#as a discarding of his old self entirely | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cruel-as-sin · 4 months ago

Text

take the weight off his shoulders | logan howlett

pt. 2

↳ summary: you're a stripper and old man!logan comes into the club where you work- so you decide to show him a good time.

word count: 3k

song: older | isabel larosa

pairings: old man!logan x fem!stripper!reader

content warnings: 18+ content (MDNI), smut, porn w/o plot, prostitution/strip clubs, age gap (readers age is unspecified but she is an adult), praise kink, gentle sex, striptease and lapdance hehe, size difference, protected p in v, grinding, handjob, lingerie mentioned, the glasses stay on, practice safe sex everyone (lmk if i missed anything!)

↳ a/n: ao3 saw this first and it took way too long for me to move it over to tumblr but. here it is lmao. as i said there old man logan does something CRAZY to me so it was only fitting i wrote about him, enjoy! also this is not proofread so apologies for any mistakes :’)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Logan's not sure why he goes into the club across the street.

Maybe he needs to feel young again. Maybe he's bored. Maybe the adamantium poisoning the rest of him has finally managed to get to his brain and turned his thoughts into some sort of horny, befuddled shit show.

Or maybe, just maybe, he really is just that fucking desperate.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It's past midnight when he walks through the door. You've been busy all night, but things are finally starting to wind down, the customers that frequent the small establishment slowly trickling out until only a few remain. None of them are your regulars, and given how empty the doorway has been, you're honestly considering calling it a night and going home early. The past few days have been hellish, full of people who didn't do a damn thing to turn you on, and you'd love nothing more than to sink into a warm, cozy bed and drift off to sleep. Tonight, you've been roaming the floor for the past hour without getting anything- everybody is either interested in another one of the workers or entirely fixated on the dancers.

It's not that you don't like your job- you do. Sure, being a stripper isn't the most flattering form of work, but the bills are paid. That's all that really counts these days. Your pride has long since been discarded in favor of earning hefty tips from the sleazy guys who are dumb enough to believe that you'd actually be into them. You put on a good show, of course, but if it weren't for the money? Not a fucking chance.

You like it that way. Hardly any of your clients go beyond the intimacy of a private dance, mainly because you don't let them, reserving that for your favorites. But you haven't met someone who turns you on in a long while, and without the occasional thrill of a real good time from a customer, you're starting to get bored. The days are blurring together, nothing separating the good days from the bad ones, if there even is such a thing anymore.

You're on your way to ask your boss if you can get off early when you hear the bell ring. You groan internally, realizing that you're the only one on the floor who isn't occupied, meaning if this client is interested, they're yours.

Damn it.

So much for an early night.

You're midway through praying to whatever God is out there that this client tips well when you turn and actually lay eyes on them. The moment you do, your mind goes blank, your prayers long forgotten as your thoughts become consumed by him.

He's older- much older. Pushing sixty, at least. It's not inherently a bad thing, but typically the older they are, the more entitled they become.

You're not usually into older men, finding them self-centered, greedy, unable to keep up with your desires; but you're not even ashamed to admit that this stranger could ask you to do just about anything and you'd probably agree in a heartbeat.

The man is tall, big, his muscular form obvious even underneath the suit and tie he wears. His salt and pepper hair is short, accompanied by a scruffy beard you're certain would feel like heaven against your thighs. His tie is loose, his top button undone, and he's got on a pair of dollar-store glasses that he hasn't even pulled the tag off of. There's a weight to him, an exhaustion that seems to have infiltrated the deepest parts of his soul, as if he's seen things you couldn't even begin to fathom- and yet, he's here, seeking some semblance of relief.

Lucky for him, you know exactly how to give it to him.

He looks around like he's lost, the colorful lights and sultry music overwhelming, the center stage where your coworkers get dollar bills thrown at their feet foreign to him. By the time you've made your way over, your legs moving of their own accord, he's turning to leave. "Hey." You call out, and he stops, turning back around to face you.

He's even bigger up close, and his eyes roam over your form almost shamefully before finally meeting your own. "I was just leaving." His voice is rough, a little scratchy, and while you're sure it's supposed to be intimidating, all it does is further fuel the heat pooling between your legs.

"So soon?" You look up at him with a doe-eyed gaze you're well aware makes men weak in the knees.

"I shouldn't be here." He says, but he doesn't walk away from you.

You move a little closer so your breath is fanning across his neck, your voice dripping with suggestion. "I could show you a good time."

"Listen, sweetheart, I've got-"

Sweetheart.

"Let me take care of you." You lean up to whisper in his ear. Your breath is hot against his skin, your mouth tantalizingly close, and you can feel the way he twitches slightly- an exercise of self-control.

A moment passes, two, and he lets out a long breath. "Fuck, darlin'." He reaches out, hesitant to touch, as if he's not sure how this works, doesn’t want to cross some invisible line he hasn’t learned exists. You take his hand, guiding it to your waist, reaching up to put one hand on the back of his neck. "You sure know how to get a guy wrapped around your finger."

In response, you give a coy smile, taking his tie in one hand and giving it a soft tug. He allows you to guide him, pulling him along by the tie you're sure he has a million ideas of what to do with.

You lead him into a private room, pulling the curtain closed behind you, letting his tie slip out of your grasp. His eyes dart around for a moment, but then you're in front of him again, reaching up and sliding his blazer off of his shoulders. You hang it up on the wall, then return, now slowly guiding him backwards and giving him a gentle shove into the leather chair near the wall. He raises an eyebrow as you circle him, leaning in from behind to whisper in his ear. "Just relax." You murmur, letting your lips graze his neck before pulling away. He leans back, eyes following your every move, a stare that feels like it could set you on fire.

You put on a good show for him- dancing, teasing, tantalizingly close, but never touching. Not yet. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the restraint it takes for him not to pull you down into his lap and keep you there. You give him a strip tease, taking off your bra and letting your breasts go free. His eyes roam over you, a murmured word, "Beautiful," leaving his lips, and that makes your already soaked panties drenched.

Then you give him a lap dance- and unlike most of the men you meet, he doesn't touch, doesn't paw at you. Instead he waits, lets you set the pace, doesn't do anything without your permission. Your hands go to his tie, undoing it at a speed you know is killing him, tossing it aside.

Finally, you rest yourself entirely on his lap, and whisper in his ear. "You can touch now, if you want to."

His hands immediately settle on your hips, like they belong there. You grind down against him, feeling him tense beneath you at the friction against his clothed cock. You repeat the motion, relishing in the groan it elicits from him. His grip on your hips tightens slightly, and he begins to guide your motions, pressing you down against his thigh in a way that makes you moan. It's a small, soft sound, but it still makes him smile. “Atta girl, that’s it.” He huffs approvingly. You keep going, feeling yourself almost get lost in the rhythmic movement before you come back to your senses.

Your hands move to the collar of his shirt, slowly beginning to undo the buttons, revealing his toned chest. You only get about halfway down before his hands are gripping your wrists, and your protest dies on your lips when he leans up and kisses you.

He tastes like cigar smoke and whiskey, a blend that should be uncomfortable but is somehow pleasant. His tongue slips into your mouth, tangling with yours as he pulls you closer. By the time he finally pulls away for air, you're dizzy, flushed.

A kiss- almost as personal as a name.

You've never met a man who could make you feel like this- and certainly not without getting all your clothes off first.

His words snap you out of your breathless haze. "Let me touch you, baby." His voice is both a plea and a demand, and who are you to deny him such a request?

A simple nod is all it takes before his hands are on you, roving over your breasts with an appreciative groan. You can't help the way your hips rock against him, and one of his hands goes down to your ass, encouraging you to grind against him again. His other hand rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, while his mouth leaves sloppy kisses along your neck, down to your breasts.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in. His head comes up from your chest to whisper in your ear as he keeps your hips moving back and forth, his other hand alternating between your breasts. His skin muffles your moans, but you know he won't let you hide those pretty sounds from him forever. "You're so perfect." His words don't exactly do you any favors in the 'keeping your composure' department. "Sweet, pretty thing like you..." He nips at your earlobe, making you gasp softly. "You got no idea what you do to me."

Those words snap you back a little, remind you of your promise to take care of him. You raise your head up, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. "Then show me." Your hands reach down towards his belt, and this time, he doesn't stop you. Instead, his gaze roams over you as you unbuckle it, slowly pull it out of the loops of his pants, toss it aside, letting it join the other discarded articles littering the floor. You undo the buttons, then pull his pants down.

Even through his boxers, you can clearly see the outline of his aching hardness. You gently take him in your palm, running your hand along him through the fabric, watching the way his eyes flutter. Then you adjust yourself so you're grinding on him again, thin layers of clothing the only thing separating the two of you.

You go on like that for a little while, keeping track of every little sound he makes, every hitch of his breath and shudder that goes through his body. Then you lean back, pulling his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothing.

Immediately, your mouth waters. He's huge, the biggest you've ever seen, and you find yourself wondering if you even can take him.

You push that thought aside for now, swiping your thumb across his tip, smiling to yourself at the groan that leaves him. You repeat the motion, letting precum gather on your fingers as you begin to move your hand up and down, up and down. You start slow, stroking him gently, then gradually increase your pace. Midway through, you grab a condom with your other hand, keeping eye contact as you open the wrapper with your teeth. You roll it onto him in one smooth motion, earning a startled grunt. His head falls back, his breaths coming unevenly, and it takes him a while before he can manage a coherent sentence.

"Fuck, you treat every guy like this?" Even with all the energy he can muster, the words are still a little short.

Your smile widens, and you lean in to press a kiss against the vein of his throat. "Only the good ones."

His mouth opens, as if to argue with the notion that he's anything good, but your ever-faster movements silence any protests that could have come from him.

You can tell he's getting close, and you slow down, letting him breathe a little slower as you whisper a soft question. "Where do you want me? You want my mouth, you want-"

Your words are cut off by his hand cupping your clothed mound, a gasp escaping you. "I want this." His voice is rough, and this time, it's not a plea. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear as you unconsciously begin to move against his hand, chasing any friction he can give you. "I think it's a little unfair, seeing how I'm all out in the open and you've still got these," His thumb hooks in the waistband of your panties. "Separating me from you, hmm?

You don't even answer, just raise your hips up slightly so he can tug your lingerie down your legs until it falls and hits the floor. Immediately, his gaze lands on your exposed cunt. "Jesus, you're soaked." He murmurs, running his fingers through your slick. You whine as he brushes against your clit, and he chuckles. "Need me that bad, huh?"

"Need you." You whine. You can tell he wants to take it slow, to tease you, and by god do you want to let him- but you're impatient, your own teasing having riled you up too much to do anything but fuck him. Luckily, he picks up on your silent request, raising your hips to hover above his cock. His gaze searches yours, waiting for permission, and you nod. "Fuck me." You say softly, and it takes everything in him not to come completely fucking undone at that sweet tone of voice.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he lowers you down onto him. It burns, in a delicious way you've come to love in your years here. Even with the sheer amount of wetness coming from you, it's still a struggle to make him fit- but he does. When you've finally sank all the way down onto his cock, he lets you breathe for a moment. "You can take it, baby." He murmurs reassuringly- a support and a chance for you to back out. You close your eyes, breathing in and out, resting your face in the crook of his neck again.

Then you start to move.

It takes him by surprise, and you like the grunt that comes from him. For someone of his age, you're sure not much can catch him off guard anymore, so that makes it all the better when you lean back to see the look on his face. He catches your small smirk and returns it with one of his own, letting you move yourself up and down, over and over. Your pace slowly increases as the two of you adjust, and the room is soon filled with soft noises and the sound of flesh against flesh.

It's slow, almost sensual, but despite the circumstances that should have you turning this in another direction, you like it. You feel that familiar coil building in your stomach, your soft whimpers turning to moans now.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

All you can do is nod, and he rocks his hips up into yours. The way he fills you up is mind-numbing, until you can't think of anything else but him and how fucking good he's making you feel, how badly you need to come undone on his cock.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Your voice takes on a sharp pitch as he thrusts up into you, and your vision goes white for a moment as your orgasm hits you, unending bliss shaking your whole body. He rides out your orgasm for as long as he can, but the tight feeling of your cunt clenching around him soon sends him over the edge too. You can feel him twitching inside you, only prolonging the aftershocks of your own pleasure.

Eventually, you both come down. You're breathing heavily, trying to scramble together any semblance of thought. He stands suddenly, picking you up like you weigh nothing and setting you down on the chair. His cock slips out of you at some point during the process, leaving you feeling empty. You sit there for a moment before opening your eyes, finding him pulling his pants up and buckling his belt. He meets your gaze with a hint of a fond smile, bending over to grab his tie.

You stand up to retrieve your own clothes, pulling them back on while he shoves his arms through the sleeves of his blazer and rifles through his pockets, eventually pulling out his wallet. "Um, how much do I owe you?"

He looks almost embarrassed, and you find it kind of adorable. You flash him a smile, saying words you never thought you'd dare to let pass your lips. "Nothing. It's on me."

Immediately, his eyebrow shoots up. "No, I can't... I can't let you do that, pretty girl."

You shake your head. "I insist. Nobody's ever fucked me like that, and certainly not any of my clients." You see the way your words boost his ego- good. He deserves it. "Besides, if you hadn't showed up, I'd have gone home anyway." You say nonchalantly, taking a few steps over to him. You reach up and put a finger to his lips before he can continue to argue. "It's on the house."

Although he still looks conflicted, he reluctantly nods. "Okay. Next time, then."

Next time.

You feel a thrill run through your body as he brings up the prospect of a next time, and your smile widens. "Next time." You affirm. You step back, letting him be on his way.

He moves towards the curtain, pausing before he goes. "See you around, sweetheart."

And just like that, he's gone.

But you don't miss him- because you know he'll be back.

So when you finally make it home and climb into bed after that warm shower, there's still a fond smile on your face as you drift off to sleep, dreaming of the weary stranger and his wonderful words.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett xmen #wolverine #wolverine x reader #old man logan #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine fanfiction #old man logan x reader #cas one shots

1K notes · View notes

gynnnicsworld · 2 months ago

Text

You know Sterek has been frequently 'cancelled' and attacked for basically being the most popular ship in the TW world, right?

Because of the age gap between them, right? Well, I have to complain about it, because it really pisses me off that they're discarding the beautiful, slow-burning love story that exists between Stiles and Derek in CANON. Because damn it, they liked each other.

It bothers me that they tarnish Sterek's image for things like being a "pedo" ship when NO, they're not. They're trying to lump us all into a "sick shipper" category.

If we're being honest, Sterek has probably been the story with the most backstory, where we've seen how each season has seen the closeness between Stiles and Derek grow, where they've gone from 'hating each other and having to deal with each other because of Scott' to genuinely caring for each other to the point where Derek would take a bullet for Stiles or Stiles would go against the entire FBI to protect and get Derek out of whatever mess he was in.

They care deeply and genuinely for each other, so much so that Derek preserved and fixed Stiles' Jeep, keeping it in his garage as a sort of memento or anchor for him.

It bothers me so much that they talk shit about Sterek when this couple exists:

sorry but parrish/lydia was a canon pairing between a teenager and an ADULT and if that wasn't enough, an adult from the sheriff's department.

Why aren't people talking about this more? Why are they attacking Sterek instead? Sterek: a couple that wasn't canon during the show's run, and we only got confirmation of feelings for each other through the actors and through obvious hints in the show. But directly, it was never a canon couple between a teenager and an adult guy. They were together.

I put the adult that way because Derek's age was never confirmed as such. At the beginning of the series, Stiles says Derek is only a couple of years older than him and Scott. So at the beginning of the series, Derek was between 18 and 19 years old. But later on, they address the fire, so they change the age again, but they never say exactly how old he is, so canonically Derek could be 2 to 5 years older than Stiles. You choose what age gap to give them.

While Lydia, about 17, and Jordan Parish, over 20, are a CANON couple.

Anyway, hypocrisy and homophobia, right?

But there is a VERY important theme between the Derek/Stiles relationship, which if you ask me made the possibility of a relationship between the two of them impossible while Stiles was still a high school student and perhaps only when Stiles was older could something exist between them.

The existence of this damn bitch and what she did to Derek.

I hate her as much as you do, and it disgusts me to have to watch Teenage Derek with her.

But it's important to what I wanted to say; it's why I think Derek repressed his feelings for Stiles.

According to the Teen Wolf book, Kate was Derek's substitute swim teacher, who used certain hormones and scents to attract the teenage Derek to her. YES, that was not only a relationship rife with manipulation, power imbalances, and pedophilia, but she also ended up orchestrating the murder of Derek's family at a moment of vulnerability for Derek because Paige's death hadn't happened long before.

We all know Derek blames himself for the death of his family, and he hates Kate. He knows what she did to him. He knows he was manipulated by an older woman and that he fell for her.

Derek has serious trust and self-confidence issues.

He doesn't believe he's worthy of love or peace.

His anchor until Season 2 was anger because his life was infested with anger/hate/rage.

So he sees himself as something bad, something that hurts, someone who destroys what he loves. He's a victim of sexual abuse, even though he doesn't admit it.

But Stiles became that little glimmer of light annoying, but a light in his dark life filled with negative things. Stiles earned his trust. Stiles fought every step of the way and broke down that wall Derek built around himself to keep people away from him, because trust means giving someone the power to hurt you. Oh well, Derek's mind worked that way. Unbeknownst to him, Stiles earned that trust.

And that's where we have this scene.

This is where Derek lets us see how important Stiles has become to him, Stiles became his anchor.

