#could work either way but works in NO WAY because I just cannot figure out what the writing thinks it's doing!

[whereispearlescentmoon]

It annoys me when people try to force curses into working, ex. people finding excuses post SL and WL for why the Canary Curse still exists. It was good while it lasted, but stretching out any bit farther than it's natural lifespan is just painful. I prefer recognizing patterns, whether performance or character-wise, like Pearl's teammates dying before her despite her specifically trying to help them win.

I think it’s actually more interesting to me personally to look at what happens when a “curse” breaks or fails. How does the person it previously affected react?

Jimmy isn’t a canary anymore. He hasn’t died first since Limited Life. He died second in Secret Life and 6th in Wild Life. He didn’t even get the first death in the series in either of those, those honors go to Martyn and Pearl respectively. He didn’t even get a unique death in WL. He died at the same time as Lizzie, if you check the fan wiki they are both listed as 12th place because even though his name popped up first, they died on the same game tick. You cannot say he’s a canary anymore without some massive reaches.

But what’s interesting to me is, rather than trying to find some roundabout way the curse somehow still applies, figuring out what that means for Jimmy now. Why isn’t he dying first any more? Has he changed, gotten more skilled in some way? Has the game changed in a way that aligns more with his play style? What is Jimmy like as a red life when he has time to play? All of that you can examine without insisting he still has the curse.

And I don’t particularly like saying the curse the transfers to a new person because that also doesn’t make sense? Lizzie died first in Secret Life, yes, but she wasn’t cursed because it wasn’t a repeating pattern. Mumbo died first in Wild Life. If anything you could do something interesting with the fact that Lizzie and Jimmy, the first outs of the previous seasons, died together, simultaneously. That’s kind of cool to explore. But it doesn’t make sense as a “canary” curse.

As for Pearl, I almost feel a similar way about her “Widow’s Curse” and talking about whether or not it was actually broken in Wild Life. Like I think there’s genuinely two arguments to be had about it.

The first argument is that Pearl didn’t outlive all of her allies because Cleo was still alive. And what does that mean for Pearl? She’s get some solidarity, some comfort and direction that she normally doesn’t get once all her allies are dead.

On the other hand, you could also argue it didn’t break because, frankly, keeping Cleo alive was never Pearl’s goal. It was to keep Impulse alive and get him a win and she failed. After his death she is aimless and despondent and, by her own admission, didn’t heal up before the final fight because she didn’t care about placing well herself. Because Pearl’s particular brand of “Widow’s Curse” isn’t about just outliving your ally it’s about outliving the people she promised she would get to the end at the very start of the game. Pearl promises BigB and she fails him. She gives him her blood, her time, and it isn’t enough to save him. Pearl promises Bdubs and she fails him. She prioritizes getting him underground during the wither and warden fight, tells him then that she wants him to get to the end, she is determined, and it isn’t enough to save him. Pearl promises Impulse and she fails him. She gets him a totem, dies to each wild card as an almost cautionary tale, and it’s not enough to save him.

And yet. There’s an exception. Because nothing can be a neat little curse. Because Pearl hasn’t failed every ally, has she? She was allied with Scott in Last Life, and a good ally. She kills for him. Scott won, and he won after saying “I have to, you killed Pearl” to Ren. And if we’re just saying Double Life started the curse with Tilly dying, well there’s an exception after that too. In Secret Life, it comes down to the Mounders vs Gem and The Scotts and Pearl decides Scar is one of her Mounders now. She says if it comes down to it she wants him to kill her for hearts. She mostly stays back and lets him fight Gem, after making a blow to solidify whose side she’s on, with the confidence that he will win. And he does! She even gets to die giving him enough hearts to survive the zombie she warned him was behind him.

So did Pearl ever really have a “Widow’s Curse”? She’s got bad luck, that’s for sure, and a not great track record with Day 1 allies in particular since Double Life. But technically two of Pearl’s allies have won. And she didn’t outlive Cleo in WL.

Is it not more interesting to look at the intricacies of the particular way each different season that Pearl manages to outlive her day 1s rather than just slapping “Widow” on it and calling it a day?

[sundrop-writes]

I know it’s not the be-all and end-all, or maybe even the most accurate, but what do you think the Teen Wolf characters love languages are? Both giving and receiving?

I was supposed to be working on the second chapter of my fic, but I just read this, and now my brain is CHURNING and I cannot do anything else until I write down my ideas for this. So uh, here we go.

Also, the things I write down here may or may not be the 'official' love languages, but I don't care. I'm just yapping.

Stiles Stilinski - Gift Giving

This is literally evidenced in the show. That giant ass box that he brought to Lydia's birthday party, the fact that he literally bought her a bunch of different birthday gifts because he couldn't decide on which one would be the best one. He is a gift giving king.

Now, you could interpret this as something that he just did for Lydia because he knows that she's a bit more of a materialistic person and he wants to impress her, but I don't think that's the case, because I genuinely believe that he has difficulty expressing himself through words - like, he's awkward, he stumbles with his words, he gets nervous and doesn't know what to say. So he does a lot better when he has time to think about what kind of gift to give a person and can express himself that way.

He is the type of person to bring you a coffee and a pastry every single morning because he much prefers to show his affection through those kind of gestures (though that might be considered 'acts of service' and not gift giving, but idk) - either way, even if he doesn't always have the money to buy you expensive gifts, he is constantly giving you things because he likes to quantify his love through physical objects.

