stifle a laugh as he scrambles to salvage the situation.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you, wiping his brow with a flour-dusted hand. “A minor setback.”

When he finally presents the meal, it’s a little uneven—the sauce is slightly too thick, and the vegetables are cut at oddly different sizes—but it tastes surprisingly good.

“This is amazing,” you say with a warm smile, and Viktor visibly relaxes.

“I am glad,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “I suppose I cannot compete with professionals, but knowing you enjoy it is... enough.”

You reach over to take his hand, and he squeezes yours gently, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.

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VI.

Vi doesn’t have much experience cooking, but she’s confident enough to think she can wing it.

She’s more interested in making it fun than perfect, cracking jokes and sneaking tastes while she cooks.

The end result is edible (barely), but her effort and enthusiasm make up for it.

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

When Vi told you she was going to cook dinner, you weren’t sure what to expect. Now, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, you can’t decide whether to laugh or intervene.

“Don’t just stand there,” Vi says, grinning at you over her shoulder as she stirs something in a pan. “I’ve got this under control.

The “control” she’s referring to involves a half-chopped onion, a bag of pasta precariously balanced on the counter, and a sauce that looks... experimental.

“Vi, do you even know what you’re making?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Dinner,” she says simply, throwing in a handful of spices with no regard for measurements.

When she finally serves the food, it’s a little burnt and overly seasoned, but her proud expression as she watches you take a bite makes it impossible to complain.

“Well?” she asks, leaning forward, her elbows on the table.

“It’s... unique,” you say diplomatically, and she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, okay, it’s terrible,” she admits, leaning back with a grin. “But you’re still stuck with me, so deal with it.” She reaches over to steal a bite from your plate, her playful smirk softening into something warmer.

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Caitlyn.

Caitlyn grew up in luxury and rarely had to cook for herself, but she’s surprisingly good at it thanks to her perfectionist streak.

She approaches cooking with precision, following recipes to the letter.

She loves making meals that remind her of home but adds her own modern twist

She loves making meals that remind her of home but adds her own modern twist.

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The smell of something delicious pulls you into the kitchen, where Caitlyn is standing at the stove, her hair neatly tied back and an apron wrapped around her waist.

“Is that... pie?” you ask, sniffing the air.

She’s completely in her element, moving with quiet efficiency as she checks the oven and stirs a pot of soup. When she catches you watching her, she tilts her head.

“It’s a family recipe,” she replies, turning to you with a smile. “I thought you’d like something comforting tonight.”

“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to help?” she teases.

You end up chopping vegetables under her guidance, and by the time the meal is ready, the two of you have fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

When she serves the pie, it’s golden and flaky, the filling warm and fragrant. You take a bite and let out a hum of approval.

“This is amazing, Cait,” you say, and her cheeks flush slightly.

“I’m glad you think so,” she says softly, her hand brushing yours as she takes her seat. “It’s nice to share this with you.”

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Jinx.

Jinx can’t cook. At all. But she’s convinced she can and gets wildly creative in the kitchen.

She’s more interested in the process than the result, turning the whole thing into chaos.

She’d never admit it, but she just wants to make you smile, even if the food is a disaster.

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

“Close your eyes!” Jinx exclaims, practically bouncing on her feet as she leads you into the kitchen.

You do as she says, bracing yourself for whatever chaos awaits. When she finally lets you open your eyes, you’re greeted by a table covered in... something.

“Ta-da!” she announces, waving her arms at the feast she’s prepared. It’s colorful, chaotic, and borderline unrecognizable as food

“Uh, Jinx, what is this?” you ask, trying not to laugh.

“It’s dinner, duh,” she says, sitting down and shoving a plate toward you. “I mixed all the best stuff together. You’re gonna love it!”

You take a cautious bite, and while it’s not exactly good, the way Jinx watches you with wide, eager eyes makes it worth it.

“Well?” she asks, leaning forward, her grin almost childlike.

“It’s... creative,” you say, and she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, okay, it’s a mess,” she admits, but her smile softens as she reaches out to steal a bite from your plate. “But it’s our mess.”

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Vander.

Vander is a practical man and isn’t really interested in fancy cooking.

He tends to stick to hearty, simple meals that will fill everyone up—comfort food is his specialty.

He’s a little self-conscious about his cooking skills but always tries his best to make sure you feel cared for.

You hear the familiar sound of clanking pots and the rich scent of stew wafting from the kitchen. Vander stands at the stove, stirring a large pot with his usual no-nonsense attitude. His sleeves are rolled up, and his broad back is hunched over the counter as he checks on the simmering ingredients.

“Smells good in here,” you say, leaning against the doorframe and watching him work.

Vander glances over at you, a bit startled but offering a warm smile when he sees it’s just you. “It’s nothing fancy,” he grumbles, his voice a little sheepish. “Just thought I’d make something filling for us. No one needs to go hungry, right?”