At this point, it's undeniable that Derek already has feelings for Stiles. He trusts Stiles blindly. But then, why didn't Derek do anything to have Stiles? Because Derek is a victim of sexual abuse by a woman who took advantage of him in high school. And Derek never dealt with that trauma, or we were never shown to have it that way.

Derek dates women, of course—Jennifer (who also manipulated him), Braeden, etc.—whose relationships didn't end well or were never serious.

But not with Stiles, because Stiles is like that extremely important thing where he can't ruin that connection they have, he can't taint or sully this relationship he has with Stiles. It's too important to Derek. Plus, the untreated traumas surrounding his abuser are a clear impediment to starting something real, something serious. And everything seems to indicate that Stiles is THAT person his unconscious heart has chosen.

That is, to start any romantic relationship with Stiles, Derek has to face all of his demons, all of his traumas first, in order to give Stiles what he believes Stiles deserves.

Kate ruined Derek's heart and mind a lot, plus Derek already had a wounded and bleeding heart since Paige.

So, a relationship as such didn't exist in the series between S/D, and it was quite unlikely that it would, but the feelings were always there.

That's why I don't understand why they keep attacking a couple who has SO MUCH backstory, and who if they ever dated, it was definitely when they were already adults and able to deal with their own issues.

The sheriff's line about the jeep and Derek always makes me think that the sheriff was always aware and noticed everything. He never disapproved; on the contrary, he supported them, because he knows there's no one who deserves each other more than those two. It was also a clear confirmation that Derek always had feelings for Stiles, complicated feelings he didn't know how to address, but whose feelings led him to treasure and fix Stiles's jeep.

640 notes · View notes

2cupids · 3 months ago

Text

CHERRY POP!

warnings. virgin!reader, manipulation/coercion, age gap (toji’s in his 40s), dubcon, pet names. mdni (17+).

silly you for thinking that this old man’s intentions are pure. you never even suspected a thing when cherry chaser!toji invited you back to his place after one of your dates with him tonight, at least that's what you’ve been under the impression that they were. when in reality, toji’s just been buttering you up so you’ll warm up to him, with an end goal of slotting himself in between your legs and fucking your sweet virgin pussy.

maybe it was because he was such a sweet talker, it’s like honey oozed from his mouth every time he opened it to speak. “say what? you mean to tell me a sweet thing like you has never been touched? ‘ya saving yourself or somethin’, pretty girl?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at your confession that you let slip on your first date.

you giggled like the naive little fool you are, seemingly taken with words. “no, toji. i just haven’t found the right guy. i haven’t even been on that many dates, honestly.”

once again, unbeknownst to you, toji forced yet another surprised expression onto his face. “you tryin’ fool me, darlin’? those guys are missing out.. you’re a real beauty, honey.” and that was the moment that sealed the deal.

toji would be your prince charming. he’d play the part, sweeping you off your feet and making you completely smitten for him as he fooled you, wanting you for no other reason than for his own personal pleasure.. like he did with so many other inexperienced girls before you.

if someone had said you would be sandwiched in between this buff man and his bed just after the third date, you’d never believe it. but here you are. toji’s smooth talking and flattery made you fall right into his lap basically. he’s got you right where he wants you.

he nibbles on your bottom lip, trailing soft kisses across your jaw and neck, your little gasps and small noises encourage him to keep going. he swipes his tongue over the love bites he leaves on your neck as his large hands creep underneath your top, rubbing his hands up and down the sides of your waist.

your shirt gets pushed over your breasts, exposing your torso and chest to the cool air of his home. his lips make contact with the tops of your breasts and you sigh at the gentleness of the kisses he places on them. toji’s eyes flickering up your face, “can i see these pretty tits, princess? i can make ya feel real good.”

you’re nervous, reluctant even, but toji’s silky voice and the trusting look in his eyes coax you to agree. with one swift motion, he unclasps your bra and tugs it down your shoulders, discarding it somewhere on the floor. he sucks your left nipple into his mouth and squeezes the right one in his hand, twisting it between his index finger and thumb.

your eyes flutter shut and your pussy pulses from the action, “ahh.” the soft sound leaves your parted lips and toji smirks, moving over to give your right breast the same amount of attention.

you feel a breeze against your thighs as toji flips your skirt up while continuing his exploration down the smooth skin of your body. two thick fingers press against the seat of your panties, your breath catches in your throat and that’s when you stop him. “toj.. i don’t– i’m not ready for that.”

toji looks at you with yet another warm, albeit forced, smile. “just wanna taste ya, sweetie. aren’t ya curious what it feels like for someone to have their tongue on you?”

and here you go again, giving into him. a small nod of your head grants him permission to pull your panties down. he drops to his knees and caresses your plush thighs, inching closer to your core and spreading your labia to fully reveal your entire self to him, leaving you so vulnerable and open. your heart thumps in your chest as toji stares at your sex and you begin to worry. but he’s only admiring your virgin body before he ultimately deflowers it.

his face presses into your pussy, sniffing it and letting the scent of your untouched pussy fill his nostrils. his tongue darts out, attacking your clit and you grip the covers. the feeling is so unfamiliar and odd, but it’s not unwelcomed. in fact it feels better with each second that passes. toji’s pants grow tighter as he eats your virgin cunt and drinks in your sweet little sounds. as much as he wants to make you fall apart on his tongue, he needs to feel your tight walls around him, sucking him in and begging to be abused. he stands up to pull off his shirt, revealing his tanned, muscular frame. he moves lower and starts to undo his pants and you prop yourself up on your elbows. you watch in surprise and open your mouth to stop him. “wait toji. i’m-” he expected you to try and stop him and he quickly cuts you off. his sweet, manipulative words reach your ears and you just melt. and for the third time in just a matter of minutes, you agree to toji’s words. if only you could read between the lines, but you’re so naive. so stupid.

“just relax for me, darlin’. i’ll take real good care of ya.” he purrs huskily, a wolfish grin creeps onto his face as he positions the tip at your opening. it takes everything in him not to push inside you in one go. he’s ready to bust that cherry of yours now.

but depending on how you see it, luckily, or unluckily, for you, the sadistic portion of toji, loves to watch the way a virgin’s face twists into a pained expression the first time they take a big ole fat dick like his. this is the only reason that’s holding him back right now. a wad of saliva falls from his pursed lips as he spits on his dick, coating it. he watches as your pretty lips part to accommodate the head of his cock and he groans, your tightness immediately enveloping him. toji takes it slow, pushing in inch by inch while watching the tears fall from your eyes and the way your chest rises and stills every time he pushes in deeper. praises fall from his lips as he lets you adjust to him, but he’s getting restless fast and once that last inch is fully sheathed inside you, he starts moving his hips. he may be a little mean and a freak for having a thing for virgins, but he’s not completely heartless. his thumb comes down to rub your clit and you instantly find out just how much more pleasurable it seems to make penetration. you forget the pain of having your cherry blown out rather quick, thanks to toji for replacing it with the delicious feeling of being fucked by him and his big dick. toji’s turned you into a needy little moaning mess underneath him. he growls at how tight you still are despite him repeatedly stuffing you full of his dick and stretching you out. your walls are like a vice, tugging him back in every time he tries to pull away and he hates to admit it but he’s close, closer than he usually is this soon. “baby,” he grunts. “need to– ohh shit! let me cum inside.” with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back as he picks up the pace, his hips colliding with yours much more rough than before. there’s not time for you to form a coherent sentence before you feel toji’s hips stutter and something warm being released inside you. you eyes widen in shock as his sperm coats your walls, not because you didn’t want it, no. it’s because it feels so good.

a small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, but you can’t even bask in the feeling before toji’s hands are gripping the underside of your knees and pushing them backwards, folding you into a different position. he needs more of you and he won’t stop until he’s got his fill of you. “pussy’s too good, darlin’.. can’t fucking help myself.”

taglist <3 @cheezemanz @tojicvmslut

cleo’s note. happy early valentine’s day. can you believe i wrote this about gojo at first, then i ended up changing it to toji but they both fit the bill for this tbh. anyways thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated! love you

815 notes · View notes

bradleysass · 22 days ago

Text

night - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 757 - loosely inspired by "Call Your Mom" by Noah Kahan - CW: mental health struggles

The voicemail was only thirty seconds long, but it stretched across Regulus’ entire spine like ice.

James’ voice was a whisper—hoarse, wrecked—and Regulus had listened to it five times before his hands finally stopped shaking enough to get his keys.

“I just needed to hear your voice. I know it’s late. I know I shouldn't call. You don't have to call back or anything. Just... Just know I’m sorry. For all of it. For being so hard to love.”

Click.

That was it.

No goodbye. No location. No promise to be safe. Just that.

James, who never said sorry. James, who fought every storm with a grin and a bottle and the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache. James, who told Regulus he was the only thing keeping him sane some nights, after the war and the funerals and the way the silence always settled too deep in the bones.

And now that voice—quiet. Flat. Fraying at the edges like a worn-out photograph.

Regulus didn’t think. He just drove.

He didn’t even know where he was going at first. But he knew James had been staying at that old cottage outside Ottery St. Catchpole since Christmas, isolating under the guise of "redecorating" and "self-reflection." Regulus hadn’t seen him in three weeks, not since their last argument—the one where Regulus had said, “If you’re going to self-destruct, do it without dragging me down with you.”

He wanted to take it back now.

He’d take back every cruel word if it meant James picked up the phone. But he didn’t. Not after five calls. Not after the sixth. Not even after the fifteenth, when Regulus left his own voicemail.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Potter. Don’t fucking dare. I’ll be there soon.”

He broke the speed limit the whole way. Didn’t care. Didn’t blink when he flew past the blinking lights of petrol stations or when the road disappeared in rain and fog. The sky was breaking open over the moors, but he gripped the wheel and kept going. Didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

By the time he reached the cottage, it was just after 3 a.m. His hands were still trembling as he climbed the stone steps.

The lights were off.

The door was unlocked.

“James?” he called out, already halfway inside.

Silence answered.

He stepped into the dark living room, kicking aside a pile of discarded blankets. Empty bottles on the table. A pair of glasses thrown haphazardly on the floor. No wand in sight.

“James!”

The bedroom door creaked.

And there—curled up on the bed, knees to chest, eyes open but glassy—was James.

Regulus didn’t breathe until James moved. Just his eyes at first, then his chest, and then—

“Reg,” he croaked, voice ruined. “You… You came.”

And that was it.

The dam broke.

“You fucking idiot,” Regulus hissed, crossing the room in seconds, grabbing James by the shoulders. “You can’t leave a voicemail like that. You can’t do that to me!”

James blinked. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Regulus said, voice cracking. “Don’t pretend it didn’t sound like a goodbye.”

“I just—” James started, then broke off, curling forward. “I just felt like I was drowning and there was no one left to pull me out. And I thought if I could hear your voice, just for a second…”

He trailed off.

Regulus crouched in front of him, heart pounding.

“You said you were sorry,” Regulus whispered. “You said you were hard to love.”

James closed his eyes.

“You’re not,” Regulus said, fierce now. “You’re infuriating and reckless and your flat is a disaster and you don’t know how to stop pushing people away—but you’re not hard to love.”

James looked up at him, eyes rimmed red.

“I’ll drive all night just to make sure you’re alive still,” Regulus said, voice shaking. “I did.”

James flinched.

“I don’t care if we fought. I don’t care if you think I should hate you. I don’t. I never could.” Regulus’ voice dropped. “Don’t ever scare me like that again. If you need someone—if it’s too heavy—call me. I’ll answer. I’ll always answer.”

For a long moment, James didn’t say anything.

Then—

“I didn’t know if I deserved it,” he whispered. “Your voice. You.”

Regulus’ hands curled into James’ sleeves.

“You do,” he said. “You always have.”

And James—shattered and exhausted—folded forward, pressing his forehead to Regulus’ chest, fingers grasping at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

#marauders #jeggyverse microfic #jegulus #sunchaser #starseeker #james potter #regulus black #microfic #i've had that song on repeat for 3 days

184 notes · View notes

xhoess · 9 months ago

Text

One night?

Hugh jackman x fem bod reader

Masterlist words: 6.4k

After a one-night stand with 55-year-old Hugh Jackman, you feel awkward and try to avoid him. Meanwhile, Hugh confidently brags about it to your mutual friend, Ryan , who playfully meddles to bring you two together.

Warning: reader is lowkey hard to get, one night stand, unprotected sex (no mention of use of protection)

The evening air was alive with the buzz of social chatter, glasses clinking, and laughter resonating off the walls of a stylish loft downtown. You had been dragged out of your comfortable corner of solitude by your friend, Ryan Reynolds, who insisted that you needed some fun in your life. “Trust me, you won’t regret it,” he had said with that mischievous sparkle in his eyes that always hinted at trouble.

You weren’t so sure, but as you stepped into the lively atmosphere, you felt an electrifying shift. The dim lights, artfully placed, cast a warm glow over smiling faces, and an eclectic mix of music pulsed through the air, drawing people in. It didn’t take long before your reservations melted away, and you found yourself in a conversation with a group of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

And then you saw him—Hugh Jackman. The man was a phenomenon, both in presence and stature. He stood across the room, laughing heartily at something Ryan had said, his infectious energy making it hard for anyone not to smile simply at the sight of him. You’d seen him on-screen, the charismatic hero, the rugged romantic—all those roles where he effortlessly commanded attention. But seeing him in person was an entirely different experience, as if he radiated a warmth that drew people close.

After a few glasses of wine, you felt more daring. You joined in the laughter, and soon you found yourself at the center of attention, with Hugh leaning closer, his voice rich and dulcet. The two of you exchanged banter, playful teasing leading to more poignant moments. There was an undeniable chemistry, but you kept trying to rationalize it. He was a superstar, after all. This vivacity was just part of the package.

As the night deepened, Ryan made another appearance, raising his glass in a toast, playfully calling Hugh a “debonair devil” and throwing you into the spotlight. “Everyone, meet the incredible [Your Name]—the one who’s managed to actually keep up with our Hugh!” His words hung in the air, and you flushed at the attention. But instead of retreating, something inside you ignited.

The next few hours passed in a delightful haze. You lost track of time, your laughter blending with the music. More drinks led to more boldness, and before you knew it, you and Hugh were wandering off, away from the prying eyes of party-goers. He casually wrapped an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close as he whispered playful jokes, leaving trails of electricity in the air between you.

Eventually, you found yourselves in a secluded corner of the rooftop, the skyline of the city stretching beneath the starlit sky. The world felt far away, and in that moment, the spark turned into a wildfire. You kissed. One kiss quickly morphed into several, each more fervent than the last, a build-up of desire igniting the space between you. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and in his embrace, the age gap, fame, and reason all slipped away.

When the night finally turned into early morning, you bundled up in Hugh’s oversized jacket as you stumbled back inside, laughter still spilling from your lips. There was a softness to the quiet hours, a comforting intimacy that felt not just appropriate, but destined. Hugh is a true gentleman, even during the sex and you are happy you got to find that out.

Yet, as dawn crested over the city, reality came rushing in, and an urgent wave of self-awareness swept over you. Morning light filtered through the large windows, illuminating every detail of the loft—the coffee table strewn with discarded cups, your shoes haphazardly piled by the door. Hugh stirred beside you, his features softened in sleep, and you could hardly process the weight of what had happened.

You slipped out of bed, heart racing, panic clawing its way up as regret mingled with shock and embarrassment. What had you done? You never intended to become a fleeting escapade for someone like him, yet there you were. Barely muttering a goodbye, you rushed to dress, avoiding his sleepy gaze as you pushed through the door into the sunlight.

Outside, you took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp morning air. Your heart still raced, but not just from the remnants of exhilaration—doubt began to seep in. Did Hugh think this was all some grand joke? You knew you would have to confront him again, perhaps inevitably, and the very thought filled you with dread.

Bounding into the day, the encounter lingered heavy in your mind, and the weight of uncertainty settled in your chest. And in the back of your head, a nagging fear surfaced as you realized this wasn't just a one-off night. It was a fleeting moment that could hold consequences, not just for your heart but for how you'd navigate the world that now felt altered, charged.

As you moved through your day, rushing toward the familiar comforts of routine, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being caught in a whirlwind that had started with a laugh and a chemistry that simmered just below the surface. Would you plunge back into that world, face Hugh again, and risk the brittle facade of this night you now lived tangled in emotions? You weren’t sure, but one thing was certain—everything was different now.

The days turned into weeks, and time seemed to slip through your fingers like sand. The memory of that spontaneous night with Hugh Jackman haunted you, but not with the sweetness of nostalgia; instead, it lingered like an awkward itch you couldn’t scratch. You told yourself it was just a moment of misplaced passion, a blip on the radar of your usually controlled existence. Yet each encounter you avoided only intensified your feelings of embarrassment.

At work, you braced yourself for the inevitable moment of bumping into him. The open-plan office felt smaller, each cubicle a potential minefield. Your heart raced every time you heard footsteps echoing down the hall, and you were always caught off-guard when the laughter of your colleagues reached your ears, signifying a potential run-in with Hugh. You stuck to the kitchen and the far corners of your office like they were safe havens. Every time you spotted him, the warmth of his smile haunted your thoughts, and you’d scurry away like a mouse caught in the spotlight.

Your friends began to notice your odd behavior, and they found it amusing. As if they were part of a clandestine club, they would share whispers whenever you entered a room where Hugh was present. The urgency to escape their knowing glances made you feel small. You were convinced that they could hear your heart pounding in your chest, your cheeks flaming red.