He is also the type of guy to make DYI gifts constantly. He makes you friendship bracelets, a scrapbook of your relationship, a decorated frame with a picture of the two of you in it. He doesn't always have a lot of money to spend, but he has time to look up a bunch of tutorials to make crafts - and while sometimes he is embarrassed to present his crafts, you always love them. So he keeps making them.

In terms of how he likes to receive love - quality time. He needs your presence around, he loves spending time with his partner. To him, there is nothing like quality time with someone, no matter what the two of you are doing.

Isaac Lahey - Physical Touch

I have said it before, through and through, this man is a fucking dog. He is a puppy, he is the most animal of all of them. So his animal instincts are always at play - and one of those instincts are to possess, to claim his territory. Even if it's completely subconscious. So he needs to be touching his partner all the time, even if it is in some small way - a hand on the back of your neck, holding hands, an arm around your shoulders, you being pressed into his side.

He can't get enough of your touch.

And even though he hates appearing clingy, unconsciously he loves you smelling like him, and he loves your warmth, so he can't stop himself from grabbing your hand or wrapping his body around you when he's in the same room as you. It's just instinct to him.

In terms of how he likes receiving love? He loves praise (or - would that be words of affirmation?) but he's always too embarrassed to ask for it. Because of the way that he grew up, he's had so few kind words spoken to him or about him, and whenever you naturally compliment him, it genuinely makes his brain short-circuit, and he thrives off it. So you either figure out on your own that he needs more kind, affirming words, or eventually, he learns to ask for it more - but he genuinely does thrive off of praise and kind words because you are one of the only people in life who has ever given it to him.

Derek Hale - Quality Time

I think it would be a tie between this and Physical Touch, because I think he would also really enjoy cuddling and scenting you, but I think he's also a person where some days he does not want to be touched at all, even by his partner, (like if he's having a bad day and he's in a bad mood) but even on those days, he doesn't want to be separated from you. He wants to be around you all the time.

And I feel like part of it would be due to paranoia - so much bad stuff has happened in his life, and he feels like if he's not constantly watching over you, the minute you are out of his sight, then you are going to die or be murdered. And obviously he has a healthy respect for your personal space, but he vastly prefers when the two of you are just existing in the same space, even if you're just each doing your own thing and you don't have to talk to each other, he loves having your presence there.

A few more quickfire ones with less explanation:

Scott McCall - Physical Touch - he's very affectionate, and again, loves it when you smell like him.

Lydia Martin - Gift Giving - she loves shopping and loves it when she finds something that is just so you, and loves seeing the look on your face when she can give you something that she thinks is so perfect for you.

Allison Argent - Word of Affirmation - she loves praising you and telling you how much she loves you, and hearing it in return, especially because she comes from a household that has so many secrets and is so uptight, she loves beautiful and open communication in your relationship.

Erica Reyes - Acts of Service - she's not so good with words, but she will beat someone up for you or bring you (stolen) flowers to show her love.

Vernon Boyd - Quality Time - he has spent most of his life being lonely, especially after his sister went missing, so spending time with you means everything to him.

Jackson Whittemore - Gift Giving - due to the way he was raised, money has always been the way he was shown affection and it's the only way he knows how to show affection, but he is very precise in how he picks out gifts, so you know it's always sincere and thoughtful coming from him (as thoughtful as he is capable of being).

[themathomhouse]

I don't know if I like taking ADHD medication. apparently it doesn't magically make me into a more organised person who doesn't procrastinate, which would imply that those things were partly within my power to control before now as well!! and that just can't be right. I'm supposed to be able to hide behind my diagnosis and never work on myself this is bullshit

[indooroutdoorboyfriend]

it's Harassing You o'clock so i am gonna discuss my oc some more in the tags

[watery-melon-baller]

every time i do my physics homework I put on super Mario 64 dire dire docks theme (extended 30 minutes) in the hopes that eventually i can pavolv myself into immediately switching into physics mode whenever I hear the music. and also because its a bop

[elainemorisi]

cannot tell if I'm Sturgeon's Lawing it, overextrapolating, or in fact remotely onto a thing, but... Media These Days is really taking shortcuts with like, [especially moral] characterization, right? like this isn't a remark in any direction about the contents of the morality, it's a remark about how many times I've watched/read a thing and sat there going like, I'm pretty sure you (writing) expect me to take this as believable, but you actually just have a paper doll mouthing words here, this isn't believable just because the paper doll is mouthing The Good Guy Words

and like it's something beyond Pet The Dog, is the thing. I've no objections to dog-petting as a tool. one identifiable difference being that The Good Guy Words are then later made load bearing for reversal, of all fucking things. it's one thing to have Designated Good Guy that's fine (and actually this stuff is more Designated Sympathetic, so again, "moral" being used very loosely). but if you want?? as I think you want??? me to first believe that DGG is in fact G but then! to be shocked when he isn't... you gotta do more than mouth words. we don't actually share an unspoken and obvious moral code, you the writer and I. but also even in cases where I don't outright disbelieve your definition of Good it... still doesn't work. there's still no there there

and like the fixes are there, but they're not so similar as to feel like the explanation is really in them (closest generalized fix is "remember the agency of other characters" but like that's a fix for so much bad writing it barely counts). it sorta just seems like this particular bar has sunk into the floor? but why?

tl;dr the experience is "I'm not conflicted[/shocked/moved], I'm confused" and I swear, it's increasing. often in total (but popular) shit, sure, but sometimes in not-utter-shit-in-every-other-respect stuff too. and just, why??

[suguae]

Haunted

Toji cannot move on, until he realized too late.

Warnings: Angst, slightest fluff (reader and baby 'gumi moment)

You were just a girl, standing in front of a man, asking him to love you.