You step closer, leaning in to smell the stew. It’s a mix of root vegetables, tender meat, and just the right amount of seasoning—simple but comforting. “It smells amazing,” you say honestly.

He looks pleased but still tries to downplay it. “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this kind of thing for a while. Had to keep people fed in the Undercity, after all.”

You sit at the table as Vander sets down two bowls of stew in front of you. The meal is nothing extraordinary in terms of presentation, but the warmth and heart behind it are undeniable. It’s exactly what you need after a long day.

Vander sits across from you, digging into his own bowl, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, eating.

When you finally finish, you lean back in your chair, satisfied. “Vander, that was perfect,” you say, giving him a smile.

He looks a bit surprised, his face softening. “Glad you liked it. I know I’m no chef, but... well, it’s nice to know I can still make you happy with something simple.”

You reach across the table, placing a hand on his. “It’s not about the fancy stuff, Vander. It’s the care you put into it.”

His hand covers yours, his expression filled with warmth. “Just don’t expect me to start experimenting with fancy desserts or anything,” he chuckles. “But I’ll always make sure you’re well-fed.”

You smile, feeling both comforted and cared for in his presence, knowing that even if the food was simple, it came with a whole lot of love.

Authors note: hehehe this was so silly to write omg I lobe them.

#arcane #arcane imagine #arcane series #arcane fluff #arcane x reader #mel madarda x reader #mel medarda #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce x you #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #jinx x reader #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #vander x reader #arcane scenarios

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puckinghischier · 3 months ago

Note

i’d like this quinn. what do you think, alli?.. who you picking?

— ✶ —

apologies i have a slight sabrina carpenter obsession. and, this has been in my head floating around for 3 days so i thought i’d share. ₊˚⊹

oh i’m 100% picking quinn are you kidding me? he’s such a munch it’s not even funny

anytime, anywhere, for any reason. and you know what…this has given me a thot

because he wouldn’t be able to wait, ever. once he’s got the craving, he’s dragging you to the nearest empty room, secluded corner, bathroom, literally anywhere he can just to get his fix. it doesn’t matter who’s around or what’s going on. once he thinks about it, he’s insatiable.

like when he has everyone over at the lake house for a backyard barbecue, and he sees you sitting all pretty and talking to his brothers while he tends to the grill. you’re still wearing your bathing suit from earlier, top half covered in one of his swim shirts. the sight is enough to bring him to his knees. the tight material clinging to your body, causing your colorful top to peek through the light material.

he forces himself to look away and focus on the task at hand, knowing it’ll just be a couple more hours before he has you all to himself. when he hears you squeal, however, his attention snaps back to where you were just sitting. instead of seeing you perched on the arm of one of the white adirondacks, he sees you slung over jack’s shoulder. and suddenly a couple of hours is entirely too long to wait when he sees your ass in the air on full display, his shirt doing nothing to cover your modesty.

“jack! put her down! food’s almost done!” he yells out, trying to keep his voice even as he watches jack place you gently on the ground. “y/n, baby, come help me grab some dishes for all this,” he calls out next, turning the grill on the lowest setting he can, watching you steady yourself before jogging towards him.

he holds the sliding glass door open for you, slipping in right behind you and subtly flipping the lever to lock it.

“how many plates do you need?” you ask him, back turned as you open the cabinet to grab what he asked for, oblivious to his hungry stare.

he walks up and grabs your waist, spinning you around to face him so fast you’re almost dizzy.

“oh, i didn’t need you to grab plates,” he tells you, staring down at you with dark eyes. “just wanted to get you alone for a minute. driving me crazy out there in this, you know that?” he toys with the hem of his shirt on your body.

“quinn, everyone’s out there waiting on dinner,” you whisper as you feel his hand trail lower, toying with the bow tied on your thin bikini bottoms.

“guess i gotta be quick then, don’t i? need my appetizer first,” he whispers back to you, bringing his face dangerously close to yours, but never making contact.

you gasp when he brings both hands behind your warm thighs, picking you up while your hands fly to his shoulders and legs wrap around his torso, ensuring you don’t fall.

he doesn’t say a word as he walks you over to the large living room, stopping right in front of the couch where a large rug is laid out. you’ve always told him how much you love this rug, wanting one just as soft in your own shared apartment back in vancouver.

dropping to his knees, he gently lays you down on the plush surface. you finally unlatch your legs from his body, letting them rest on the floor on either side of his bent knees.

“gotta be quiet, gonna be quick. you ready?” he asks you, trailing a finger over your clothed clit.

“mhmmm” you hum out, squirming to try and increase the friction from his finger.

he takes the small bow he was playing with earlier and pulls the string, the entire knot falling apart in one go. he leaves the other side tied, just folding the material to the side to expose your glistening pussy.