One evening, a mutual friend of yours and Hugh’s, Ryan Reynolds, decided to host a gathering at his place. The list of invitees was promising—a mix of familiar faces and the usual suspects from the entertainment industry. You had hoped the guest list would deter Hugh and allow you to slip into the evening undetected, but as you entered the lively apartment filled with laughter and chatter, there he was, standing in the corner, casually sipping on a glass of whiskey, looking effortlessly charming.

You grabbed a drink from the bar and sought refuge in a group at the opposite end of the room, this time determined to blend in and keep your distance. Your heart raced every time you caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders and that infectious grin. When Ryan approached, smirking, and nudged you lightly, you decided to change the subject.

“Did you see the latest episode of that show we like?” you blurted out, desperate for an escape.

Ryan grinned widely, his deep-set dimples growing more pronounced. “Oh, come on. You’re not even trying to play it cool. Just look at him!” He gestured dramatically toward Hugh, who was now animatedly recounting some event to a group of adoring listeners. “You’ve got to admit there’s a certain kind of charm to him. Plus, he's quite the catch.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. “He’s Hugh Jackman. He’s a movie star for a reason. What would he want from me, anyway?”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You seem to underestimate yourself. It’s not just about fame or looks; he clearly found something intriguing about you, too. Have you talked to him since… you know?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically. “The one-night stand?”

You shot him a glare, your face feeling hot again. “No, and I don’t plan to. I’m not interested in being someone’s fling, not now and not with him.”

Ryan chuckled, his laughter contagious. “Suit yourself, but you know avoidance doesn’t work forever. It’ll just make things more awkward when you finally do talk. Trust me, buddy. You either have to confront him or accept your fate as the queen of dodging Hugh Jackman at every social event in town.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in futility. Ryan had a point, but the thought of facing Hugh made you sick. You mentally berated yourself for allowing your life to spiral into this convoluted game of hide-and-seek with a man who seemed entirely unbothered by your embarrassment.

A slow current of tension poured through the room as you tried to engage in conversation with other guests, but every laugh, every joke, felt somehow muted when you knew Hugh was just a few feet away. It didn’t help that your thoughts kept betraying you, forever looping back to the memory of his touch, the warmth of his embrace, and the intoxicating thrill of the night you had shared.

As the night wore on, you found yourself perched on the edge of an armchair, a drink clutched in your hands, your pulse racing. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him across the room, his attention shifting from one friend to another. Ryan sauntered over, his aim on your emotional crutch as he settled beside you.

“You’re really living up to ‘avoidance game’ title,” he quipped lightly as he sipped his drink, leaving you to quietly groan in embarrassment. “What are you going to do when it’s just the two of you alone? Hide in the bathroom?”

“Shut up, Ryan.” You shot him a half-hearted jest, but the truth tugged at you from within. The urge to vanish from the room altogether was becoming harder to ignore.

To your horror, Ryan had zero intentions of letting the subject rest. With a devilish grin, he called out over the din. “Hey, Hugh! Come over here!”

You felt your throat go dry as panic swallowed you whole. Before you could protest, you discovered there was no easy escape; Hugh broke through the crowd toward you, his smile brightened with surprising enthusiasm.

“Hey, there!” he greeted, his voice smooth like aged whiskey. “We’ve got to stop running into each other this way. Are you casually dating or just playing hard to get?” His playful tone masked a serious undertone, leaving you speechless.

The laughter of others dissolved into the background as you met his gaze. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made you feel hilariously exposed. Suddenly, Ryan’s amused commentary faded, and the chatter around you became nothing but white noise.

Feigning nonchalance, you tried to muster a witty response, but your mind raced with conflicted thoughts. Just as you opened your mouth, however, Ryan interjected, refusing to let you hide. “Come on! Aren’t you going to admit how much fun you both had that night?”

Your heart plummeted as you caught sight of Hugh’s quirked brow. That single comment could either seal your fate or force you into uncharted territory.

You took a deep breath. “It was fun, sure, but it was just one night,” you managed to say. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, unintentionally cloaking your vulnerability.

Hugh leaned closer, a glimmer of intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Just one night can be quite a catalyst, you know. But I get it,” he said smoothly. “I was just saying it could be… more. If you’re open to that.”

His words rippled through you, deflating the air of retreat you’d clung to. You exchanged glances with Ryan, who bore a look of triumph, and felt a flicker of courage bloom in your chest. Maybe it was time to start facing your fears instead of running away.

The night went on, and while the laughter and conversations flowed, one fact remained clear: you could only avoid Hugh so long. It was time to take a step, however small, toward the possibilities ahead.

The days melted into a haze of awkward encounters and isolated avoidance. You hyper-extended your social calendar to dodge the chance of running into Hugh. Your daily routine became a game of evasive maneuvers, transforming grocery trips and coffee runs into tactical missions. You would glance around the corner of the café, peeking through the narrow opening, praying he wasn’t inside. Your friend circle, once a source of laughter, now felt like a confining labyrinth.

But Ryan Reynolds had other plans—a devilish mind full of schemes and mischief. You didn’t realize how invested he was in the unfolding amorous soap opera until an impending charity gala invitation arrived in your inbox. It read:

“Hey, you can’t miss this one! Hugh will definitely be there, and I’ll save you a dance! XOXO, Ryan.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of dread anchor itself in your stomach.

That evening, dressed in a sleek emerald gown, you stood before the mirror in your hallway, giving yourself one last pep talk. “It’s just one night. Get through it. Nothing to fear.” The familiar jingle of Ryan’s laughter echoed in your mind, but this time it struck a different chord. You mentally cursed him for playing matchmaker, knowing full well he would be waiting for the inevitable spectacle of your internal collapse.

When you arrived at the gala, the glimmer of extravagant decorations momentarily distracted you from your emotional turmoil. The venue was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. You searched the ballroom, and amidst the chaos, you spotted Ryan’s gleaming smile against the crowd, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Then, you saw him: Hugh. He looked somehow both regal and entirely rebellious, in a tailored suit that clung to his form with effortless charm.

Your heart raced. It felt as if the universe had conspired to throw you into the lion’s den.

“Hey! You made it!” Ryan greeted you with exaggerated enthusiasm, effectively drawing your attention to Hugh, who was, tragically, making his way toward your small gathering. You exchanged panicked glances with Ryan, but there was no escape route—just your relentless heart drumming against your chest.

“Look who it is!” Hugh exclaimed with that signature grin that managed to light up the whole room. You couldn’t help but respond with a forced smile, suddenly very aware of the heat radiating from your cheeks.

“Hi, Hugh,” you managed, your voice coming out steadier than you felt.

“Got you all dolled up, huh?” His comment was playful, laced with teasing familiarity. You felt the anxiety begin to swirl again. Though the audience was largely indifferent, Ryan leaned closer with his trademark smirk, as if reveling in the banter between you two.

“Oh, it’s been a while since I dressed up. Didn’t think I’d find you here,” you said, trying your best to sound relaxed while grappling with the tension in your own words.

“Ryan insisted I swing by,” he said casually, motioning towards Ryan, who clearly found amusement in your awkward exchange. “He’s been raving about all the beautiful faces here tonight.”

At this point, it was clear He was getting a kick out of your flustered demeanor, while Ryan, the instigator, was eagerly observing the spice of your misadventure with barely contained laughter.

“By the way, I’ve heard some nasty rumors about you avoiding me. Let’s debunk them now, shall we?” Hugh asked, his tone teasing yet somehow probing deeper than anything Ryan could dream up.

You felt your insides twist. “Avoid? Me?” The denial rolled off your tongue before you could even process those ridiculous feelings of shame.

Hugh leaned closer; his eyes glinted with something mischievous, perhaps even a challenge. “Sure. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

Just then, Ryan interjected, “What’s going on here? I thought this was a gala, not an interrogation!” His laughter rang merrily through the tension, lightening the mood a fraction yet also amplifying your sense of confinement.

“Don’t mind me. I was just appreciating the chemistry,” Hugh replied, his tone laced with flirtation.

You felt your lips press together firmly to suppress whatever might escape. “Well, I’m happy you found it amusing,” you retaliated, your nerve momentarily bolstered by indignation. Ryan’s laughter resonated around you like salt on your wounds.

“Let me ask you this,” Hugh continued, looking at you, his famous brow furrowed with determination. “What are you so afraid of? You’ve got me intrigued.”

Your heart kicked in at his words. Intrigued? Was it that simple? You caught a glimpse of sincerity in his eyes somewhere beneath the lighthearted banter, as if he was feigning levity to mask genuine interest.

Before you could respond, Ryan jumped in with a grand orchestration. “Alright, let’s get the dancing started!” He whisked you away, and despite the crowd surging past you, you felt a subtle pull to where Hugh was standing, eyes lingering over both you and Ryan.

As you danced, your thoughts revolved around the mess of your emotions, the fun and confidence in face of uncertainty somehow intertwined with an undeniable charm. Ryan continued attempting to match orchestrations that would leave you both in funny situations.

But ultimately, it was the persistent voice of Hugh’s laughter and charisma echoing throughout the room that cast an undeniable shroud over your every thought. Ryan’s meddling had only intensified the reality—you were drawn to this man, this older man, despite all your attempts to convince yourself otherwise.

Unbeknownst to Ryan, who was orchestrating his playful havoc, you could feel the walls starting to crumble. Hugh’s undeniable charm kept you hanging on each word, and deep down, you sensed that perhaps this could still lead someplace unexpected—even if it meant letting go of your fears in the process.

Tonight might be the night you had to confront your own feelings—for better or worse.

The weeks following that fateful night had been a whirlwind of awkward social engagements and an assortment of encounters with Hugh Jackman that left you bombarded with mixed emotions. Each time you saw him, your heart raced, and you felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck. All your efforts to hide away—from cozy cafes to spontaneous happy hours—proved futile when your closest friend, Ryan Reynolds, couldn’t resist pulling you both into the same orbit.

Life turned into a game of avoidance, but the irony was that the more you avoided Hugh, the more his playful demeanor shone through, like a beacon drawing you in. No matter how you tried to be indifferent, each encounter left you flustered and conflicted as Hugh’s cocky grin made your resolve waver. You were becoming increasingly aware, however, that he wasn’t merely playing. There was a persistent undercurrent of genuine interest in his gaze.

But that day—today—you could take it no longer. You were tired of squabbling with your emotions, tired of feeling like you were hiding from the world. No more dancing around it. You had to confront him. In your mind, a million phrases swirled as you prepared for this moment. “Is this a joke for you?” “Do you even care?” “What do you want?”

Arming yourself with an unflinching resolve, you decided to confront Hugh at a coffee shop where the three of you had agreed to meet for brunch. When you arrived, you noticed him already seated, a radiant smile gracing his handsome features as he spoke animatedly with Ryan. Their laughter floated high, light and easy.

Taking a deep breath—and ignoring the flutter in your stomach—you strode up to them, trying to project an air of calm confidence. Ryan’s eyes caught yours first, and his playful smirk grew wider, silently cheering you on. “Ah, look who decided to join us!” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Hugh’s gaze flickered up, and though his smile remained, there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “Hey, you! You still look like you’re avoiding a hangman’s noose!”

“Can we talk?” you said, giving him no room to wiggle out of your demands. “Just you and me.” You gestured for Ryan to leave, and he caught on quickly, winking as he made his way to order more coffee. The air felt charged with tension as you found yourself sitting across from Hugh, whose casual demeanor slowly shifted when he sensed the seriousness of your tone.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, leaning back, arms crossed, an edge of amusement behind his gaze.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to find the right words to articulate the mess of feelings swirling inside. “I… I’ve been thinking about that night we spent together,” you began, feeling all the warmth drain out of your cheeks. “And how you seem to treat it like—like it’s just a funny story to tell. Meanwhile, I’ve been the one feeling all sorts of things, trying to figure out what it meant.”

His brows knitted together, surprise darting across his face. “You think I treat it like a joke?” His voice lowered, and you could feel a shift in the atmosphere. “I’ve been talking to Ryan about it because, quite frankly, that night with you was more than what I expected.”

You blinked, the words catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his casual demeanor washing away, replaced by a raw sincerity that you hadn’t seen before. “Listen, it was fun and spontaneous. Sure, I may have bragged a bit to Ryan, but it’s because I actually liked it—liked you. I wasn’t expecting to feel a connection like that, even if it was one night. I’ve been thinking about you far more than I anticipated.”

Your heart raced, anger and disappointment gradually subsiding to intrigue as you tried to digest his words. “But how can you say that? You’re Hugh Jackman! You have women throwing themselves at your feet, and I just…” You paused, feeling vulnerable. “I thought you saw me as just a fleeting adventure.”

His expression softened, and he shook his head. “You’re not just a fleeting adventure. You caught my attention in more ways than one, and I’m here hoping we can explore that.”

For a moment, the restaurant faded away, and you could only focus on the honesty etched in his gaze. The air hummed with possibility, and their laughter felt distant, like an echo. “So, what does that mean?” you asked, quietly bracing yourself for his answer.

“It means I’d like to see you again, properly this time. No braggadocio. Just us,” he said, his voice steady and inviting, allowing gentle hope to ripple through the space between you. “But that’s only if you’re willing, of course.”

You took a moment to process it all. There was a genuine sincerity in Hugh’s words that sent both excitement and trepidation coursing through you. He was serious; he truly wanted something more.

After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, you found your voice. “I think I’d like that,” you said, heart thumping loudly in your chest. “But I want us to take our time. No rushing, just… getting to know each other.”

A smile spread across Hugh’s face, and in that moment, all the insecurities that had piled up began to dissipate under the warm glow of what could be. “I can do that,” he said, and in that exchange, you felt a sense of relief and liberation wash over you.

As Ryan returned with steaming cups of coffee, his eyes darted between the two of you, practically vibrating with curiosity. You shot him a smile, and his relief echoed yours—this conversation had been long overdue. The future felt bright as the conversation flowed freely, and the tension of the past began to blend into laughter and genuine connection.

The unexpected night had transformed into a new beginning, one filled with promise and the exhilarating anticipation of what was to come.

The flickering candlelight cast gentle shadows on the walls of your favorite little bistro. It was the perfect backdrop for an evening that promised to be both anxiety-inducing and thrilling. You sat at the table, nervously twisting your napkin, a small wave of disbelief rolling over you. Here you were, on a date with Hugh Jackman. Just days ago, the thought of being near him made your stomach churn with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion, but tonight was different. Tonight, there was a chance for something more, something real.

Hugh arrived ten minutes late, as expected. There was a certain charm to his lackadaisical attitude, and any potential annoyance you might have felt quickly melted away when you saw him stride through the door. He wore a fitted blazer over a casual shirt, his hair tousled just enough to give off an effortlessly handsome vibe. The moment his dark eyes met yours, a smile spread across his face, and suddenly, it was as if the world beyond those doors faded away.

“Hey there, stranger,” he said with an easy confidence, pulling out your chair before sinking into his own opposite you. “Apologies for being late. I got sidetracked discovering the lowest rated movie in my collection.”

“Please tell me you didn’t actually watch it,” you replied, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone despite the fluttering nerves in your stomach.

He chuckled, leaning forward slightly, the candlelight illuminating the laughter lines around his eyes. “I couldn’t resist. A curiosity like that tangles with a gift,” he teased, his voice low and cool. “But enough about me—this night is all about you. Tell me what I should know about the real you that I missed in our initial… let’s call it a rendezvous.”

You felt the heat creeping up your cheeks and hesitated. “I’m not sure there’s much to tell. Just your average 35-year-old coping with a midlife existential crisis, wondering when it’s going to stop being so hard to find a decent dating app.”

He laughed again, a deep, warm sound that made your heart race a little faster. “Ah, behold the average woman. If only they knew what a gem they were missing out on.”

The conversation flowed easily from there, drifting through topics of childhood memories, cinematic favorites, and that dreaded question of where you see yourself in five years. With each shared laugh and stolen glance, your embarrassment about your initial encounter began to fade. Under the surface of playful banter was a palpable connection, strong and undeniable.

After dessert—the perfect mix of rich chocolate mousse and a shared slice of cherry pie—you suggested heading back to your place to let Hugh meet your cat, Oliver. He leaned back, a playful spark in his eyes as he raised an eyebrow.

“Your cat? What’s the protocol? Should I come in with a peace offering of tuna or simply wow him with my charm?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “A little bit of both wouldn’t hurt.”

As you arrived at your apartment, you were hit by a wave of uncertainty. Would Oliver take kindly to your illustrious guest? The last thing you wanted was for Hugh to feel uncomfortable petting a cat that determined the rules of engagement.

Inside, Oliver, your fluffy ball of mischief and warmth, immediately strutted over to Hugh and inspected him with an air of royal disdain. Hugh knelt down, extending a hand. “Greetings, noble feline. I come in truce and admiration for your majestic reign over this castle.”

Somewhere deep within you, laughter bubbled up, and for a moment, the awkwardness lay forgotten. Hugh scratched beneath Oliver’s chin, and you watched, captivated, as the cat melted under his touch. “He seems to approve,” you said, feeling lightheaded with relief.

As the evening wore on, and the bottle of wine you’d shared began to take effect, you felt a warm flush of confidence wash over you. Hugh, on the other hand, had relaxed into a more vulnerable state. He shared stories from his past—triumphs and failures, moments of joy that shaped him, and doubts that sometimes seeped through his confident facade. It struck you how rare this side of him was, and your attraction grew deeper, fed by a blend of admiration and genuine rapport.