How hard was that for him? Yes, he wasn’t good with his words but he wasn’t good at anything else either. He was just there.

Maybe because the woman he truly loved—he was still mourning over her. His sad eyes every time he watched an old couple dance together, wishing he had been doing that but with her. The cute babies babble with their mothers as Megumi babbles with his father, how he wished his wife was still here instead of you. He never said it, but that’s what it felt like. 

And perhaps that's what it was. 

Sometimes he curses himself out when he accidentally calls you his wife's name. During intimate times only. You tried—trying to keep the emotions in as if it wasn’t breaking every part of you, was the hardest part. “Look he’s walking...” You smiled at the dark haired baby who was walking towards you. Toji smiled, making sure he’d record every second of it; deep down he wished his wife was the one the baby was walking towards instead of you.

And it was wrong—so wrong. 

“This relationship, I’m with you but Toji—Toji this is the loneliest I’ve ever felt.” You whispered while he ate his leftovers, his brows still furrowed from the argument occurring earlier. Having Toji work from 9–5 wasn’t the best but good thing he had you, helping him out with so much. Picking up groceries, picking up his lovely son—until you mentioned that one of his teachers mistaken you as his biological mother. That right there was enough to make Toji angry for weeks at least.

But not this time.

He stopped chewing on his food after you spoke, waiting for more of an explanation. Which you figured he needed, “I don’t think you’re in love with me–” 

“I like you [name], a lot.” He cleared his throat. He leaned back on his chair as his arms crossed waiting for you to continue the sentence he interrupted. 

Right, he liked you a lot. These three rough years you’ve been dating Toji—that particular l word was never uttered once, not even if he was drunk, or having a special moment with you. You huffed trying to find the right words for Toji to understand. That was until little Megumi started crying from his room. “I’ll try to put him back to sleep, finish eating.” He watched as your fragile little body sulked its way to Megumi’s room.

He knew this was gonna happen, he knew you were bound to leave him sooner or later. 

You smiled as you opened the door to see the little Megumi standing on top of his little bed. His hands wiping his tears as he ran towards you, his arms now wrapping around your legs. “Sleep with mama and papa.” He cried out as you leaned down to pick up the little boy. “[name] and papa, not mama okay?” You corrected him, if Toji were to find out that he had been calling you that, then that argument would’ve climaxed.

The little boy nodded, his tears now gone as you swayed him around. “Sleep with you.” He mumbled, leaning his head on your shoulder as he played with a strand of your hair. “Just for tonight.” You whispered, watching Megumi pick up his head and smile. Content with your answer. 

Toji’s heart could just swell at the sight. You treated his son as if he was your own and nothing looked so much better right now, except for the fact that he wished it was his wife.

Megumi was now soundly sleeping between you and Toji, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” His eyes shut tightly hearing those piercing words leave your mouth. It hurt when his wife left him, but this hurt was different—different because he knew it was coming yet he didn’t want to do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to be the one apologizing.” He watched your soft gaze stare at completely nothing. He was confused, this was his fault. He never treated you how you needed deserved to be treated. “It was my fault for throwing myself at a man who simply was not ready.”

The next morning was silent—baby ‘gumi was confused at the saddened look on your face. Constantly walking up to you asking if you were okay. He was still just a baby, yet he read the room so well. “I’m sure we can work this out—” Toji now sitting next to you on the couch, some cartoon playing in the back as Megumi’s little head sat on your lap. “You’re not ready, Toji.” You nodded, eyes still glued on the tv as if it was meant for you and not the little Megumi. 

“And how are you so sure—”

“Tell me you love me then.” Your eyes are now fixed on Toji’s. It was hard, he felt as if his mouth had been glued shut. You sigh, bringing your gaze back to the tv, “I love you—but it’s hard when it’s one sided Toji.” 

It hurt much more, seeing you drive away as the clueless Megumi waved you out. Poor thing thinks you’re simply going to the store. The house that once felt like home was so dull now. Toji sat little ‘gumi down on the couch. 

His constant, “mama?” or “[name]?” while he kept his gaze on the door every so often. Nothing prepared Toji for this. Megumi cried that he wanted to sleep with his mama and papa, his heart swelled knowing that he had been talking about you.

You were gone, just like his wife. But it hurt—it hurt so much more knowing that you’re alive trying your best to…move on. He stayed up late that same night, stumbling upon a video from two years ago. When Megumi first learned how to walk. You and Toji had just started dating but the look of happiness plastered your face as you watched the little baby walking. 

That was one thing Toji never forgot about, how much you loved kids. Telling him how once you had kids of your own you would finally be able to live in peace. How he heard of it less and less as the years went on, he wonders if you still think that.

next part ->

[somestorythoughts]

I'm picturing Obi-Wan meeting some of the other clones made for specific jedi on the way back to coruscant and - still overwhelmed and confused and trying not to visibly panic - and suddenly worrying like "shit are they gonna be jealous that Cody met his jedi first will there be issues?" only to find that there's almost no jealousy. Not none, but it's overwhelmed by the mix of joy and longing that comes with knowing they're about to meet their jedi and fulfill their given purpose as protectors. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or more concerned.

The collective WTF when the council found out resonated around the planet into any nearby ships. The louder WTF once the rest of the jedi learned about it resonated throughout the entire system.

Twist The Madness

Master Sifo-Dyas is the change point in this little bit of madness. 