“god, this was too easy. you’re already so soaked. you think about this as much as i do, huh?” he rasps out, flattening out his body into position, taking in your smell.

you aren’t given the chance to respond. as soon as he was level with your core, he’s attacking it like a man starved. you cry out at the sensation.

“shhhh, told you to be quiet, sweetheart,” his words vibrate against you, making you whimper.

he moves his tongue in all the right ways, swirling and sucking at a deadly pace. he’s always known exactly what sends you over the edge. he’s relentless, but never sloppy or rushed.

needing to ground yourself to something, you fist his hair, driving his face further into you.

the sound that comes out of him is animalistic, loving nothing more than to suffocate between your folds. he’s gripping your ass, pulling you as close to him as he can get while still being able to somewhat breathe.

your soft whispers of his name only spur him on, surprising you when he gives your clit a small nip. your entire body jolts at the sensation. you sit up slightly, mouth open but no sound coming out.

“liked that, huh? like it when i take a bite of my favorite snack?” quinn smirks as he looks up at the shocked look on your face. his own is glistening, lips swollen and red, and you nearly cum right then and there.

he dives right back in, adjusting himself slightly lower. you fall back onto the plush rug with a soft thud when you feel his tongue enter you.

he feels you clench around the muscle, devouring every ounce of your arousal. absolutely nothing in this world compares to your taste, he thinks to himself. if he could bottle you up and sprinkle you on every meal he ever eats, he would. actually, forget real food, this is what he wants for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“god, q, don’t stop. so close,” you whine. he can feel you flutter around his tongue, bringing his hand up to pinch at your bundle of nerves.

the feeling causes you to spasm, not even knowing how his fingers went straight to your clit considering his eyes are closed as he focuses on driving his tongue in and out of you.

he can feel the second you hit your release, stilling his tongue inside of you to lap up every drop of satisfaction that oozes out of you.

your legs are shaking uncontrollably, your mouth frozen in a silent ‘o’, wanting nothing more than to scream out, but stunned to silence with how hard your orgasm hit you.

quinn doesn’t stop his slurping and sucking until you’re pulling away at the sensitivity of it. he detaches himself from your spent cunt with a loud smack, bringing his body to hover above yours.

your heavy eyes look up at him, chest heaving while you try to catch your breath. “god, you’re an amazing cook, you know that?” he smirks down at your blissed out expression.

“what?” you sigh out, confused if you heard him right, considering the ringing in your ears.

“you’re a phenomenal cook. always make the best meals for me. know just what i’m craving every time,” he repeats himself, reaching a finger down to run through your sensitive folds, collecting more of your juices. “makes me want seconds every time,” he says, bringing the digit up to his mouth and sucking it clean, groaning like it’s a delicacy.

you whine, shaking your head. you’re entirely too sensitive right now, teetering on the edge of discomfort and pleasure.

“oh, don’t worry sweet girl, not right now. gotta go make sure everyone gets their dinner first,” he chuckles, re-tying the knot he un-tied only minutes prior.

he grabs your hands and gently brings you to a sitting position, then helps you stand.

“can’t wait for my dessert later, though,” he whispers in your ear before giving you a kiss to the temple, making sure you’re steady before walking away with a knowing grin.

#alliyaps #OKAY SO #i apologize in advance #this was so unhinged of me #but #you encouraged this by bringing taste into it #lectures w/lust #hockey #nhl #quinn hughes #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes one shot #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x you #qh43

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theodorenmyth · 7 months ago

Note

Reader being a short Slytherin student who’s friends with Theodore and mattheo. Like sometimes those two would pick reader up when they can’t get something. It’s just a bunch of shenanigans when reader is angry cause when they’re angry, it’s hell. Literally reader had one time jumped across the table to fight someone. Mattheo was amused, Theodore…he was shook

-🤬

Angry Squeaks

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader x Mattheo Riddle

Summary ; Being the shortest Slytherin in your year comes with its challenges, but with Theodore Nott and Mattheo Riddle by your side, you always manage. When Cormac McLaggen insults you one too many times, you snap, leading to chaos in the Great Hall. As tempers flare and fists fly, Theo and Mattheo step in to keep you from going too far. Through detention and shenanigans, your friendship proves unbreakable, even in the face of trouble.

A/N ; I LOVE SHORT!READER 😭😭😭😭😭 ENJOY BABE

Warnings) ; none

Word count ; 800

The castle's shadows stretched long in the late afternoon sun, casting an eerie glow across the Slytherin common room. You were hunched over your Potions textbook, the latest essay due by morning. Theodore Nott lounged beside you, absently twirling his wand between his fingers, while Mattheo Riddle, sprawled on the couch, skimmed through a book on dark magic.