“Can I admit something?” he said after a long pause. His gaze rested on you, earnest and unshielded. “After that night, I wasn’t sure what to think. I found myself intrigued by you in ways I hadn’t anticipated.”

Your heart raced. His honesty disarmed you. “I felt the same way,” you admitted softly. “But I was embarrassed. I thought you saw it as just a fling.”

He shook his head slowly, a half-smile playing on his lips. “When I braggadociously told Ryan about you, I was trying to mask my own surprise at how drawn I am to you. What we shared was undoubtedly intense, but the depth we’ve explored tonight feels even more thrilling.”

There was a weight to his words, and in that charged moment, everything shifted. The distance that had lingered before this night closed in, replaced with an electric tension. You leaned closer, surrendering to the undeniable chemistry cultivated through laughter and shared moments.

And then, without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips brushing against his. It was a mere whisper of a touch, but the air around you crackled with anticipation. He responded by leaning in, his breath soft on your skin, eyes dark and searching for confirmation.

You found yourself in Hugh's embrace once again, the chemistry between you palpable. His lips met yours, a tender exploration that soon turned passionate. As you kissed, you could feel your bodies yearning for each other, the connection between you undeniable.

"May I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as his hands found their way to your waist.

You nodded, feeling every heartbeat echo in your ears as he closed the space between you. Your bodies pressed against each other, the heat between you intense.

As you pulled away, breathless, a soft smile graced his lips, revealing the thrill of vulnerability shared. "Why don't we make this a regular thing?" he suggested, his voice now thick with emotion.

You grinned, heart swelling with possibility. "I'd like that. More than you know."

You led him to your bedroom, shedding clothes as you went. Your bodies entwined, hands exploring, mouths tasting. The anticipation built as you kissed and touched each other, the pleasure mounting.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groaned as he entered you, your bodies becoming one. You moved together, every thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

you moaned, your bodies slick with sweat. "Don't stop."

As the night unfolded, every moment felt richer than the last. The sex was intense and passionate, fueled by desire and a deep connection. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was filled with emotion and meaning.

"Yes, fuck, yes," you cried out as you reached your peak, your body trembling with pleasure. He followed soon after, his body shuddering as he cum inside you.

As you lay in each other's arms, spent and satisfied, you knew that this was the beginning of something special. The unexpected had led to the most beautiful new beginning.

#smut #hugh jackman fiction #hugh jackman fluff #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #ryan reynolds #logan howlett #logan howlett smut #wolverine #hugh jackman #wolverine smut #hugh jackman smut #love #one night stand #funny #liveblogging #live

401 notes · View notes

fanfoolishness · 1 year ago

Text

I like to imagine that in the future, people remember the clones. After Palpatine falls for good on Exegol, imagine an explosion of freedom and knowledge in those days after the final defeat: imagine archaeologists and scholars plumbing the depths of Imperial and First Order records, trying to figure out what had happened so it could never happen again. And through it all they find the clones’ story woven into everything, until a new field emerges of Clone Studies, a loose alliance of military history buffs and research biologists and anthropologists and ethicists.

They catalogue the Kaminoans’ research; they review the clone memorials on Coruscant, on Zeffo, monuments as large as a massive wall or as small as a quiet statue, from people throughout the galaxy who were grateful for what they did. They study the great tragedy and betrayal of the chip, finally understanding the scope of Palpatine’s plans and bringing them out into the open, sharing the truth that the clones never chose to betray the Jedi Order and Republic they had served faithfully. They study old war vids and oral histories from people of long-lived species or whose grandparents remembered the clones; they build, memory by memory, a sense of the culture, the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the loyalty. They collect vids of battle songs and in-jokes and an interior language shared among them, springing up over the years.

They find and list their names, self-chosen or given by their brothers: Rex, Fives, Howzer, Echo, Tup, Gregor, Wolffe, Cody, Boil, Waxer, Cut. They study the clones whose differences defined them and knit them into a family whose ties could not be broken, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, Omega. They study the discarded who nevertheless still had value - 99, Emerie, the clones who were culled in infancy for being wrong. There are specialists who devote their entire branch of study to the only male unaltered clone and his infamous exploits throughout the galaxy, so alike his father’s. They study the years of the clone rebellion, a fight that paved the way for the next wave of fighters and the next after them.

The clones are gone. That is undisputed. Their kind came for a little while, and then vanished, burning brightly; their tale was a tragedy, but one unique in all its seeming sameness. There are conferences and holovids and books. There are debates and research firing up young scholars about a time only their great-grandparents can remember.

In the future, after all the clones are gone, there are still stories.

#the clones #clone wars #the clone wars #the bad batch #Star Wars #clone force 99 #I’m just having feelings okay #Star Wars meta #clone wars meta #bad batch meta #clones

703 notes · View notes

bbydeathclaw · 1 year ago

Text

Petulance

pairing: silco x fem!reader (nsfw)

AO3

summary: Silco sends you away to try to get some work done and you decide to be a horrendous little shit about it.

tags: fluff, smut, established relationship, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), good ol' mating press, teasing, bratty reader, simp silco

word count: 5.4k

adorably aesthetic mdni banner by @cafekitsune

a/n: hello! this is my first time writing in a looong while almost 10 years to be exact please don't look at me. but I had to get back into it with this shamelessly self indulgent fic of my favorite brooding king pin. I hope you enjoy!

Silco had thought it a bit odd at first, the ease with which you’d taken your leave from his office tonight. Ordinarily when he’d attempt to send you away in favor of getting his paperwork done in a more timely manner, you’d put up some form of sulky little protest.

An overemphasized pout coupled with a look of feigned sadness, eyebrows furrowed together when you’d offer to assist him with said work. Your reason being that it would ‘probably get done faster’ between the two of you.

A lie, and a blatant one at that. You were, on all counts, absolutely shit at keeping your focus on any tasks he’d try to give you. You knew it. He most certainly knew it. Truly he’d wonder why you’d even bother offering at all if you just spent most of the time trying to distract him anyway.

Still, he can’t say he isn’t amused by your actions. He finds these juvenile acts of yours terribly endearing for the most part, and even starts to look forward to them, knowing full well that he'll give in to just about anything if you’d simply ask it of him.

Which is why he can’t help but feel somewhat disappointed when you don’t do any of this at all, and Silco starts to regret his idiotic suggestion entirely until you throw a cheeky smirk his way instead.

“Alright, I think I’ll go bug Sevika for a bit.”

A single eyebrow quirk, followed by a low hum of approval.

“I’m sure she’ll be positively thrilled by that,” he replies, suppressing a smirk of his own at the thought of his second in command being pestered by someone almost half her size.

He’s still disheartened by your willingness to leave, but ultimately makes peace with it knowing that you’d more than likely return at some point. You give him a small wave with your fingers followed by a wink over your shoulder, and Silco doesn't hesitate to drag his gaze over your body shamelessly as it saunters out of his office.

About an hour passes, and the music coming from downstairs is just starting to pick up for the evening. You enter the room with a fluid sidestep, leaning back against the door once it closes behind you. His good brow raises slightly. “Back so soon?”

You don’t answer at first, instead making your way over to one of the tables in his office, like a cat quietly stalking about until something catches its interest. He watches you methodically as you settle for one of Jinx’s old trinkets that had been long discarded, carefully turning it over in your hand. “Sevika called me a menace.”

This time he makes no attempt to hide the subtle upturn from the corner of his lips. “I’m afraid I’m inclined to agree with her, my dear.”

“She seems pretty cranky tonight.”

“Hm, surely through absolutely no fault of your own.”

You bite the inside of your cheek in what he can only assume is an attempt to stifle a giggle before turning to face him with an adorably giddy expression that makes his chest tighten.

“Whatcha doin’?”

So innocent, as if you were completely unaware of the effect you had on him. Silco doesn’t answer you verbally, merely bringing his forehead to rest against his hand and lifting the piece of paper he’s holding in the air with the other. The sullen face you make doesn’t go unnoticed by him as you turn to put the gadget back down with an airy sigh.

“Well,” you drag the word out. “I guess I’d better let you get back to it.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” he says in turn, though it comes off more teasing rather than the displeasure he’s trying to convey.

You study his face for another beat or two before you finally respond. “Okay, if that’s really what you want.” It’s not. Not even in the slightest. “I’ll go see if Thieram needs any help at the bar.”

“My love, Theiram is more than capable of handling his responsibilities as a bartender alone. It’s why I hired him, in fact.” He pauses. “Have you perhaps considered staying up here and behaving yourself, rather than looking for more ways to wreak havoc amongst my employees?”

For a moment Silco thinks that he may be tipping his hand too soon, fearing that you’ve caught on to the fact that he’s basically been doing fuck all except sitting here and waiting for you to come back to his office. His suspicion only rises with the way you’re tilting your head and downright beaming at him with ill-disguised glee, like you’d been reading his every thought.

“If I stayed up here it certainly wouldn’t be to behave myself.”

The paper he’s holding makes an audible crunch sound, his hand crumpling the edge of it faintly in response to your suggestive remark.

Before he has the chance to reply with some snarky comment, you’re already heading towards the door, making a show of swaying your hips and giving him another view of the delicious swell of your backside before you take your leave again. His chair makes an audible groan as he leans back against it and lets out a lengthy sigh, running a hand through his hair and glancing down into his lap at the result of your seemingly endless torment.

Intolerable minx.

By the third time you make your way back up, only about half an hour has passed, and Silco’s all but given up on the prospects of getting any semblance of work done tonight. His thoughts being entirely permeated by you and the state you’d left him in.

The Last Drop is in full swing now, and the liveliness of everything going on downstairs comes through the open door as you re-enter his office. However this time, he makes no effort to acknowledge your arrival, his chair now facing away from his desk, turned instead towards the large stained glass window that bathes him in a sickly, pale green light. All the noise from the club gets muffled when the door shuts once again, followed by the sound of purposeful footsteps making their way over to him.

“Welcome back,” he states flatly, trying to sound as disinterested as he can manage in his current predicament while he looks over his clipboard in a vain attempt at trying to salvage what was supposed to be a productive evening.

“Hello there, almighty Eye of Zaun,” you chime back with a playful lilt in your voice. “Did you miss me?”

Silco’s eyes tick upwards and stare blankly at the window straight ahead, actively suppressing the urge to let out another heavy sigh. You were going to be the death of him at this rate, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. How you managed to be both so insufferable and still so unbelievably charming he’ll never quite understand. Before he has the chance to turn his chair with an already fixed scowl, he hears a faint thud behind him, the distinct sound of glass meeting wood only slightly muted by a soft shuffling of papers.

A few seconds pass before Silco finally spins around to face you, seeing that a tumbler has been set down right on top of the paperwork he had been ruminating over all night. He’s also greeted by the sight of you already sitting in a chair directly in front of his desk, grinning from ear to ear. His heart swells at the sight and his scowl gradually melts away, only to be replaced by something more along the lines of skepticism when he takes in your expression fully.

Your smile is accompanied by what appears to be a look of pure satisfaction, though he has no clue as to why. His non-discolored eye narrows at you, like a parent trying to figure out what misdeed their child has committed behind their back.

Silco regards you warily for another moment, taking in every minute detail of your face in hopes of detecting something that might give you away while he reaches for the glass set in front of him. Ice clinks against the sides as he swirls it around before bringing it to his lips, taking a long sip followed by a hum of appreciation. His eyes shoot back up to meet yours, and finds you now biting your lip while trying, and failing, to suppress a huge grin.

You’re definitely up to something, that much he’s certain of now, and the fact that he still can’t figure out what it is causes his previously feigned discontent to turn into more of a bubbling frustration, having just about enough of whatever game you’re playing. A fleeting thought crosses his mind as he glances down at the drink now dangling from his fingertips, then back up to you.

Silco knows you’ve taken in the brief look of suspicion on his face when you let out a laugh that, despite the visible displeasure he's exuding towards you, is still one of the sweetest sounds he's ever heard.

“I didn’t poison you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you quip, clearly amused at the implication.

“At this point I would be grateful if you did.”

You laugh again, but it comes out more like a short exhale through your nose along with a relaxed grin, taking a sip of your own beverage, and Silco’s good eye narrows at you once again.

“Are you drunk?”

“What? No.”

Silence.

“Then what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

He practically glares at you for what feels like a considerable amount of time before it finally dawns on him that you haven’t left yet.

“Did you need something darling? Or have you just come to find more ways to elicit whatever reaction you’ve been hoping for this evening?” Silco brings the tumbler to his mouth once more, letting it hover there momentarily in order to get the rest of his words out. “Because if the intended reaction was to see how far you can test my patience I can assure you-”

Words die on his lips immediately when you make a move to stand, mismatched eyes shooting down to your waist to see what appears to be quite possibly the shortest skirt he’s ever seen you in, leaving so very little to the imagination.

He’s still holding the glass right up to his face while he watches you make your way around the only obstacle that separates the two of you before hopping onto one of the corners, your butt and thighs jiggling faintly when they make contact with the solid piece of furniture. “I just figured you could use a drink after such a long night of hard work. Is that so wrong?”

Silco tracks your movements with an almost predatory fixation, watching you lean back slightly to rest against your arms, crossing one leg over the other and he has to actively resist the urge to scoff. This thing is hardly covering anything, you’re essentially sitting there with your bare ass on his desk. The realization of that along with the sight of everything you’re showing has his cock hardening at an alarming rate.

You don’t seem to notice, or if you do you don’t say anything, eyebrows knitting together in a poorly disguised attempt at looking genuinely worried. “What’s wrong? You don’t look very happy to see me.”

Silco sets the glass down onto his desk with a bit more force than intended, turning his chair to face all the way forward and bringing his mouth to rest against interlocked fingers. Any moment now he’s expecting you to hop right off that corner and make your way back downstairs, back to a place filled with depraved and perverted onlookers.

Realistically he knows no harm would ever befall you while you were down in the Last Drop. All of his subordinates had been given clear instruction to keep a watchful eye on you at all times, and after a while a lot of them had started to do it less out of obligation and more so out of genuine care, especially Jinx and Sevika.

Plus, he knows you can hold your own in a fight. Growing up in the undercity had hardened you just enough to make you a scrappy but formidable opponent. So logically speaking, Silco knows there's no safer place for you to be, but the thought of anyone other than himself seeing you in that, especially the less than respectable patrons that frequent his establishment nearly every night, makes his blood boil.

“Of course I'm happy to see you, my dear,” he retorts, turning his head to look over at you once more, eyes darting downwards to that indecent piece of fabric wrapped around your waist then back up to meet your gaze. “It's just that I'm seeing quite a lot of you at the moment, and if you go back downstairs, so will everyone else.” His last words come out strained as he shifts in his chair in a poor attempt to alleviate his growing erection.

“Oh, you mean my skirt? Is there…something wrong with it?” You lift your hips to take the tiniest of scoots towards him, and Silco’s eyes immediately hone in on the action.

“Don’t be cheeky.”

Another scoot. “I’m afraid that can’t be helped, especially in this.”

At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if you really are trying to kill him, taking controlled and steady breaths while he attempts to suppress his growing ire in response to such a ridiculous question. Of course there’s something wrong with it. Silco’s sure he’d nearly be able to see the soft outline of your mound if you were to spread your legs, even in the slightest.

He lets out another deep breath before picking up his pen and casually scribbling his signature on one of the invoices strewn about in front of him. “You will not be going back down there like that.”

He’s not looking at you, but Silco can see the movements of you moving closer out of the corner of his unmarred eye.

“Are you..asking me to stay?”

He doesn’t respond, instead electing to take another piece of paper to scrawl his name at the bottom offhandedly. He knows what you’re playing at, the fact that it took him so long to realize it irks him to no end. He wouldn’t mind answering honestly and just telling you that yes, he does want you to stay, but the thought of giving into your bratty little antics this evening doesn’t sit quite right with him.

Which is why he makes the conscious decision to ignore you as you move close enough to where your upper leg is now narrowly brushing his elbow, the shift causing him to mess up the tail end of another signature. Silco chances a glance towards the movement and regrets it almost immediately when he takes in the soft curve of your thigh, his cock twitching painfully at the sight.

He makes his second mistake when he follows the tantalizing trail of your body upwards and is met with the most unabashed, shit eating grin plastered across your face. He has to force himself to look away, the hand not holding his pen coming up to drag his long fingers back and forth across his mouth as he contemplates the idea of sending you away all together, leaving you pouty and disappointed. And for a moment he comes close to doing just that, until he makes the grave error of risking a glance up at your face again.

You’re not smiling anymore, expression replaced by something far more lustful and serious. Silco simply stares as your tongue slides out to pull your bottom lip in between your teeth before gently nudging his elbow with your knee. He doesn’t hesitate in dropping his arm to offer you the space in front of him, and you slide over gracefully. He stays perfectly still while you plant a foot atop each of the armrests of his ornate chair, knees pressed tightly together.

He finally responds to your earlier question with one of his own.

“What would possibly give you that idea?” His voice is light and teasing, all traces of anger gone. “You’ve been nothing short of a nightmare all evening, love. And now this?” Fingertips come up to stroke the side of your calf, humming appreciatively. “What am I going to do with you?”

This earns Silco a wide, toothy grin as you scoot forward. “Whatever do you mean? I’m just sitting here.”

“Don't be coy with me, sweetheart.” He leans forward, breath fanning over your knees as he speaks. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” knees parting just barely, “to answer my question.”