In canon Sifo-Dyas is the Jedi that commissioned the Clone Army, driven mad by visions of a war that would destroy the Jedi, of the Jedi temple burning. It is unclear if he was seeing the results of the Clone Wars and Order 66 (thus, like Anakin, created the visions that drove him mad) or if he prevented his visions and Order 66 was something different entirely. It is also unclear if he was patsy of the Sith from the beginning, or if his plan was hijacked by the Sith at a later point.

But what if his takeaway from his visions and the madness they drove him to was just a bit different. Not an army, but protectors. 

Sifo-Dyas still commissioned 1 million clones but not all at once. Instead it would be an ongoing order for generations. The initial amount decanted would be 100,000 clones, most would grow at a double rate until they reach physical adulthood, then their aging would be slowed to normal for near humans. Their training would be generalized and the calling they would be raised with would be to protect the Jedi Temples. The intention being that they would be spread throughout the active temples and live amongst the Jedi there. Approximately 10,000 had a slightly different charge. Each would be raised for a specific Jedi, their genetics tweaked so that they would be a perfect companion and protector (including aging the clone to either adulthood or to match their assigned Jedi and then matching their aging to their Jedi). 

Jango Fett is still contracted to be the progenitor for the clones, but not because of his ability to kill Force Users. Instead it is his genetics themselves that separates him out from other bounty hunters. Due to the crossbreeding of his ancestors, his genetic code is particularly malleable, meaning that the genetic modifications needed to match Clone to a specific Jedi are that much easier. He was not expected to provide training, thus he simply provided generic material  (enough over the course of one year for all 1 million clones in the order), is paid a massive amount of credits plus 1 son (Boba) and leaves; he has no idea that this order is for the Jedi.  

At his request there is a specific genetic marker that is artificially added to all of the clones but Boba so that none of them can claim to be him or his son. He also signs a truly impressive number of agreements that released him from responsibility for the clones AND guaranteed that he knew that he was being cloned (Look, realistically the ethical issue with cloning a sentient being centers around the being being cloned, not the clones themselves; the ethical issues with the clones and their sentience is sentient trafficking).

I want it to be clear here. Sifo-dyas was still driven to madness before he commissioned the clones. He and master Dooku were working together on this project, sharing the madness. Dooku does not fall to the darkside here, though he does still leave the Jedi Order. Though their machinations see that the Clones on the whole are treated better, as they are meant to be companions and protectors of the Jedi, the clones are very much being raised for a destiny that they were not able to choose (with all the ethical issues that come with that). There is a heavy focus and even heavier propaganda throughout the clones' childhood of how they are, in a very real sense, being raised for the Jedi. It is also very heavily referenced that the Jedi as a whole do not know about the Clone yet, since they were a surprise.

The 10,000 who were being raised for a specific Jedi grew up with every piece of information that could be found about their Jedi. Their training was tailored to the Jedid they were assigned to.  The information/propaganda/brainwashing was so specific for these 10,000 that after about the age of 3 chronologically, (a variety of ages physically, though age 6 is the most common for the clone that are meant to go to the adult Jedi), the clones whose Jedi died before they could meet could not be retrained. Instead their fellow clones consider them to be a living memorial for the lost Jedi (It is a really weird cultural development, but both Sifo-Dyas and Dooku allow it-They want the Clones as a culture to be in a symbiotic relationship with the Jedi and this fit in with that). 

Sifo-Dyas’s plan did derail Dooku’s fall entirely, instead of causing Sifo-dyas’s death Dooku ghosted Palpatine around the time of the Naboo invasion. It never occurs to Dooku to let anyone know that Palpatine is a Sith. 

Fast forward about 10 years, Dooku and Sifo-Dyas construct a far too complicated, dramatic plan to lure Obi Wan to Kamino. As far as they are concerned it is only right that Obi Wan gets ‘his’ clone protector, Cody, first (as Dooku’s grand padawan).  It actually somewhat mirrors cannon, in that Anakin is sent on a mission to escort Senator Padme Amidala to Naboo (this is actually a separate plan by Palptine, who is trying to corrupt Anakin.In this Padme has been little more than a puppet for Palpatine for years-Her will is so strong that she has retained little bits of her own sense of self, as long as Palpatine is not in the equation but nothing like what she should have been)  alone, as a test to see how ready he is to take his trials. Dooku then hires a bounty hunter, not Jango Fett, to lure Obi Wan to Kamino. 

Obi Wan is met on Kamino by the Kaminoans first but also an all but visibly vibrating Cody. This Cody is radiating adoration and glee into the Force at finally meeting ‘his’ Jedi. It should be noted that Cody’s presence in the Force could not have been more perfect for Obi Wan. Cody gives the full tour to a mildly shellshocked Obi Wan; including introducing him to Rex, who has been raised for Anakin (I debated Rex going to Anakin or Ahsoka, but ultimately decided that Echo and Fives (together as twins) were meant for Ahsoka). They end the tour with a meeting with Dooku and Sifo Dyas who explain the clones.  

Now Dooku and Sifo-Dyas deliberately have Cody stay while they explain who and what the clones were meant to be.  Obi Wan already does not want to hurt Cody and there are only so many ways one can say ‘What the fuck do you mean cloned protectors?’ and all of them could be read as a rejection of the clones themselves. Dooku also manages to make it clear to Obi Wan without stating it outright, thus in Obi Wan’s eyes leaving Cody in the dark, that if the Jedi Order rejects the clones they (the clones) will all be killed as defective.