Your brow furrowed as you reached for a book on a higher shelf, only to find it just out of your grasp. Huffing, you turned to your friends. “Theo, can you hand me that book?”

Theo glanced up, smirking. “What’s the magic word?”

“Please,” you grumbled.

“Good,” he replied with a grin, before rising to pluck the book off the shelf and holding it just out of your reach. “Come on, give it a try.”

“Give what a try?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Jump for it,” Theo said, his smile widening.

You scowled. “Are you fucking insane? I am not jumping for it. Give it to me.”

Before you could protest further, Mattheo walked over, scooped you up effortlessly, and held you aloft. “There, now you can reach it,” he said with a chuckle.

You grabbed the book and slapped Mattheo's shoulder lightly. “Put me down, you oaf!”

Mattheo complied, setting you back on the floor gently. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, ruffling your hair.

“Sometimes I hate you both,” you muttered, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your true feelings.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next day, breakfast in the Great Hall was bustling with students, the usual chatter and laughter filling the air. You were sitting with Theo and Mattheo, enjoying a quiet moment, when you heard a familiar and unwelcome voice behind you.

“Well, if it isn’t the Slytherin dwarf,” Cormac McLaggen sneered, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Your blood boiled instantly. You gripped your fork tightly, trying to maintain your composure. Theo noticed and placed a calming hand on your shoulder. “Ignore him,” he murmured.

But ignoring wasn’t an option. Not today.

You stood up, spinning around to face McLaggen. “What did you just call me?”

McLaggen’s smirk grew wider. “You heard me. Didn’t know they let house elves sit with the students.”

Without a second thought, you launched yourself across the table, sending plates and goblets flying. You tackled McLaggen, fists flying, landing a few solid punches before anyone could react.

“Bloody hell!” Mattheo shouted, rushing to pull you off McLaggen, who was now sporting a bloody nose and a look of utter shock.

Theo stood frozen, eyes wide. “What the hell just happened?”

You struggled against Mattheo’s hold, still fuming. “He called me a dwarf!”

Mattheo held you firmly, but you could see the amusement in his eyes. “And you decided to show him how wrong he was by… what, breaking his face?”

“Let me go!” you growled, still seething.

“Not until you calm down,” Mattheo said firmly, finally setting you down but keeping a protective arm around you.

Professor McGonagall was approaching, her expression a mix of disapproval and concern. “What is the meaning of this?!”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. “He insulted me,” you said through gritted teeth.

McGonagall’s stern gaze shifted to McLaggen, who was being helped up by his friends. “Mr. McLaggen, you will come with me. As for you,” she turned to you, “Detention, tonight. And consider this a warning. Physical altercations are not acceptable.”

You nodded, still trembling with anger. “Yes, Professor.”

As McGonagall led McLaggen away, Theo finally found his voice. “That was… intense.”

Mattheo released you, shaking his head with a laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You shrugged, still glaring in the direction McLaggen had been taken. “He had it coming.”

The rest of the day was a blur of whispered conversations and sideways glances, but you didn’t care. As the sun set, you made your way to detention, only to find Mattheo and Theo waiting outside the classroom.

“What are you two doing here?” you asked, surprised.

“Thought we’d keep you company,” Theo said with a shrug. “Detention’s no fun alone.”

Mattheo grinned. “Besides, we couldn’t let you have all the fun, could we?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, guys.”

The three of you spent the evening cleaning cauldrons and scrubbing floors, but the company made it bearable. Theo’s jokes and Mattheo’s sarcastic comments kept you laughing, and by the end of detention, your anger had dissipated entirely.

As you walked back to the Slytherin common room, you felt a wave of gratitude for your friends. They might drive you crazy sometimes, but they always had your back.

“Next time,” Theo said, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “let us handle the insults, okay? No need to go all berserk on them.”

You chuckled. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep me from getting into more trouble.”

Mattheo smirked. “No promises. Trouble seems to follow you wherever you go.”

“Or maybe I’m the one following it,” you replied with a grin.

“Either way,” Theo said, “we’ll be there with you.”

“Always,” Mattheo added.

With friends like these, you knew you could handle anything—even the taunts of a certain Gryffindor.

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spider-stark · 6 months ago

Text

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering.

But not tonight.

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend.

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him.

It’s only when you speak that he looks up.

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.”

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.”

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now.

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?”

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.”

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters.

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all.

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.”

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.”

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?”

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through.

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for.

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice.

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.”

“Understood what?”

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated.

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight.

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all.

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering.

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.”

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.”

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.”

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.”

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you.

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask.

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection.

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?”

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles.

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.”

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard.

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back.

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?”

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?”

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close.

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods.

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them.

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side.

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin.

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot.

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.”

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.”

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin.

“To who?”

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind.

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.”

A stone drops in your stomach.

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…”

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence.

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…”

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch.

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

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