Silco pushes his tongue against his cheek in minor annoyance before sliding both hands up your legs and over your knees, then back down until he reaches your hips. He grips firmly at the supple flesh and yanks you closer towards him, eliciting a sharp squeak followed by a string of giggles.

“I think you might be the most aggravating creature I’ve ever had the displeasure of courting.”

Your face adorns a look of mock appreciation. “Awe, thank you!”

Slender hands travel back up to your knees. “Truly just a tantalizing little menace.” He waits for you to part them further, granting him the access he’s so desperately craving. “One that I’m both drawn to and irritated by all at once.”

Your smile is nothing short of haughty, as if you’re truly taking everything he’s telling you as a compliment. “Well now you’ve really got me hot and bothered,” you shoot back, knees moving further away from each other until you’re spread all the way open for him.

Although spoken in a sarcastic tone, Silco sees that your words are in fact true, his eyes taking in the sight of your already dripping cunt.

“Indulge me, sweetheart,” he says, one hand coming up to trace the backs of your thighs with his knuckles, causing goosebumps to decorate your soft skin. “Why the need to be so difficult tonight?”

You shiver at the touch, bottom lip still tucked between your teeth as he brings a thumb up to stroke lazily over your pussy.

“J-just for fun,” you retort, but your voice doesn’t hold the same conviction. “Wanted to see..how long it would take.”

“How long what would take?”

The laugh you let out is shaky at best, but there’s still a bit of confidence left when you answer. “For you to ask me to stay.”

It only takes about half a second before Silco’s thumb pushes into your core and his tongue cards a long, hot stripe along your folds. The noise you make spurring him on further as his mouth envelopes your clit, giving it a harsh suck before pulling away with a satisfying wet plop sound.

“I don’t recall asking anything of the sort,” he chides, sliding his thumb back out. “If memory serves me correctly, you came into my office several times practically demanding my attention.”

Silco punctuates his last few words by pushing two fingers into you, pulling another sharp inhale from your lips as he turns his palm to face upward and curls them inside of you.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he starts, bringing his thumb to circle against your now swollen clit, drawing a long whine out of you as you work your hips against him. “..that perhaps I attempt to send you away in order to finish with my tasks quickly, just so I can get back to doting on you with said attention? Selfish little creature.”

Your eyebrows pinch together, speaking between shallow breaths. “You.. could have just.. said that.. you know.”

Silco smirks, watching you look back at him with a pair of pleading eyes. “And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your lovely pouts and open displays of petulance?” He adds a third finger. “I think not.”

“Silco,” you whine, “please.”

His cock twitches in response, and he doesn’t waste any time bringing his mouth back down to your bud and swirling his tongue around it lavishly while his fingers twist and turn inside of you. He watches you throw your head back, one of your hands snaking upwards to grip the edge of the desk above your head, the other coming to latch onto the top of his head hard as you roll your hips against him.

“There, that’s it,” he coos, “show me how eager you are. Use me.”

This draws another string of small gasps and moans from you, coupled with lewd, wet, slurping sounds as Silco continues to lap and suck at your clit, bringing his free hand to grip your thigh and anchor you to him. The strain in his pants grows increasingly more painful when you sigh his name affectionately, followed by a noise of protest when he removes his fingers from you all together in an effort to tug at intricate buttons of his trousers, freeing his aching cock and palming himself to the sight of your ruined state.

Your arousal coating his fingers serves as a welcome lubricant for him to stroke himself languidly, relishing in the feeling of you bucking up into him, using him to chase your own end. His licks are hot and thorough, leaving no part of your heat untouched.

“Yes,” Silco groans into you, “just like that.”

Your other hand comes down to unbutton your top, cupping and squeezing at one of your breasts, and he knows you’re close by the way you’re begging and pleading above him. The sound of your voice feeds into his determination, letting go of his cock in order to wrap both arms around your thighs, securing you in place and devouring you like a starved man.

The way you cry out his name while your walls flutter around his tongue has him reeling, mismatched eyes boring into you, watching your orgasm in complete reverence as your fluids run down his chin.

“Good girl,” Silco sighs, his movements slowing down to let you ride out your climax. “You always make such sweet sounds for me.”

Your legs tremble and the vicelike grasp you have on his hair loosens before you slump back down onto his desk, words barely managing to come through your short and labored breaths.

“Could've been making them a lot earlier if you’d…stop trying to kick me out.”

A hint of a smile creeps up on his face as he presses small, feather light kisses up the backs of your thighs, leaving glistening spots of your slick behind in their wake. “You know, it is possible to keep your unsolicited remarks to yourself every once in a while.”

Yours breaks into a devious grin that tugs at his heart without mercy. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Mmm, point taken.”

Silco stands to turn your body so that you’re taking up the full length of his desk before climbing up onto it and bracing himself with a hand on either side of your head. His length bobs thick and heavy with need, bringing it to rest against your slit.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You roll your hips against him needily, coating his cock with your arousal. “Maybe.”

“You drive me absolutely mad,” he growls, voice dripping with carnal hunger as he pushes your legs up against your chest once again, lining himself up with your entrance. And it’s the way you're looking up at him with your lip tucked in between your teeth in anticipation, the slight inward curl of your eyebrows in an almost pleading expression that has him pushing into you in one, smooth buck forward, making you gasp as he bottoms out inside of you.

Silco sees your eyes roll back, and he has to physically stop himself from doing the same. He wants to see it all, wants to see your blissed out expression while he fucks you, wants to see all the different ways he can make you come undone beneath him.

You make a pitiful attempt at stifling a moan, one that ultimately fails when Silco starts to rock his hips against yours, pulling them back slowly and savoring the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls before driving them forward with a sharp, pointed thrust. But he’s right there with you, exhaling a throaty groan at the feeling of your walls engulfing him so deliciously, the sensation being nothing short of divine.

“Look at you, taking me so well,” he whispers, lowering his head and tilting it to place gentle kisses along your jawline before nipping at your earlobe. “Like we were made for each other.”

The breathy whine this elicits causes him to straighten himself upright again, picking up his pace steadily, and soon the room is filled with the obscene, wet smacking of skin against skin as Silco begins to pump into you with feral-like need. He readjusts your legs so that your calves are hooked over his shoulders, letting him fuck you so much deeper.

You’re a mess of broken pleas beneath him, and he clings to every single one, a symphony meant solely for him and him alone. Silco watches you with wholly, unabashed devotion as your face twists and contorts in pleasure, pleasure that only he can bring you. And though he wants to feel like he’s still in control, he knows deep down he’s equally ruined by what you do to him, maybe even more so. His seafoam eye glazes over, and strands of hair fall loosely around his face as he ruts into you.

You reach up and try to put your arms around his neck, but the position your legs are in only allow you to claw at his shoulders helplessly. “S-silco, please..”

“Oh? I see someone’s finally learned some manners,” he taunts.

The huff of annoyance you let out amuses him more than he’d care to admit, “For fuck’s sake, Sil. Let me hold you.”

“Demanding thing,” he scolds, but gives into your ‘request’ regardless, lowering your legs just enough so that your knees fall to the side and hook over his forearms, letting you wrap your arms around his neck with open urgency. And now you’re pulling him down and holding him there, like the waters he'd nearly drowned in.

Silco’s jaw goes slack as he turns his head and pants in your ear like some wild beast, whose sole purpose is to bring you to your end. Like it was all he was ever made for. Your head turns to meet his lips with your own, and he tries to keep some semblance of restraint while he kisses you, but he can’t, not with you. It’s hungry and sloppy, full of exceeding desperation.

He breaks the kiss reluctantly to make his way down to your neck, lips and tongue moving against the delicate flesh and littering your throat with marks of all kinds, leaving no room for anyone to question who you belong to. “Mine,” Silco snarls possessively in between sucks and bites.

He's about to pull away when one of your hands slides up to the nape of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair and locking him in place, begging for more, more, more, and Silco’s more than happy to oblige. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger so tightly, and this realization both excites and ruins him as he begins to ram everything he has into you with new purpose.

“Oh fuck, Silco. Right there,” you cry out, voice becoming raspy and hoarse from your continuous gasps in between moans.

"Yes, that's it. Show me how much you want this, how much you need this," he huffs out through gritted teeth, trying to establish some form of dominance once again, but it's no use when he realizes his words are just as applicable to him as they are to you.

He forgoes his hold on your legs, letting them fall to your sides briefly before wrapping them around his waist. Your eyes flutter shut and your head starts to loll to the side, but Silco grabs your jaw quickly and forces you to look directly at him.

“None of that, darling. I want you to look at me when you come undone,” His breath comes out ragged and primal. “You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

You nod frantically in response, eyes drifting downward to stare at his mouth, like a silent plea. He takes the hint without delay, squishing your cheeks together until your lips form a small pout before leaning down to kiss you fervently. His tongue swirls around yours, hot and wanting, before he pulls away just enough for him to pant into your open mouth, his connecting to yours by the thinnest string of saliva.

Silco can sense your second orgasm approaching rapidly, and he brings his fingers towards your lips. You take the hint right away, wrapping them around his digits and sucking on them lavishly. Once he’s satisfied enough, he removes them and snakes his hand down through your intertwined bodies, settling for the bundle of nerves located between your legs.

Your moans increase in pitch, arms and legs squeezing even tighter around him as he works you with skilled flicks of his wrist.

“You’ve endured this so well, my love,” he whispers against your ear, voice laced with unrestrained hedonism and resolve. “Let’s reward all that effort of yours tonight, shall we?”

His question is rhetorical, but you nod so eagerly for him nonetheless as your walls begin to pulsate, clenching so unbelievably tight around him you’re practically pushing his cock out, nearly sending him over the edge himself.

“That’s my girl,” he sighs with heavy grit and worship. “You feel incredible.”

Silco’s face comes back up to hover over yours, looking directly into your eyes while he fucks you through your climax, his own looming closer and closer. He leans down to kiss you, swallowing your labored breaths greedily as his thrusts begin to stagger before coming to a complete halt, his pelvis flush against yours as his cock twitches obscenely within your heat. He lets out a harsh, guttural moan right into your mouth as he spills into you, your walls continuing to milk him with stuttered squeezes, and he has to pull away sharply to exhale a series of delirious gasps.

Your chests heave against one another, waves of pleasure slowly dissipating as your sweat soaked bodies stay interlocked. Silco shifts slightly, bringing his hands to stroke the top of your head lazily with his fingertips. His forehead comes to rest against yours as he places soft, tender kisses along your cheeks, your eyes, your lips, anything within reach.

He’s rewarded with a giggle, followed by a dopey little grin.

“You know,” you say as your breaths finally return to normal. “I just remembered the other reason you try to send me away while you work.”

Silco already knows the answer, but you punctuate your words anyway by wiggling your ass, causing the sound of his paperwork shuffling beneath you, followed by a light yelp as he smacks your bottom lightly.

“Impossible little wench,” he chastises, lifting himself off of you and being greeted once again by the sight of the thing you keep referring to as a ‘skirt’. He grabs the edge of it with his fingertips, holding it up like it was a cursed object. “Where in Janna’s name did you even get this from?”

You bark out a laugh before propping yourself up hastily to look down at it with pride. “Ran let me borrow it.”

“Excuse me?”

“What?”

“Borrow it,” he repeats, “as in you have every intention of giving it back to them?”

You stare at him for a moment, no doubt mulling over your answer.

“...No?”

Silco smirks at your response before leaning in. “Good girl. Besides, I think we may find many more uses for it still.”

Your eyes widen with child-like wonder, but for the entirely wrong reason. “Oh, so you’ll wear it for me, too?”

He stares back at you blankly, blinking several times before rolling his eyes almost theatrically, earning him another small fit of laughter as he finally graces you with a response.

“Whatever pleases you, I suppose.”

#silco #silco arcane #arcane silco #arcane #silco x reader #silco x you #silco fanfic #silco fanfiction #bratty reader #simp silco #mdni

1K notes · View notes

kacievvbbbb · 9 months ago

Text

You do get the sense that the fallout of Roger's death and the Roger pirates disbanding not so much traumatized Buggy and Shanks indifferent ways but instead generated such drastically different reactions to the trauma.

While the trauma of everything seemed to push Shanks into the future, always constantly waiting for something, putting plans on hold and then later in place, for this great moment, this great coming that he sees on the Horizon. For Buggy it rooted him firmly in the past keeping him trapped in this grief masquerading as anger.

While Roger's death forced Shanks to grow up fast, it kind of arrested Buggy's development keeping him stuck in those same feelings, rooted int that same place.

You get the sense that Buggy's whole east blue schtick is just one long overdue rebellious phase one big fuck you to Roger and his ideals. He's rebelling against Roger's principles. One of their rules was don't steal from innocent people and Buggy was keeping a whole town in poverty. If Roger and Luffy's pirating styles are diametrically opposed to someone like Blackbeard, who might be the most literal pirate in the entire series, then buggy is the parody of that Blackbeard piratism. He is playing up cruelty, being the most piratey pirate possible, hell he's literally a clown on a stage. It's all a show! It's his own special way of trying to "get back at Roger" of trying to discard everything Roger taught him for this overacted, over exaggerated clownish cruelty. Mentally he never left that execution square. He is still 15, alone and scared.

Hell he literally never left either, while I'm pretty sure Shanks' booked it out of the east blue as fast as he could, Buggy never lef, might have never left, if not for Luffy. It's part of why Luffy bothers him so much, he's just like Roger everything that Buggy is trying hard to forget and here comes this kid, whose never even met the Captain but is wearing his hat, shoving it right back in his face.

It makes sense that he never leaves the east blue till Luffy literally forces him out of it (fucking with Luffy gets him captured and imprisoned) and it makes sense that it's Luffy that literally breaks him out of prison, literally sets him free, and on the path to greatness that maybe he was always meant to achieve (even if he trips his way into it). This boy that is tragically so much like his old captain but so beautifully unabashedly himself, is what Buggy needs to start letting go off the past, to start trying to move forward.

Maybe that's why Buggy, at what could arguably be described as his lowest moment, gets the strength to free himself from his own self imprisonment, realizing that even back then he was locking himself away and pinning his own dreams on Shanks. And, maybe for the first time ever, Buggy really own his dream. He declares to his tormentors and his crew and the entire world that; actually He wants to find the one piece, him, as captain of his own crew, this crew, not just a part of someone else's. That's his dream and he's willing to turn the world upside down to do it.

#Buggy for Pirate king 2024 #I can't lie I believe that he might actually do it. It might be just for the bit and just for a few seconds but he'll do it!#No where else for him to trip up too #I think it's great that yeah Luffy liberates kingdoms in all these big ways #but from the beginning of the story in all these little ways he's been setting people free and in his own little way he set Buggy free too #my favorite thing recently has been dissecting all the ways in which how the roger pirating handling of everything ruined these boys lives #honestly not just them judging from what we've seen it's the whole crew cause Rayleigh's defiantly not doing okay #Buggy has such middle child syndrome despite being the exact same age as Shanks and not having a younger sibling #like of course he was going to feel like he had to fall under Shanks Shanks probably felt chosen by god it's hard not to feel second to tha #This feels more like a collection of thoughts than the cohesive essay I was going for #but I guess that's what happens when you literally only have a collection of thoughs #It took me a while but I actually fuck with the star clown #buggy the star clown #buggy pirates #buggy the clown #buggy one piece #one piece analysis #character analysis #shanks #red haired shanks #cross guild #roger pirates #gol d. roger #monkey d. luffy #buggy #shanks and buggy #one piece #one piece thoughts #one piece meta #op

328 notes · View notes

lightningant · 4 months ago

Text

There's a lot of fluff about how Harry shows no sign of trauma from his upbringing but maybe it's because I was neglected and often spoken of as extremely well-adjusted, but to me Harry seems to be a pretty natural response to a combination of neglect and a stable upbringing? He's not like. Traumatized. But a lot of people just develop maladaptive habits from these circumstances. Like:

Dissociative tendencies. I know this one is not intentional, but he shows constant lack of focus which interferes with his schooling and will often just space out and stare at things. This is used as a device to point the reader towards plot relevant items and turn them from irrelevant details, but it is something he does.

Harry does not actually distrust adults outright at first! He goes to teachers for help! But he tends to disrespect them, and struggles to think of adults as figures of authority the moment they slip up. Hagrid's bumbling chaos, Quirrell's nerves, Snape beefing with an 11-year-old, McGonagall not taking his Very Real Concerns seriously, Vernon's bluster, these are moments Harry discards their authority - that child thought McGonagall was going to burn him at the stake at first, but was barely shaken by her later. And it makes sense! You are a powerless child, you are looked down on, but the "consequences" you face are things you got used to and feel are normal, so you take strength from being unafraid of punishment.

A lot of fluff is made about abuse victims and independence because yeah, obviously, but I do think a lot of his savior/martyr complex is egged on by his servile role; he lived his entire life apart from the Dursleys, but they relied on him. To be crude, when someone shits the bed he puts it in the washer. And I do think he takes satisfaction in being the best man for the job, and I do think that can breed a whole host of mental problems that will lead you to a fated suicide duel with a Dark Lord

The books are mean-spirited in general, but he learned a lot of the fundamentals on engaging with the world from the Dursleys. He's pretty consistently petty and vindictive! And I genuinely believe Harry is, personally, as a character, fatphobic (in addition to the doylist text being fatphobic), because it was something Dudley gets criticized for and thus something that proves Dudley isn't infallible, and he would have definitely fixated on it and felt comfortable doing so, because that's just how the Dursleys talk about people.