So now Obi Wan gets to make a very carefully worded call to the Jedi High Council about the new 100,000 lives they need to become responsible for (who will be murdered if they don’t), of which about 10,000 have been brainwashed so thoroughly that barring them from ‘their Jedi’ might actually cause very real psychological harm.  Also politically the Jedi appears to have just acquired an army, possibly of slaves.

Like, even without the war, the sheer magnitude of What the Fuck that comes with ‘These people think we own them, their entire sense of self rests on how well they serve us. How do we tell them we don’t without breaking their sense of self’. Also being told that Dooku and Sifo-Dyas, who have not technically broken any laws(they used Dooku’s money instead of the Jedi’s so there is not even any fraud), would continue to have the Kaminoans produce clones and give them to the Jedi Order until the 1 million already paid for have been decanted. 

I am just saying, everyone on the high council needed to take a minute. Obi Wan also needed to take a minute. Oddly enough Obi Wan’s minute of panic came just before Anakin would have slaughtered the Tuskens (Controlled Padme was under orders to get Anakin in as many situations as possible that would cause him to reach for the dark. Including following a vision of his mother dying). That moment of panic disrupted the rage and pain enough that Anakin did not reach for the dark side or slaughter the Tuskens.  He escaped with his mothers body instead. 

They manage to get all 100,000 clones back to the Coruscant Temple without causing a panic or a diplomatic incident with the Senate (in spite of Palpatine watching like a hawk for anything he could use to discredit the Jedi, after his most reliable source of information ghosted him).  Then the Jedi made a point of asking each and every clone what they actually wanted to do (they were truly at a loss as to what else to do). Of the 90,000 generally trained, about 500 did not want to be protectors of the Jedi. As the Jedi’s response is immediately ‘Do you know what you want to do? If not, we can help you figure it out. We can get you education and whatever resources you want to pursue your dream’ with the manic air of someone who really wants help but has no idea how to, caused the remaining 89,500 generally trained clones to not just cement but weld their loyalties to the Jedi. Like they were all ready to die for the Jedi before, because of propaganda,  but now that they were even more amazing than the Clones had thought…now the loyalty of these clones is that much deeper (frankly the Jedi remain worried about this). For the 10,000 clones that were trained for specific Jedi, they actually had to stop asking because without fail the thought of not being able to protect ‘their’ Jedi led to a panic attack. 

So now we have the Jedi who have kinda been forced to accept these protectors and companions.  The adult Jedi are working really hard to figure out a balance between trying to break the brainwashing and letting the clones have the autonomy to act on their own desires (since their desires are ‘protect the Jedi’). The children in the Creche were simply introduced to their companions with the hope that being raised together can mitigate some of the training (This also means that the creche and classes have to be rapidly adjusted so that they can accommodate the clones as well). 

For some angsty flavor, we see the Jedi coming to love (romantic, familial, sexual, platonic, or other) their Clone companions and being constantly beset by thought of ‘how can I act on these feelings, they don’t have a choice’ and ‘they think the belong to me…?’. And as far as the clones are concerned everything that their Jedi does reinforces how they are deserving of the clones' loyalty and love.

Note: I do want you all to know that sudden addition of Rex following Anakin around AND the lack of war did derail Anidala before it began

[satoruhour]

HIS FAVOURITE W— STUDENT !

a/n: dilly / @crysugu i am losing the pwp war i needed the lore to be in this HELP. anyway !!! professors bc i cannot stop my mind from spiralling while starting my university classes — im not entirely proud of this but eehhh ….

wc: 4k

warnings: ultimately semi-public sex for all, unprotected sex, cumshot, standing doggy, brief oral (m receiving), brief f! masturbation, brief fingering (gojo), geto is a professor who is also a camboy, camgirl!reader, f! and m! masturbation, mentions of bad dragon’s cumtubes, brief fingering, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink (geto), pussy slapping, spitting (on yo pussy), pet names, clit stimulation, oral / cunnilingus, tit play, fingering, implied f! masturbation (nanami), mentions of murder, stripper!reader, riding, degradation, calls you ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, calls you ‘mama’ once too, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), deep-throating, slight face-fucking (toji), n*sfw under the cut

✶ GOJO

professor gojo was… an interesting teaching figure. he didn’t have a set way of doing lectures or tutorials, nor was his feedback on assignments entirely coherent, but he was fun and unorthodox. he was also hot as fuck, as you’ve heard from your friends, but you never really got the deal even after seeing his photo on the university website or from miles away entertaining some starstruck student. his classes were always left with no vacancies, too, only able to see what your friends meant after stepping foot first into the lecture.

you were a tad bit early, greeted with gojo sitting at the front with his legs propped up on the desk as he shot you a nonchalant greeting and you think maybe you should’ve signed up for another lecture group, but then he speaks and the air is knocked out of your chest. professor gojo is charismatic when he teaches about art, design and media, captivating everyone with the stark white hair and blue eyes, but he’s clever with his glances because you aren’t realising he stares at you more than anyone else.

aren’t you in your second year? how did he not see you anywhere last year? why did you just sign up? 

the smiles he gives you are sweeter than others, the words more sugar coated with lilts in his voice and you’re chastising yourself for not being any different from everyone else, soon turning into the girls who ask for extra tutoring sessions and sidling up to him on campus — at least you’d get the full experience.

“oh! sweetness, what are you doing here?” you’ve managed to get gojo just as he leaves his office, standing outside for quite some time thinking if you’d really want to do this. several lecturers and professors have already walked past asking if you needed anything, but no matter how much you wanted to say professor gojo’s name, it always turned into something like waiting for a friend.

“oh— uhm, professor gojo, just wondering if the grade for that major project is really set in stone?”

gojo makes a show of thinking, but you know you’re asking for the devil himself when he replies yes with a stifled grin and you’re asking if the two week period of appealing works for the major you’re in.

“you can submit other collaterals as an appeal but it might either boost your grade or bring it down,” the professor leans down with a sick smile on his face, because he’s had so many people outside just like this, nervous from his advances and yet not going through with what they thought they could do. but this time it’s you, the you who he imagined taking on his office desk or even in a lecture theatre for everyone to see, who wants the words to fall from your lips just so he could be your knight in shining armour.

“is there really no… other way to appeal?” you swallow when gojo switches the position and gets you in exactly where he wants you: your back facing his office, his face dangerously close to yours while his eyes slyly catching the way your thighs rub together.

gojo smirks to himself when you knock down yet another cup of stationery on his desk after “discussing” ways you could improve your grades, nails making unsatisfactory noises on the wooden desk while he can hear your cunt gush around him, made obvious from the squelch of your hole and he’s muttering praises into your neck from behind.

“this what you had in mind, baby?” just another girl in his roster, getting ruined just for a grade that wasn’t even that bad. what you didn’t know is that you were the only girl, getting professor gojo so hard in lectures and tutorial classes just from the sight of you that to finally have you — it’s a sweet reward. you shiver when his hand reaches to your front to rub at your clit and you’re grasping at nothing as moans leave your lips.

“y-yeah, professor—” gojo is filthy, lewd, lifting your leg to prop up on the desk just so he could get deeper in you, your pussy everything he imagined and more as he continues to fuck into you. you’re warmer than his hand, than some hookup’s mouth from the club, clenching around his cock so tightly his hips stutter.

“f-fuck, angel, tryna snap my dick off?” you let out an incredulous chuckle at that, hips moving back to meet his while the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass fill the room. your juices are coating his length so well, too, that gojo’s eyes lock on your cunt that sucks him in over and over again, the spread of your pussy lips just amplifying his moans. the other spreads your cheeks and sighs at the translucent ring of cum at the base of his cock, hips fucking up to hit your sweet spot that you’re cumming with a shock down your spine — so hard, so deep, so intense that you’re jolting from the orgasm with whimpers of his name. gojo never truly is done with you after pulling out to cum on your ass, however, and you aren’t either.

there’s a thrill that runs through his veins when you back him up onto the sofa, a glimmer in your eyes that suggest you’re as intoxicated on him as he is on you, a sultry gaze taking over your shyness from earlier before he’s pushed onto the cushions.

“thank you for the meal, professor,” you giggle and gojo swears he’s reached his death when your mouth first closes around his still sensitive tip and he whines loudly, hearing your fingers fill your drooling cunt as your hand squeezes out leftover cum from before. a hand runs through your hair and your cockdrunk face is enough for him to see white—

professor gojo thinks you look heavenly between his legs.

✶ GETO

you sigh echoes throughout your dorm room, ending the stream and collecting your keep for the day as you grimace at the mess you’ve made on your sheets. it’s not like it wasn’t pleasurable, but on some days you’re wondering how long you truly need to serve gross men on the internet for it to be enough to pay off your university fees. sure, there were a few attractive people who commented and tipped you, but that was the extent of it. it’s not long before you can only think about cleaning up and taking a big fat nap, but a video in the sidebar catches your attention.

it seemed like a casual stream — no script or planned storyline apart from a heavily tattooed arm taking up half the screen, his pelvis just slightly off the thumbnail. he was faceless, too, filming rather from the chest down which was also inked, something that sends a chill to your core.

it’s only later when you’re slipping your dildo back into you as you watch this stranger pump his cock, guttural groans and slick noises filling your airpods that you realise the dragon wrapping around his arm looks awfully familiar. you’re so blissed out by pleasure, focusing on the needy moans that the man lets out before he cums with a grunt, so much cum leaking out from him. you’ve reached your high too, but you have no time to admire the stranger because it seemed like he was in a hurry, but not before you’ve caught a glimpse of his lip ring.

you know why he looked so familiar, now, standing in front of him in his office while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, something he doesn’t do often. geto suguru doesn’t wear his lip ring in lecturers either, and now you think you know why because they match the video you’ve seen just last night. you aren’t even entirely sure why you were called in, and you think maybe it’s because you “accidentally” sent a friend request, but you’re taken aback when he asks you if you’ve already selected a tutor to be your mentor throughout your major project.

“surprised? i sent out the email a week ago, love.” you try not to let the name get to you, and the confession lingers at the tip of your tongue.

“y-yeah! i saw it, professor geto, just—”

everyone was no stranger to professor geto’s striking looks, always turning heads with his unconventional gauges and long hair that probably should’ve landed him in a modelling agency in the first place. except, he’s opting instead to teach linguistics, a fitting major for him to talk of the history of language and its formation of it, even slipping in some latin and greek to show its origins but you can hardly listen when all you can focus on is the tight pull of his shirt around his body while his hair falls around his face and you think maybe it was a bad time to think if his hair falls out of his bun while he rails someone. you hope soon it’ll be you, just so you can confirm it for yourself with no other reason involved (you’re a fucking liar).

geto clears his throat and you swallow and the flex of his forearms only distract you further, the dragon on his arm seemingly laughing at your torment as it moves along his skin — the other doesn’t miss your dilemma, staring at you for your answer with a dark stare and enjoying the effect he had on you. your brain doesn’t respond fast enough, though, and you’re blurting out the first thing as you watch the curve of his mouth turn in either distaste or satisfaction; you weren’t sure.