For that matter, he is in general stifled by the inner lives of others - he's somehow the most socially stunted person in a trio with Hermoine in it. He is at all times deeply uncomfortable by the thought that other people have feelings and motivations, and reifies people with strong, clear roles in his life, and a lot of his development is realizing there are people behind those roles. I stand by the fact that Harry naming a child after Snape is a symptom of unaddressed mental illness.

This boy is so unbelievably susceptible to mania. I'll acknowledge a lot of his behaviour is teenage bull-headedness but the way the extremes of "I need to be doing something Now" and catastrophizing only gets worse...You know when he's 30 he's going to get prescribed mood stabilizers

And these are all things that can spiral into really toxic and self-destructive behaviour, which we know because that's what happens in the books. I think part of pushing his trauma in fanfiction is accepting that sometimes when someone is traumatized they develop an awful personality instead of PTSD.

(You may now reread this entire post and think about Tom Riddle.)

#metaposting #the more bad personality traits he has the more love in my heart i hold for him.

161 notes · View notes

sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 months ago

Text

Says I'm his favorite (yeah, I better be) (Boy king of Hell Sam Winchester x female reader)

The King finds you while you sleep. You have a million questions - what will happen to you when he finally makes you his queen? But Sam is too distracted by you...

My Sam Winchester masterlist

Rated 18+. 3.6k words. Consensual somnophilia. Sam the king. Memories of what once was. Fingering, prone bone and cockwarming.

Sam enters your shared bedroom, only to change his shirt because this one has blood on it, sees you lying in the big four-poster mahogany bed, naked, asleep, back rising and falling slowly, and he knows he won’t go back to work anytime soon.

It’s fine, he thinks as he walks towards you, mounts the three steps going up to the high bed as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. He’s the king, after all. Not like he’ll miss anything important.

He undresses while he looks down at your sleeping form. You’re on your front, face turned to the side, lips slightly parted in the most perfect, precious o-shape. Eyelashes resting on your skin. He sees that old scar high on your naked back from a case you took on years ago. He could heal it, make it disappear, but the truth is, he loves it, the shape of it so familiar. Loves feeling it under his lips when he’s buried deep inside of you. His cock twitches at that.

He discards his shirt somewhere behind him, then reaches a hand out, long fingers gripping the thin silk blanket lying over you as he slowly drags it off you. The fabric is so soft and light that it doesn’t wake you, you only make a small noise at the change around you. It drops to the floor, and you’re revealed to him entirely.

Your legs aren’t tugged close to your body for once, the way they always are. You make yourself into a small package when you sleep, and Sam used to tease you with how easy it would be to carry you off like that. It made you shake your head and smile. And who’s gonna take me? you’d ask. They’ll return me the next day. Sam knows you were joking, but still he didn’t like your reply. Anyone lucky enough to catch you would keep you forever, he knows that.

He tugs down his pants, lets them fall to the floor and climbs onto the bed. He disturbs the mattress as little as possible. When he was still human - mostly human, really - he was already able to move so quietly. Now he’s perfected it.

Your ass is slightly raised due to one of your legs being angled and he brings his face close to it, the buttery soft skin, ghosts his lips over it. He’s not sure if you feel it but it’s as much for his benefit as yours. He crawls up your body, nose and lips close to your skin, and you don’t wake from the disturbance.

He reaches the scar on your back, lips gently pressing against it while he keeps watching your face. He sees your eyes move under your eyelids for a moment, but you don’t wake. So, with a smile, he moves one hand to between your legs.

You’re not wet, but he’s sure to change that. He starts slowly, not wanting to wake you, wanting the climb to not rip you out of your dreams. He was always good at self-control, never one to give in to his urges without thinking about it. It’s how he’s made it this far. It’s how he’s accomplished everything he’s accomplished in his life, really. But you pose a challenge - you always have.

When he first started reigning Hell, you out there in the wastelands of the former world, not at his side, he was able to concentrate. The way his kingdom overran the earth is proof of that, of his focus, his determination. It was only when he’d lock himself in his chambers, despite not needing to sleep, that his thoughts turned to you. Thoughts about your skin and your hair and your smell and your voice. About whether you were safe. He’d be torn between the pain of you leaving him and the determination to get you back. Somehow. Someday.

But now that you’re here, never more than a few rooms away? It’s become torture, and Sam knows a thing or two about torture. He’ll be holding court, listening to some plan or proposal or other, and suddenly he’ll realize he hasn’t been listening for minutes, has been replaying what you and him spent the last night doing.

That’s why you’re sleeping now - because the time humans would spend sleeping, Sam spends ravishing you. He knew he’d never get bored of you, but he at least expected the absolute hold you have over his every waking thought to diminish somewhat after a few weeks. It hasn’t.

Instead, there are twenty or thirty demons, high ranking ones too, waiting just down the hallway, in the room he has designated the throne room, waiting for him with their important business, while Sam is here, fingers gently exploring the warm promise between your legs.

He goes slowly, no rush. One of the advantages of being immortal. He’s not a demon - he’s something more, time and sickness cannot touch him any longer, and neither can much else. As he pets you where you’re softest, a low sound emitting from you, he presses his lips to your scar again, not taking his eyes off your face.

He can feel your wetness building. Can feel your body starting to react to him. Deep sleep still has its hold on you, but you are clearly feeling him. Sam wonders if you’re dreaming of him, right now. If you’re imagining him, and if you are, how. How do you want him when no one, not even he, is watching?

Another small whimper leaves you and Sam moves his fingers, pushes two of them into your tight entrance. He sighs as the warmth envelops them, the silky softness of you. His cock twitches again, begging him to replace his fingers with it. But not yet. He’ll be too distracted if he’s inside you. He just wants to watch you, each miniscule change on your face, in your breathing. He’d never admit it, but the way he feels when he’s buried deep inside you, your arousal soaking his balls - he’s not in control then. Not really.

He finds that soft, spongy spot in you, long, dexterous fingers locating it easily. He still remembers the first time he got to feel that part of you. It was a mild summer day and you were on a case. You had worn a white and blue dress that had made Sam’s trousers too tight the moment he laid eyes on you. When you noticed, you dragged him away, to the side of the house of the witnesses whose backyard barbeque you were at. Had taken his fingers, pressed them into your underwear and into you. Sam had to steady his other hand against the wall behind you - that’s how much the feeling had overwhelmed him.

He remembers the feeling of you coming on his fingers that day like it was yesterday. Your eyebrows knotted closely together as if you were in exquisite pain, lips parted to let out sinful sounds that Sam caught with his own mouth. You squeezed him tight, as if you were saying: this is where you belong. I’m never letting you go.

There’s a slight crease on your forehead now too. You’ve started moving your hips a little, sleep probably making you unaware of the fact that you’re searching out more of him. Sam feels the grin that spreads on his face. He can’t help but press his cock against the back of your thigh, just a little. You’re soft and warm there too.

When you were done moaning into his mouth, that day back in that summer that might as well be a thousand years ago, you kissed him. Softly, lazily, while your hand rubbed the hard bulge in his pants. One of the thin straps of your dress had fallen off your shoulder, and Sam leaned his head down, far down, to kiss this new spot of skin revealed to him.

“Can’t let you walk around with that,” you said in a low, seductive tone, looked into his eyes. Eyes that Sam already knew he wanted to look into forever. You had sucked any objection out of him in the minutes that followed. One hand cupping his balls while your nose pressed against the dark curls of his crotch. Sam moaned and whimpered when he spilled down your throat, out there, for everyone who walked around the house to see. He couldn’t find that he cared.

Your hips are moving more, and small high sounds are leaving you. They’re soft, vulnerable, open. A side of you you don’t show many. But you do show him. He knows how much that means.

There will be no more sunny days, your back pressed against the side of a house, your hair and skin smelling like sunshine. The sun has been blacked out by him. Sam remembers how the grass smelled, freshly cut. How the bees buzzed. All of that is gone. He’d feel sad at that if he gave himself over to it.

Your eyes fly open a second before you come. Your mouth rips open and your hands twist the sheets below, knuckles going white, and then your wetness flows over his fingers while you shake and pant.

You press your head into the luxurious bedding below while Sam teases you again, presses his fingers against that spot again, which makes you twitch and pull in your legs a little, so he finally retreats. He pushes his hand into the mattress next to you, ghosts the tip of his nose over your ear while you recover.

When you finally turn your head, your lids are low, your cheeks flushed. You press yourself up and back against Sam and he grinds himself against you, his cock now wearing a crown of pre-come that must smear against your smooth skin. He doesn’t see it, he’s too busy nuzzling your cheek, but he knows it’s there.

You press your face against him, and then you raise your hand to cup his cheek.

It stops midair with a rattle. You sigh and then drop it, the iron shackle around your wrist stopping it from fully meeting the bed. Sam places his hand right next to yours and you extend your pinkie to wrap it around his.

“Are they too tight?” Sam asks, pressing the tip of his nose into the side of your face. You hum, rub your cheek along him.

“They’re fine,” you say, tangling your fingers more with his, and then, in a lower, raspier tone: “Keep going.”

Sam smiles, kisses your cheek softly, your earlobe. Down to your neck, where he sucks the skin between his lips, your sweet, soft skin, until you make a small noise in your throat and he lets go.

His hand goes between your bodies. He doesn’t need to stroke himself - he’s already where he needs to be. But he guides himself between your legs, your ass raised to receive him, guides himself until he can feel your warm arousal at his tip. A perfect, little gasp leaves you and then you squeeze his hand and he pushes in.

In the throne room down the hall, none of the demons get shifty. No one gives away that they mind waiting, even for a second. They know what happens when someone does that. These breaks have simply become part of the job. One of them blows out some air he doesn’t need between lips. Another throws him a warning look. When the screaming starts, they know they’ll be here a while.

Your face is pressed into the bedding, your whine and whimpers and moans loud in Sam’s ears as he keeps thrusting into you, narrow hips snapping as he watches your face contort in orgasm after orgasm.

You’re nearly sobbing from the pleasure and overstimulation at this point, your hand formed into a claw where it is still gripping Sam’s, your cheeks flushed and your eyes wet and low lidded, lips plump from Sam kissing them and you biting and sucking on them.

“Sam,” you gasp, and it’s unclear from your intonation what you need, or if you just want to say his name. But Sam understands, lowers his head again and licks a long stripe along the soft skin of your cheek, picking up sweat and tears - both human luxuries he is no longer provided.

He pivots his hips and only a second later, you begin shaking, crying out, desperately sucking for breath. Sam feels the swell of his balls, the twitch in his blood, in his cock, everywhere and he brings his mouth down to your jaw again, presses lips and tongue and teeth against you while your tight heat pulls all restraint from him.

He groans your name when he comes. It’s like a whisper in the dark but he might as well be screaming it. That’s what it feels like he’s doing, as he squeezes his eyes shut, presses his entire body against yours anywhere he can, just to be as close as possible to you. His face is pressed into your neck, your hair, and he takes a deep breath. You smell like sunshine.

After a minute, Sam moves. You stir under him and he untangles his hand from yours, but only to reach forward, grab something out of the bedside table. He brings his hand back and to your wrist. It’s the key to your cuffs and they open with a click.

Sam puts the key back, then rolls off you, on his back, staying close, turning to look at you. Your eyes are still closed, and you’re still breathing hard, but there’s a soft smile on your face. He moves his face, presses a kiss to your forehead, then one between your eyes. You hum, then blink your eyes open when he pulls back.

“They’re not gonna like that,” you mumble, your fingertips going out to touch his shoulder, gently stroking it. Sam smiles at your cracked voice.

“I don’t care,” he replies. “I was against it in the first place.” You look at his face, into his eyes.

“They don’t trust me,” you say, and Sam doesn’t like the sound of sadness in your voice, how the demons’ mistrust, the one he’s threatened death over, but that still has managed to seep through to you, is making the soft light he just ignited in you diminish. He leans in again.

“They’re not gonna trust you more cause you tie yourself to my bed,” he says quietly, before a teasing smile comes across his face. “They already know you barely leave it.”

“Sam,” you say, tone just a bit admonishing, but it only serves to make Sam chuckle.

“Come here,” he says.

You press yourself up on your elbows with a slight groan while Sam stretches out He helps you maneuver yourself as you crawl over him. He brings his hand to the back of your head to get you to lie down on his chest, but you shake your head. Sam raises his eyebrows at you, another amused smile on his lips.

“Please, Sam,” you say. “Just wanna feel you.”

Sam looks at your face for another moment, at your features. The love he holds for them, for all of you. Sometimes he still cannot believe he got you back.

So he kisses you briefly, then reaches his hand down between your bodies. He has perfect control of everything his body does, nothing like it used to be, so a couple of quick strokes get him hard again. You move your body, a little ungainly, but it only makes more love bloom in Sam’s heart.

You reach your hand down too, find him, and lead him to your pussy. You close your eyes and bite your lower lip as you sink down on him, take him in again, and when you’re flush, a little shudder goes through you. Sam can’t help but chuckle at that and so do you, and then you lay down on his chest.

Sam runs his fingertips slowly over your naked back. He likes it when you ask for this, for this indulgent connection, but the truth is, the fact that you want him close in this way makes him happier than he could ever say.

Your palms run over him, his arms, his chest, and content little sighs leave you that Sam would like to bottle up. You squirm on his cock only a little, almost testing, and then give a little moan when you move in a way that moves him inside you. Sam wraps his arms tightly around you.

“I don’t mean to move,” you mumble, and Sam kisses the top of your head, “but it’s hard not to.” He huffs, gently pinches your side where his hand is resting and you squeak, clench down on him, make him pulse, before you quiet again, slow breathing.

“Can I ask you something?” you say, lying mostly still now and turning your head so you can look up at Sam.

“Anything,” he says. Your forehead creases, and Sam immediately wants to kiss the skin there.

“Do you really not care that they all think I’m here to trick you with, I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head a little, “my feminine wiles?” Sam chuckles again.

“I told you, I don't care,” he says again. “Their opinions don't matter. Mine do.”

You blink, gaze going down to where his and your hand are intertwining on his chest.

“And once you're my queen,” he continues, knowing that usually you'd chuckle when he uses that archaic way of speaking, “they'll understand. They'll see.”

He moves his mouth to your ear and you close your eyes, let his words wash over you. He's still snug and tight and warm inside of you, so he's not gonna complain, he thinks, as he closes his eyes as well.

“What will it be like?” you ask, and Sam opens his eyes again, looks at your side profile.

“The ceremony to become queen, I mean,” you clarify, almost seeming shy or unsure about your own question. “Will I become a demon?”

“No,” Sam replies, voice clear, and when he sees you open your mouth, he speaks first. “And not soulless either. I don’t want you to change.”

You close your mouth, chew the inside of your lip. Breathe out through your nose. Sam knows that means you’re thinking.

“But then how is it going to work?” you ask. He runs his fingertips over the skin on your shoulder.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says with a soft smile. He likes that you’re impatient to be his queen. It’s exactly what he was hoping for. “Why it’s taking so long. But it’ll happen, don’t worry.” He turns his head slightly, presses the gentlest of kisses against your temple.

“It’s just…” you say and he turns his head so he can look down at you. You sigh.

“Just what?” he asks, voice amused. It’s not the first time you’re having this conversation.

“What if I get sick?” you finally say, voice lower. “Or hurt? Or… or old?” Sam can’t hide his grin now. There is actually a small pout on your lips at the last word and he brings his other hand up, runs his thumb over your lower lip and you look up at him

“Then I’ll heal you,” he says, watching the way the soft skin of your bottom lip gives way to the pad of his finger, how perfectly you yield to his touch. He presses his mouth against your forehead when he speaks, but his words are clear.

“If you get sick, I’ll heal you,” he says, pressing a kiss against your skin. “If you get hurt, I’ll heal you.” Another kiss.

“And if you get old, well,” he grins against you before kissing you again. “I’ll love you either way, but I can still heal you.”

You wiggle against Sam, get closer, his cock still pulsing in you, and your words are pleading when you speak again.

“I just want to be with you, Sam,” you say and turn your face up at him, making him look at you. Your eyes are glistening and the rotten lump of a heart Sam still has shines brightly and prettily at that. “Forever.”

Sam looks into your eyes. There it is. You still smell like fresh-cut grass sometimes, like sunshine. He knows it’s technically impossible for your skin to still be carrying that smell after all this time, but he swears it’s what fills his nostrils.

He can’t have you lose that. He can’t turn you into something that is sulfur and ash instead of warmth and goodness. He can forgive himself for everything he’s done. He could not forgive himself for this.

“Forever,” he says, and you blink once, and then Sam leans in, kisses you and your hand flies to his face, pulls him closer against you.

As Sam turns the two of you around, rolls on top of you, big body covering yours while your hands run over his side, warming him, he swears it to himself again. That he will keep you the way you are, the way you were, the way you still can be. There is no other option.

He pulls out of you only a little, feels the drag of where the two of you are connected and when he pushes in again, you press your lips against his.

He’ll find a way. He knows that. No matter what it costs.

#spn #supernatural #fanfic #spn fanfic #fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sorry's fics

122 notes · View notes

scamguy · 20 days ago

Text

Due to Kim Dokja being a VERY repressed person in general, I think he would REALLY struggle with his how he'd associate with his sexuality, whether you see him as gay/bi/aro/ace... Actually if you think he'd be fine with dating Yoo Joonghyuk and Han Sooyoung, from the bat, without any issue, then I think you're insane. More under the cut because that all became a big chunk of text.