“i saw you stream yesterday—” and you slap a hand over your mouth, wanting to run immediately, but you didn’t expect him to smile after a moment of recognition, making the connections to your account until his mouth falls open just a little.

“you’re the little cutie who sent me a request last night, aren’t ya?”

as he asks the question you hoped he wouldn’t ask, you find there’s nothing on your mind except maybe seeing his tattooed arms wrap around you — and you did. they looked so much better up close, leading from one thing to another in that stuffy office soon they’re looking especially good with how he’s currently dragging the tip of his cock along your folds, collecting your slick as you hold onto his biceps after confessing sin after sin about you from—

“i’ve jerked off to your videos.” a burn on your cheeks when geto sets you on his office table, palms leaving hot trails along your thighs and skin. he lets you play with his bulge, hands probably forming bruises on you from how you relieve the tension in his pants.

“the way your cunt wraps around that dildo — makes me wish i was there fuckin’ your pussy instead.” a gasp and a moan when he preps you with both fingers as he sucks hickeys into your neck and plays with your tits, pinching your nipple that has you clenching around him.

“didn’t miss how you like to be bred in your videos too. think maybe you need some real cum, princess,” geto’s button up shirt is pried open by now, trousers just barely pulled down below his hips because he has a lecture in about half n’ hour. though, he wanted your pussy all to himself and if 27 minutes was all he was granted, he was going to make full use of it. geto groans into your hair when your legs wrap around his middle and he’s reeling at how he’s been watching your videos for the longest time and yet, nothing compares to having you fall apart by his hands.

a quick glance to his watch tells him fifteen minutes, eyes flitting back to the squelch of your cunt around him and he smiles smugly at the whimpers he knows so well. he’s sure it’s imprinted on his brain by now but his dick still jumps at the many variations you’ve let out during the 27; he’d commit every single one to memory. “professor— s-shit!”

geto angles his hips up, the curve of his cock hitting that spot just right that your back arches and you let out a drawn out moan, “yes, baby?”

“w-wan’ your cum in me, suguru,” you’re pleading with a drunk little smile and your face is twisted into such pleasure he’s only seen through pixels that geto cums almost immediately with a pained laugh seeing the real thing, hips stilling as he fills you up, up, up to the brim with hot, white semen that geto feels embarrassed to climaxing so quickly. but what can he do? when his favourite camgirl and student asks to be bred, it’s only natural.

how could he possibly say no?

✶ NANAMI

“does that mean the poem is written from the cross’ perspective?” your hand shoots up in hopes of interpreting the text correctly, but also because, just maybe, that you wanted to impress a little someone at the front of the lecture theatre. beside you, you can hear the gasp of your friend along with the eyes of various other students. “sort of like— personification?”

nanami points to you with his glasses that he’s long removed, a small smile on his face. it’s not like you’re trying too hard, but of course you know your shit fairly well. you always have in every class, it was just a bonus you were so attractive that all nanami could think about was spreading your legs right on this desk. “yes, almost. anthropomorphism, something that was very common in poems or works written in old english.”

you were sceptical about professor nanami at first, especially since he was a lecturer who was transferred here from overseas only three months ago and is technically quarter of a white man, but he held command of the japanese language well enough for you to understand, both in speech and concepts. you were more interested in the lecturer himself though, piqued from the moment he explained his grandfather was danish and you turn to your friend, explains the blonde hair, doesn’t explain how he’s so insanely fine, giggling quietly to each other the first day.

as for your major, it was texts after story after poem, but you enjoyed it alongside giving your own input in class — something you knew would help your participation grades. you’ve raised your hand in more ways than one, always coming up at the end of lectures with a question, stopping him in hallways to show him the book you were currently reading. so that’s why you were confused when you were called to the front of the lecture theatre after everything’s over. it couldn’t be bad, right?

it wasn’t bad, it was much better, especially when nanami’s got your legs on either side of him on the lecture theatre desk while he takes his rightful place between your legs — somewhere he’s always longed to be. both the front and back doors are locked, with only your soft, muffled moans filling the room. but nanami has no shame, slurping up the juices that drip from your pussy loudly, possibly staining the desk below him. he’s cared before about the condensation of his drinks but when it comes to your sweet, sweet cunt? he doesn’t give one fuck.

“taste so good, sweetheart,” nanami moans wrapping a forearm around your thighs and just eats. he flicks his tongue over your clit, while the other hand goes up to squeeze at your tits, kneading and playing with them while you’re still at awe at the man on his knees, at how you’ve gotten one of the hottest professors in the university eating out of your pussy like it’s the last meal on earth.

you’re snapped out of your daze when nanami lands a few slaps onto your pussy, brown eyes boring holes into your skull. but this stare is different, as opposed to glaring down the mischievous boys who can’t stop making noise, this is…

“pay attention when i eat your little pussy, angel,” the demanding tone has you shivering, a small grin stifled when he nods in deserved approval and continues his assault. fingers slip in before you have time to react and your head is thrown back so hard it bumps against the wood but you don’t care, clamping down around his fingers. nanami’s pace is unforgiving, sucking hard on your clit while he pumps them in and out.

“feel good?” nanami asks through slurps as he catches your eye, licking one last stripe before gathering his saliva into a ball and he spits onto your clit, sight so lewd you clamp around his fingers. he admires how the way the glob of liquid runs down your cunt and mixes with your arousal that he can’t wait for it to be his cum instead.