We're talking about a guy who spent his entire life trying to blend in the background so hard that he became a literal ghost. If he even ever thought about his own sexuality, then he either came to the realization that he is straight (which I just don't think is true considering how often he compliments other men's looks), or that he's not and therefore he should try his best to pass as cishet just in case, so that no one would bother him about it. Don't forget he grew up bullied AND scrutinized by the press. He's used to having to keep things hidden.

I also don't think he'd bother experimenting with his sexuality in adulthood, considering he's only still alive for the sole and unique reason that he wants to read that one ongoing novel, so that stuff is completely out of the picture for him. His closest friend is a coworker he barely ever speaks to, do you think he would try to go out and date people? Pleaaaase...

Kim Dokja wants to disappear in his surroundings, he wants to be ordinary, forgettable, just another coworker, the upstairs neighbor, the unnoticeable everyman in the subway seat angling his phone away from other people's line of sight so they can't see what he's reading. Gender and sexuality is a non-behavior for him; he's presenting as a man because of his assigned sex, and he's not looking for romantic partners because he doesn't need one in order to survive. Genderless, and sexless - truly an undefined shape, who discarded everything there was to discard about his life in favor of focusing completely on a fictional story. Funnily, I think his gender is closer to 'reader' than it is to anything else: he's just Not There.

And as such, standing out, even just a little, is his natural enemy. So while I dont think he's bigoted (all of that stuff could've been handled a lot better in the novel, but: it's made rather clear that he doesn't judge people on their gender identity but on their actions - as shown in the early chapters of the demon king castle scenarios with the catfishing crew - and once he comes to see Jang Hayoung as a real person, rather than his OC, he recognizes her as a woman), I think that because of this fear of standing out, he'd obviously consider the idea of queerness as something undesirable, especialy if it's in relation to himself, because it gets in the way of his comfortably dull (non-)existence.

This internalized homophobia is, imo, made even clearer everytime his possible queerness is brought up by other characters, because he avoids the subject like the plague and he rarely comments on it in the narration, which makes his real thoughts on this very ambiguous and up to interpretation. Even if it's only brought up for laughs, I think it's interesting that Kim Dokja just flat out refuses to speak or even think about being into guys because he's just that embarassed.

So what about post-canon? Unless you're some heartless monster without a modicum of reading comprehension, then you surely dream of an ending where Kim Dokja wakes up and gets to live and grow old with the ones he loves. But even after learning that he can be loved, that he IS loved, can he truly let go of his lifetime(s) of repressed emotions, can he truly accept himself? Is the self-love that brought him back, the same thing as self-acceptance? And even after absorbing the idea that he is of immense worth to the world, is it enough to overcome his guilt? Could he truly bear to live without feeling like he has to hide himself anymore? He understands that he should exist, but does he truly try to live his life to the fullest?

#orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv meta #yoohankim #sorry. got a little crazy there.#orv spoilers #orv epilogue spoilers #kim dokja #.......can you tell i relate to Kim Dokja a lot..?

120 notes · View notes

arschbiene · 11 days ago

Text

My super long headcanon on my flavor of Brandenburg below (heavy emphasis on no right or wrong on a very colorful german state with a complex history, this is just how I like to do it).

This is autistically long but I don't care, I am have a personal emergency and this has been keeping me occupied. This is for me but just sharing on my blog. Subject to change xoxoxoxo

Relationship to the Empire:

Begrudgingly obedient when he must be. He understands this is a dance between being bold and meek. Deeply aware that upward mobility is a game of social graces and military posturing.

Manipulates the system, can be very audacious with his demands and maneuvering.

Careful that the Empire and it's representative children always see him in an ideal light. Wants to seem the toothless dog, Gilbert does not understand this is intentional.

After repeated insults from the Emperor, he realizes good behavior brings no real reward and quickly abandons the effort.

Under the influence of his electors/Gilbert he learns to quickly discard any alliance/relationship/document/etc that no longer benefits him.

Eventually he only ever bends the knee to gain favor or stall his enemies.

His self-interest is a matter of survival, not choice. Does things with a grim necessity, including hurting his brother wife.

Power:

He knows power is perceived, not absolute so he obsesses over his image in public. Gilbert's behavior (especially all his attempts to undermine his authority) feels like an assault on all his efforts.

Does not believe power should be shared, wants to own it entirely.

Resists being equals with Gilbert due to a lack of trust, often asserting dominance with tyranny.

Selfish and overbearing in his need for control.

The more politically helpless or stressed he feels, the more pressure he puts on Gilbert.

At his worst: nitpicking, overly critical, and obsessed with perfection when it's unachievable for someone like him. Can be difficult for Gilbert to be around because this gets suffocating fast.

Appearance:

Tall with a leaner build, shows his muscles in the broadness of his shoulders. Think swimmer or ballet athlete type builds. About 17-20 years old in this era. Gilbert is about 15-18.

Breaks the mold with the other german brothers, has a ton of recessive/foriegn traits but shares some bone structure with Gilbert.

Finds it exhausting to dress in full court regalia, but he refuses to be seen without it. Without the hair, the makeup, the polished veneer, he feels plain and forgettable against his golden siblings.

Vain in an insecure way. Deeply invested in appearances. He fixates on how he looks but can’t see his own beauty. Years of jeering from his brothers have left him doubting it.

For war/home/downtime/small meetings: he braids his hair tightly in different styles. Otherwise a small army of servants curls his hair every morning, only for it to unravel into loose waves as the day goes on which infuriates him. Abusive to his staff and then sorry about it.

In public, he tries to impress with the finest clothing and jewelry. In private, he dresses more modestly. He prefers dark colors to look more mature and composed. Gilbert gets dressed in soft colors and youthful/childish styles. He is obsessive about Gilbert's appearance and grows angry if he refuses to conform to his expectations.

Public Face:

His mask is calm, collected, always pleasant, always charming. He is deliberate in his words and movements. He's soft spoken (in a forced way). Gilbert mocks the difference between his public voice and his rougher tones in private.

He does his best to mask his weaknesses and teaches Gilbert to carry himself with a smile, a pleasant and charming attitude, but Gilbert can't really ever soften himself like Dietrich can. Dietrich’s smile rarely reaches his eyes. His eyes are sad and anxious. His resting expressions are weary and drawn, while Gilbert’s are angry and impatient.

Socially competent, but not likable; Lacks an obvious sincerity and warmth, especially to those with more natural charm or confidence. HRE/Austria mistake this as submission, they like this customer service type engagement. His likability improves with time as he grows less guarded.

Loves beautiful and gentle things. Loves nature, animals. Big on music, philosophy, literature, tries to broaden Gilbert’s mind but he remains a boy of sciences,medicine math and politics. Often in conversation, he finds Gilbert boring and boorish and Gilbert finds him effeminate and preachy. Arts boy married to STEM boy. INSANE jealous when Gilbert is more open and receptive to these topics from others.

Psychological Strain:

He’s has some narc traits but without pathologizing him too much. He acts this way because of extreme strain, desperation, stress, and exhaustion.

He is spread thin and constantly tired, always in some level of pain. Thirty years of war have left damage that manifests as a torso/chest burn that weeps and bleeds.

He is always hiding fatigue and pain, which frays his nerves and temper. He can often be in a bad mood when he is really a gentler spirit underneath it all.

Has an irresponsible streak due to being overwhelmed. Loses things constantly, a big excessive spender due to financial trauma. Always late, always in a rush. Forgetful of appointments and promises. Improves with age and peace.

He’s resilient, but cracking under the extreme stress of being at the mercy of others. War is constant, and the pressure to be perfect wears him down. He is not very suited for the leadership role he’s forced himself into nor the dire circumstances of the era. Prone to depressive Howl like tantrums of despair. Catastrophizes, thinks everything Gilbert does independently is their doom.

He represses everything until he explodes, usually in private. Can be very verbally abusive with the truth, especially with Gilbert. We owe some curing of Gilbert's more stubborn evils due to him.

Self-Perception:

A bit of a Martyr Complex but honestly, valid.

Pragmatic survivor who still tries to lead with values in his opinion. Deeply strategic; Reads the room and reshapes himself as needed. Survival comes before pride. Believes in suffering indignity for the greater good.

Lacks self awareness but thinks he is extremely self aware. Gilbert is in his bitchy teenage years so he is constantly being rocked by the kid's one liners. Contemplates insults for hours in his room and maybe sheds a tear or two when his feelings are hurt before deciding that Gilbert is a nasty feral brat who is wrong and doesn't know anything at all.

Righteous, chosen due to his inherent goodness to ‘save’ Gilbert from himself. Deluded about his own worth/valor, cannot face his faults. Tries to ignore his shame as he crosses his own boundaries and eats shit politically.

Conflict and Lies:

Can fight and defend himself but avoids it when he can. Bold and risky with his military endeavors but personally if it's just him thinks it's a bigger shame to lose a fight than run from it.

Considers Gilbert VERY dangerous to engage with due to his capacity for violence but also feels the need to assert himself physically. Sometimes finds himself feeling frightened in confrontations with the child especially when the power balance isn't in his favor, doesn't like how it makes it feel.

Works on a policy of minimizing damage/losses until he realizes he has to defend himself.

Not the most skilled in battle though he has good training from Netherlands, he is competent, but not talented like Gilbert is. In a 1:1 fight, he will be more defensive/trying to end the conflict/restrain his opponent to reason/bargain with them. Only violent when he must be and then he does not hesitate, does not take pleasure in it. Gilbert's delight in it makes him very upset.

While he is at first careful with his words, he grows more and more vocal and openly critical about the Empire and its dogs as time goes by and he's dissatisfied with his growth.

He tends to lie often and lie well. Strategic with lying and often believable as he is so careful with it, hard to catch him in a lie; avoids confrontation with partial truths or omissions. Tries to keep Gilbert out of the loop, wants him to be innocent, in his mind to stunt his growth and influence, but it’s an impossible endeavor. The more you hide from Gilbert, the more insistent he is in his search.

My era specific Gilbert Headcanon:

Dietrich coveted the calm, stabilized and rehabilitated verison of his brother Tolys and Feliks worked so painstakingly to accomplish. Also deeply coveted his economic vibrancy, land mass, fertile land, food sources, and access to the sea.

Did not understand the grand coordinated effort it took to get Gilbert to this level and how early into recovery he was still. He thinks it's a miracle and overestimates his ability to keep the progress going.

Goes broke to get his brother, this financial desperation plus the rigors of war forces him to begin to strip away foundational privileges that Ducal Prussia has enjoyed under the Polish Crown to loads of protests/resistance/etc.

Personal relationship not much better, wants Gilbert to be in a subordinate position under him when he promised him equality under marriage. Not at all a smooth transition, leaves them both sick and struggling, fighting so bad HRE has to get involved at times as well.

Gilbert immediately rebels and regresses into worrisome and difficult behavior. Defiant and disobedient, he is hyperactive and hard to control. Unpredictable in his behavior, behaves erratically and violently. Extremely troubled, depressed and feeling caged. Worried about Dietrich's intentions for him, worried about being consumed.

Worried about the situation, feeling vulnerable and unprotected. Wants to be involved but Dietrich keeps him out, here is where he really matures his skills to sneak around, lock pick etc.

Dietrich tries to keep him in his lessons, gives him a busy/packed schedule but Gilbert refuses to comply. He has this vision of what he wants Gilbert to be: a doll like young N.Italy that can entertain guests with intelligent conversation and music and make him look so competent and better at raising him into manhood than filthy feliks but nope.

Dietrich's View of Gilbert:

Loves Gilbert like one would a pet or a child, struggles to respect his personhood. Deeply enmeshed in their dynamic and bonded by trauma.

Sees him as a child/subordinate to be guided and suppressed; resents his desire for independence, thinks it ungrateful and childish of him. Dietrich has immense abandonment issues from his childhood and this is just a big trigger for him. Does not understand Gilbert as well as he thinks he does, this improves with time.

Feels threatened/hurt/rejected by Gilbert’s growing belligerent and defiance. Does not want him to grow. Ideally wants him to stay a boy of 15, easy to physically over-power, easy to control. Immature in his cognition and emotion. Easy to manipulate.

When Gilbert is more trouble than he anticipated, he stops seeing him so much as an asset but as a liability. Cannot control him so escalates in his attempts to: it’s an explosive relationship, lots of fighting/hitting/whipping/etc.

He doesn’t want to beat Gilbert, but he doesn't know what else to do. Yet every punishment only makes Gilbert wilder, which spirals Dietrich deeper into despair, and feeds his self-loathing. Only stops when Gilbert begins to win more of the fights then everything becomes more psychological and emotionally abusive from Dietrich.

The physicality of the german bro family is extremely triggering for Gilbert and difficult for him to deal with, makes him more volatile and dangerous.

The Marriage:

Unwilling husband when he is told it is to be a marriage and not a conservatorship but ultimately settles as the benefits are sold to him. Dietrich sees the marriage as a sacred, stabilizing force: a political and emotional alliance meant to make them both stronger but with him as protector/dominant identity.

Goes out of his way to prevent the marriage from feeling legitimate out of fear of Gilbert feeling equal to him and growing in power/age. Will not consummate it, boots Gilbert out of the marriage bed/room. He refuses intimacy, both out of a desire for control and because he infantilizes Gilbert. Wants to keep him a child, malleable, easy to dominate and control. He is not attracted to Gilbert at all but is possessive of him. Evades kissing/touch but does not want him kissed or touched. Tolerates it more when Gilbert is older/more mature but is still standoffish. He is not faithful in marriage, prefers women and other transactional transient relationships, finds the burdens of relationships stressful, but big ol' ugly crush on Ned and France.

Gilbert is attracted to Dietrich at first : Tall dark drink of a young man with beautiful eyes and a beautiful body. Falls for the facade because he’s a dumb 15 year old. His desire for attention/affection/etc is quickly abused by Dietrich as a means of control before he realizes he is being led along.

Feeds Gilbert his own insecurities, constantly in his ear about how he is being perceived by others. Has a tendency to paint everything in a negative light to Gilbert to make him doubt himself, inherently jealous of his relationships with others.

Dietrich denies Gilbert affection/warmth/kindness when he is not listening to him. They ebb back and forth between Gilbert doing without and caving in and trying to be more cooperative because he's just a kid and he needs physical touch/affection he has never been without it before before giving up as he begins to understand he is being manipulated. Makes Gilbert hate the part of himself that yearns and needs even more than he did before.

Makes Gil more attention seeking/hyper-sexual/hedonistic in a toxic maladaptive way by accident by denying him affection. How Gilbert behaves as a Kingdom is a direct reaction to Dietrich’s deprivation.

Conflicted and confused in his role: feels a need to be an Authority but fails at establishing himself as one.

Takes Gilbert’s rebellion and later independence very personally, even when he knows it was inevitable. He equates obedience with love. If Gilbert won't behave, he believes he must not love nor respect him. Hurtful because he does not understand why he is so undeserving of it. He loves Gilbert and yet does not respect him as an equal. He wants loyalty, obedience, and peace but he’s miserable when he gets it through force.

Puts all the blame on Gilbert for their dynamic, will not accept any responsibility.

His responses to Gilbert are rooted in fear: fear that both of their houses are vulnerable, that their union will collapse, that it’ll mean ruin for both of them. Does not believe in Gilbert’s ability to be a stable identity, thinks he is fated for subjugation and erasure by others. Believes he is protecting, never admits to the harm he has done.

Later: Feels diminished, usurped; union meant to stabilize and empower but instead undermines him. Disillusions him, upset at his leaders. Throws a big messy depressive tantrum about it. Abandons Gilbert to all administrative tasks, rots in his bed and prepares for death that does not arrive.

Eventually they figure it out and have a strained but functional relationship but it's a very destructive one, Gilbert's main trauma is realizing how vulnerable he is to real life long hurt if he allows someone so intimately close to him.

#hws prussia #hetalia #hws brandenburg #i tried to put spaces between bulletin points but tumblr keeps deleting them #if it delete sthem again i give up lol

62 notes · View notes

iraot · 1 month ago

Text

Pairing: Zayne x f!reader x Caleb x Sylus ( POLY SHIP ) Word Count: 43,971 Warnings: MxM intimacy, Poly intimacy, tandem blowjobs, dom/Sub dynamics, rugby sylus and caleb, caleb and sylus preestablished, book club zayne x reader, Summary: A chance meeting and four souls find forever after a frat party incident. A/N: I finished this in the span of like a month or so? I can't remember but I finally finished editing it till I was happy. I wrote this for @vesearlee >:3 my pookie. AO3

The second-floor reading room of the campus library smelled like old books and cheap coffee, the kind that promised more alertness than it ever delivered. The overhead lights cast a dim, yellow glow across the long wooden table where the book club had gathered, their copies of The Metamorphosis stacked haphazardly between them. Zayne sat at the far end, half-listening, half-bored, his thumb idly skimming the edge of his paperback while some freshman rambled on about how Gregor Samsa’s transformation was an obvious metaphor for capitalism.

"If you think about it," the kid was saying, pushing up his glasses with the kind of self-importance only a first-year could manage, "Gregor turning into a bug is really just a symbol of how capitalism dehumanizes the worker. Once he's no longer useful, he's discarded. Classic Marxist critique."

Zayne exhaled sharply, barely suppressing an eye-roll. He snapped his book shut with one hand, the movement sharp enough to draw a few glances. "Yeah," he said dryly, leaning back in his chair, "I'm sure Kafka would've been blown away by that analysis."

A quiet chuckle—soft, amused, the kind that wasn’t meant to be noticed but was anyway.

Zayne’s gaze flicked across the table.

She was watching him.

She sat with her chin propped on her hand, elbow resting against the wood, her dark eyes holding a glint of curiosity beneath the overhead light. He recognized her from last week—a transfer student, new to the university. She’d been quiet then, more observer than participant, her gaze moving across the room like she was taking mental notes on everyone. But now, she was looking at him, the corner of her mouth tugging upward like she was holding back a comment.

"You don't agree?" she asked, her voice even but edged with something playful, like she already knew he didn’t.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, intrigued. Most people either nodded along with whatever half-baked interpretation got thrown around or avoided speaking altogether, too self-conscious to challenge the group’s consensus. But she was asking him directly, not in a combative way, but like she actually wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I agree that it's a metaphor," Zayne said, stretching his legs out beneath the table, "but the ‘capitalism bad’ take is kind of the literary equivalent of a microwave meal. Easy, convenient, zero effort."

Her smirk deepened. She tapped a fingernail against the book's spine. "So what's your version? If not capitalism, what do you think the bug means?"

He studied her for a moment, considering. There was something sharp in the way she asked, like she was testing him, checking if he had something worthwhile to say or if he was just being contrary for the sake of it.

Zayne shrugged. "I think it's about isolation. The second he stops being useful, his family stops seeing him as human. It’s not money, it’s convenience. He could’ve turned into a floor lamp and they probably would’ve shoved him in storage just the same."

That won a real laugh from her—short, genuine, the kind that cut through the usual low hum of conversation in the room.

"A lamp?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Zayne said, leaning forward slightly. "Imagine his sister walking in like, ‘Sorry, Gregor, but you’re a lamp now, and Mom says we need the outlet for the vacuum.’"

She grinned, and for a brief moment, the entire room seemed to shrink, the background noise fading under the weight of that expression. It wasn’t just amusement—it was recognition. Like she understood the way his brain worked, the way humor curled around his observations, and she approved.

"That’s bleak," she said.

"That’s Kafka," he countered smoothly.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

#sylus x caleb #caleb x zayne #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #zayne x reader #snowcrow #crowapple

62 notes · View notes

lookingforariaa · 10 months ago

Text

Attack On Titan: Actor AU ᝰ.ᐟ

ᯓ★ From the very first "Attack on Titan" table read, Eren Jaeger and Y/N L/N been locked in a personal war. They had hated each other, for their own personal reasons. But, now, fate (or the writers) had dealt them a cruel hand: their characters, the series' central love interests, were about to share their first intimate scene. actor!eren x actress!reader

Ensconced in the makeup chair, you flipped through the script with practiced ease. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you absorbed the scene directions and drilled the lines for today's shoot into your memory.

If 13 year old you thought it was bad enough having to share your first kiss with Eren Jaeger at the end of the season 2 finale with a bunch of camera's pointed at you, she would probably want to kill herself for this scene.

Smiles were plastered on for fans, talk show appearances, the whole nine yards. But everyone on set knew the hatred simmering beneath the surface between Eren and you. But your reasons for the animosity ran deeper than just hating him for the funsies.

You'd always bristled at entitled people like Eren Yeager. His producer father had undoubtedly greased the wheels for his leading role alongside you. He hadn't earned it like everyone in this series had, and he had gotten one of the leading roles in the series.

It wasn't fair. The rich always win.

The first table read had confirmed your worst fears. You had extended a friendly hand, introducing yourself as his love interest and the second leading role in the series.

Eren's response? A dismissive scoff and a head-to-toe sweep that spoke volumes. That self-satisfied smirk ignited a fire in your gut. People like him, who waltzed into success on silver platters, were everything you weren't. You'd clawed your way up, and his arrogance was a slap in the face to everything you'd achieve

The hatred towards Eren only intensified on the first filming day. His arrogance wasn't confined to you. He barked orders at crew members and treated his assistant like an indentured servant. Your blood pressure skyrocketed.

These were people, not props for his entitled performance.

He treated them like they weren't human.

The scene triggered a raw nerve. You knew all too well the sting of dehumanization. The humiliation. Your mother was a single parent forced into sex work to keep a roof over your head. Even if you lived in a brothel full of sex workers, you didn't ask god for anything else other than to get your mom another job.

You had watched your mom try her best to hide you from the men coming in so you wouldn't have to fall into the hands of prostitution as well. The way those men treated her - a flicker of desire followed by callous dismissal, like a discarded rag.

Like she wasn't even worthy enough to be called a human.

You had clawed your way out. Your striking features - the cascading dark blonde hair and the mesmerising hazel eyes and amazing acting skills - were your ticket to this role, a chance to give your mother a life she deserved.

Seeing Eren was like looking into a mirror of your traumatic past, seeing your mom thrashed around like an object.

Blinking back the sleep in your eyes after having drinks with Sasha the entire night, the scripts pages wavered in your hands, the words blurring at the edges.

Sasha's death still felt unreal. You'd sought solace in her company after they killed her character, clinging to the real Sasha for as long as possible.

A yawn stretched your lips into a wide, ungainly shape. The gentle hum of the hair curlers and the soft touch of the makeup brushes did little to dispel the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

The last layer of blush being applied felt strangely cool against your warm cheeks. You lowered your heavy lashes as they started applying a gentle layer of mascara to your makeup as the finishing touch.

The problem with Attack On Titan was the fact that all the makeup had to look natural. But at the same time all the girls, especially you and Mikasa, had to look beautiful.

Which wasn't hard, because both of you were drop dead gorgeous. But both of you were too humble to ever admit it out loud.

You skimmed through the script one last time as the Matt, your gay best friend who mostly does your hair, brushes them out slightly to make them look more natural.

Perfect," he sighed dramatically, a playful smile on his face. "Ready for today's shoot?"

You rolled your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. "Absolutely not."

"Yeah, figured," Matt chuckled. "t's funny honestly. Do you actually have to ride his thigh? God, the writers hate you."

"Oh shut up!" You scoffed, slapping his arm with your script as you looked a laughing Matt through the mirror.

"Okay, come on, they're asking for you."

"Tell them I'll be right out."

The director barked out his final instructions, taking help from Isayama as his gaze flickering between you and Eren.

Both of you stood with arms crossed and brows furrowed, listening carefully to the director and Isayam. Eren, clad in his iconic faded green shirt and a the black jacket over it.

While you wore a white button-up strained slightly against your chest, the small black corset tied right beneath your chest emphasizing your hourglass figure beneath it.

"So, remember, Y/N you hate him in this scene, you despise him." The director emphasized, looking down at the script.

"Yeah, that's gonna be easy to act out." You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Eren smirked, leaning down for his mouth to reach your ear. "Don't forget what scene we're filming." His breath tickled your ear. You didn't know what sent the chills down your spine-- his mouth being so close to your ear, or the fact that he was referring to how you had absolutely no control in this scene.

The director clapped his hands, snapping you and Eren out of your silent standoff. You cleared your throat, forcing your attention away from the infuriating green shirt and towards the man barking orders.

"Y/N," he said, pointing at you, "when you say, 'So you're going to kill billions of people for what?!' I want a reaction. Fling your arms wide, like you're trying to grasp the weight of those lives. Let your anger crackle in your eyes, burning into Eren as you demand an answer." You nodded.

His gaze shifted to Eren, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Eren, when you deliver the line, 'For you,' I want hesitation. Let out a sigh that speaks volumes. Run your hand through your hair, whatever. Turn away, build the drama. Then, do a dramatic turn around back towards Y/N, unleashing that scream with every ounce of conviction you have. Got it?"

Eren nodded understandingly, pursing his lips. "Got it."

"Great! Let's get this scene rolling!" The director boomed, clapping his hands. A flurry of activity followed as the set crew started getting the prison set ready for filming, fixing any minor misplaces in it.

You and Eren stood by, the tension crackling between you like live wires. Within minutes, the set was prepped, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows on the fabricated brick walls. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the emotional rollercoaster about to unfold.

"Scene 27, take 1."

"Lights," The director sighed, "Cameras." He pointed, "And.. action!"

The sterile light glinted off the metal bars, casting a harsh glow on the tense scene unfolding. You stood across from Eren, your voice laced with barely contained fury

"I know what I'm doing," you spat, the words sharp as shards of ice. "But do you, Eren? Do you have any goddamn clue what you're doing?!"

Eren was positioned before a cracked mirror, avoided your gaze. His knuckles tightened around the chipped porcelain sink, the strain evident in his posture. A sigh, heavy and laced with despair, escaped his lips as he stared down at his clenched fists.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah?" you shrieked, disbelief and frustration clawing at your throat. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't seem like a single thought has crossed that thick skull of yours!"

Your hands flew to your hair, tugging at the strands in agitation. Frustration boiled over, and you flung your arms wide, the metal cot scraping against the wall with a jarring clang

"Eren!" you roared, your voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "You're about to make billions die at the hands of a horrifying death! And for what?!"

Eren remained silent, his back a rigid wall against your onslaught. A shaky breath escaped him, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth seemed ready to shatter. Slowly, he raised his hand, running it through his hair in a gesture of defeat. His eyes, half-lidded and shadowed, flickered towards his reflection in the mirror, a flicker of something akin to shame crossing his features.

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he spun around, his voice laced with a desperate conviction that bordered on hysteria.

"For you!" he screamed, the words echoing through the cell. But as quickly as the outburst erupted, it died down. A defeated sigh escaped his lips, and he repeated the words, this time a mere whisper, "For you..." His half lidded eyes met yours.

"Well, that's fucking stupid!" You screamed out.

"Cut!" You furrowed your eyebrows and turned your head back to the director. "Y/N! Your resolve breaks for a second, okay? You still love him deep down and when he looks at you like that your heart aches." The director says, clutching at his own heart to emphasise. "So wait for a second, show emotion, and then say the stupid line."

"Idiot." Eren muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

"Okay, got it. Everything else was fine?" You asked, ignoring his comment.

"Yeah." The director responded, "Let's take it again from Eren's line."

"Scene 27, take 2."

"Lights, camera.. action!"

Eren sighs once more, "For you.."

A tremor ran through your composure. Your eyelids fluttered shut for a brief moment, a shaky breath escaping your lips. When your eyes reopened, the anger had returned, but it felt brittle, tinged with a flicker of something else - confusion, maybe even a hint of pain. It was a fleeting glimpse, quickly masked by the familiar fury

"Well that's.. that's fucking stupid!" You stammered, trying to showcase your characters resolve breaking.

"Is it?! I think it's fucking stupid that you aren't understanding that Marley wants to take you so you can make pure royal blooded babies with my brother so they can take the founding titan easily!" Eren roared, turning back to you.

"Babies?" The word hung in the air, a foreign concept amidst the weight of Eren's plan. The anger you wielded began to crumble at the edges.

A shaky laugh escaped you, a humorless sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. "Is that it, Eren? All this so I don't sleep with your fucking brother?!"

Eren's jaw clenched tight. He ran his hands through his hair again, his voice laced with a desperate edge. "You aren't fucking getting it! They'll use you, Y/N! Turn you into a breeding machine for their twisted agenda and then kill you! This way, at least you're..." His voice trailed off, the defiance flickering for a moment.

"Atleast i'm what? Safe? You fucking sociopath! You're killing all these people for one person?!"

"Shut up."

"That's what you are.. a murderer, a psychopath!"

"Shut the fuck up." He growled, grabbing you by your neck and pushing you against the wall, choking you slightly. The camera followed both of you in kind.

You smiled, scoffing. "Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

A tense silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the ragged rasp of your breath. Disgust simmered in your eyes, a mirror image of the icy loathing reflected back from Eren. The space between you crackled with unspoken hostility

He was supposed to kiss you now, but you were glad he wasn't, otherwise you might've barfed in his mouth. He looked at you with the same expression etched on his face: disgust.

"Cut!" The director yelled out and Eren rolled his eyes, sighing as he released your neck and immediately walked away from you.

The director slammed his script down, the sound echoing through the soundstage. "Alright, what's going on here? You two are supposed to be passionately making out, not glaring at each other like you're about to duel."

Eren scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe our characters wouldn't actually kiss in this situation."

You crossed your arms, your eyes narrowing. "Oh, and why wouldn't they? Because your fragile ego can't handle kissing someone who doesn't fawn over you?"

Eren's smirk vanished, replaced by a cold stare. "Funny you should mention ego. It takes a certain level of delusion to think anyone would be interested in someone who constantly reeks of desperation."

You bristled. "Desperation? At least I earned this role on my own merit, unlike some nepo baby." You smirked. "At least I don't need a daddy with a fat wallet to buy my way into a role."

Eren's voice turned low and dangerous. "Careful. You wouldn't want to upset the golden goose who keeps this whole production afloat, would you?"

Y/N leaned forward, her voice a steely whisper. "Don't you dare pull that daddy producer stunt on me. You think your money can buy you everything? It can't buy respect, and it certainly can't buy genuine affection."

Eren's smirk faltered for a moment, his jaw clenching, much to your amusement. "Oh, touchy subject? Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

The director sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, can we focus? This scene is supposed to be about raw emotions, about their need for each other. Let's take it again, both of you are professionals, I know you can handle it."

"Scene 27, take 3."

"Lights, Camera... Action!"

The boy holding the movie clip snapper sighs, exhausted, even from a simple job as his. "Scene 27... take 23."

"Okay, guys, If it doesn't happen this time then we'll have to redo this tomorrow. And then we won't have time to film the scenes scheduled for tomorrow, hence the season 4 premiere will get delayed. So, just be professionals for once. You aren't kids anymore." The director sighs, putting his cap back on as he leans back in the chair.

Both you and Eren get back into place as the director yells action and Eren quickly slams you against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

You and Eren looked at each other for a second and you almost thought he was going to chicken out once more, so did the director as he rolled his eyes and slid a hand across his face.

But he didn't.

Eren quickly brought his lips to yours, rough and full of all the hatred that's been simmering between both of you all this while. It was a frantic kiss, as the director had wanted. Both of you were breathless as his hand stopped choking you and went to the side of your neck and the other clutched at your waist, and your hands went to grasp at his hair.

It was a tangled mess of limbs as your heads moved together at the speed of light, begging to deepen the kiss, begging to explore every inch of each others mouth. The air crackled with unspoken desire, the kiss a whirlwind of exploring touches and desperate needy moans.

Everything was a blur. Gasping breaths mingled with the frantic rhythm of your kiss, his tongue had even made an appearance. It surprised you, because when kissing a co-star the other doesn't use tongue to keep the kiss professional and to show the person respect.

But what would Eren Jaeger know about respect?

His hands gripped your waist, a possessive ache that mirrored your owns as one of your hands tugged at his hair and the other caressed his cheek. The kiss deepened, your heads moving together frantically, a battle fought on bruised lips and tangled tongues.

A whimper escaped your lips as Eren grabbed your hair and tilted your head backwards, the kiss turning urgent, so frantic. It felt like an eternity, a culmination of unspoken longing poured into this single, desperate moment.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling at it harshly on purpose, hoping it would hurt. With the groan that he let out into the kiss, you were sure it did.

Then, with a swift movement, Eren shoved his knee in between your legs, your surprised moan swallowed by the next searing kiss.

His hand shot out, gripping your throat as your heads whipped back and forth, a frantic chase for deepening the kiss. A tender moan left your lips as Eren's grip on your throat tightened, his tongue thrusting deeper. The sound of your kiss echoed in the room, into the mic, a desperate rhythm. You let out another soft, breathy moan and it was muffled into his mouth as he tried to get even closer to you.

And with the directors snap, which was your cue to start grinding on his thigh, you did just that. A soft moan escaped your lips and muffled into his mouth. "Eren." You sighed into the kiss, as you disconnected your lips and connected your forehead with his, grinding on his thigh.

Fuck. You didn't expect this to happen, especially not with Eren, but you could feel your pussy pulsate and throb with need. You just hoped he couldn't feel it.

"We shouldn't do this." You said in a soft moan as you threw your head back, giving Eren the chance to kiss down your neck.

"We shouldn't." He sighed into your neck.

"It's a bad idea." Your grinding intensified and his hand came to grab at your hips to help you, a sigh of pleasure escaping you, your nails digging into his shoulder.

"It is." You could feel his breath on your neck.

"I loathe you."

"The feelings mutual."

The air crackled as your eyes locked with Eren's. You guys locked eyes for a moment, as written in the script.

And then you leaned down as you were slightly lifted above the ground with a surge of undeniable desire. Your lips met in a frantic kiss, a tangle of emotions that both fueled and fought against your self-control. The kiss was so rushed, such a blur. Both your heads moving so frantically to fight for dominance.

It was like you were fighting to crawl into each others skin.

A strangled sound escaped your throat, a mix of surprise and something more primal. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your mind. Fuck, why were you enjoying this?

Shame threatened to choke the rising tide of sensation, but Eren's touch, a hand gently yanking at your hair, grounded you. In that moment, you were caught in a delicious storm of confusion and exhilaration.

"Cut!"

You tore yourself away from the kiss, gasping for breath. Eren mirrored your action, his chest heaving slightly. A ghost of a smile played on his lips, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. Both of you gazed at each other with longing and confusion, almost disgust and hate for themselves because deep down they know they liked it.

''Great job! I love the intensity. We'll just need to film some POV and closeup shots for the sex scenes and we're done for the day." The director smiled, praising both of you. "Let's take 5."

You started to walk away, but before you could leave, Eren grabbed your hand. "Also, by the way." You sighed and rolled your eyes.

"What?"

"I could feel that, you know."

Shit.

290 notes · View notes