“better than…” your voice trails off when he rubs in his spit, a thumb on your bud while he continues to move his fingers and your thighs are already trembling from how nanami knows all your sweet spots in such a short period of time. nanami simply chuckles at your sensitivity, meeting you halfway as you sit up to feel his lips against yours and he whispers against your lips—

“what were you gonna say, baby?”

you’re heaving for oxygen as he adds a third finger and you’re just hoping he’d show you his fucking dick already. hot breath fans across your lips and you smile to yourself seeing how your words affect him.

“better than fucking myself with my fingers thinkin’ it’s your cock, prof.”

✶ TOJI

it was nine in the morning, and toji could already feel a headache forming from the amount of absentees in his class, simply sighing before pulling up the details for today’s lecture, eyes unknowingly looking for you in the large lecture theatre. he finds that you’re already looking, clad in a cardigan and tired eyes — no doubt from trying to reach his deadline earlier than usual. toji found that you liked to do that, the first one to always submit your essays and assignments, so that’s why he knows what game you’re playing at when you’re asking the difference between first, second and third degree murder when you already know their definitions.

he would know — you got full marks the other time. 

“hm?” toji only hums when he sees your enthusiastic face and a quick look down to your lower half shows how your legs spread naturally for him. the professor only licks his lips before he spots your underwear, entertaining you for now as you stare on earnestly, while nothing is actually entering your brain. that’s okay, though, you’re smart.

toji can count on one hand the amount of times you manage to catch him off guard, but he didn’t expect both of those times to be on the same day. it was a busy night at the club, trailing behind professor gojo, bored, until the clock hits 11 and the shift changes, some dancers retiring for the night whilst others make their way out. they emerge with pumps and skimpy outfits, but toji still hasn’t found someone worth wasting his loaded bank account on until you’re stepping out in a corset and garters and toji whistles lowly, eyes travelling up your person unforgivingly before he hears a small gasp.

his curiosity is piqued at the small noise, only to be greeted with your widened eyes and taut muscles at having seen your professor at the strip club you work at, but with a clap from somewhere backstage your body moves naturally into a professional stance, and perhaps a little more sluttily than other days.

your professor was hot, of course you would work twice as hard, twisting your body around the pole while you show off your assets — things you were covering just this morning in professor toji’s lecture. he taught criminology, a minor that you were trying out in your second year of uni and if it didn’t work, you’d drop it, but no matter how much you complained about the class, the green eyes that bore into yours in lectures always seem to ask you to stay. you never really knew whether he was looking at you or not.

at least now, you’ll make him.

toji’s hands tightened around the wad of cash he planned to waste tonight, all put on hold just from watching the way you put your body on display. he wouldn’t have imagined seeing you tonight at the strip club he let gojo drag him to, but he’s almost glad he’s here when you seem to be only dancing for him, all focus on the other patrons lost.

your eyes are still locked with toji’s, reminding you of the times in the lecture theatre where green was all you could see, a smile creeping on your face when one of your girlfriends behind you whispers that the man with the black hair and tight shirt wants a private session with you.

that’s all it took before you feel toji’s hands on your ass later in the private room, pulling you to his front with a smirk. “what’s a sweet girl like you doin’ here?”

you roll your eyes as you feign annoyance. your heart was pounding along with the music, finally being able to feel his toned body from the front., “cut the crap, prof. you booked me for a reason. what, here to talk about my grades or something?”

“what? can’t see my favourite student?” you scoff with a small smile.

“and how did you know i work here?”

“i didn’t, but seeing you work that pole,” toji grins, landing a smack on your butt before grinding his very obvious, large bulge on you and he’s loving the way it seemed to stimulate your clit, “i need ya to show me what i’ve been missing, mama.”

toji groans later while you’ve got his cock in his mouth, on your knees in front of him while you’re fisting the places you can’t reach. you take most of him easily, feeling the tip of his length reach the back of your throat. there, your eyes flick up to him, doe eyed and pleading. it isn’t long before you feel his hips bucking into your mouth and the cute twitch of his cock in your mouth, moaning around him as you knead his thighs, dragging him closer with what little strength you had.

“dirty fuckin’ slut, huh?” toji mumbles out breathlessly, tightening his grip around your hair before you start bobbing your head again, a plethora of lewd noises alongside the slurp of your saliva and his pre-cum mixing only makes your panties wetter and sends your cunt clenching around nothing. “who knew my cutest student was such a whore?” your head reels at the degradation, sucking in your cheeks even more while you slobber over him. toji swears under his breath when your tongue sweeps over his tip, collecting his pre-cum.

“it’s s’big in my mouth, professor,” giggling, you bob your head faster as the other’s noises increase in volume, and he’s left to tap the side of your skull, causing you to tilt your head in question. the vibrations of your moans has him grinding into your mouth, shutting you up until he’s cumming down your throat with a loud groan. toji spills so much into your mouth that you have to swallow twice, pulling on your jaw as you show him the remnants of the cum still on your tongue.

“’m sure they have it somewhere in the conduct about professors not having sexual relations with a student,” toji chuckles when he sees you peel off your underwear, eagerly wrapping his arms around your waist. “or even something about cutting corners to get your grades up…” it’s a little soft, trailing off when he feels you drag his tip along your pussy and he’s mesmerised with how your dripping folds accommodate him easily.

you pout in dramatics, thighs tightening around his when you take inch after inch of him before you’re bottoming out. there’s a deep sigh coming from you before you’re moving your hips lazily, a certain slur to your words that already show you’re drunk on your professor’s cock and toji only smiles.

“yeah, but my grades are perfectly fine,” you whisper with a small whine when toji squeezes your ass, something he never thought he’d get a taste of.

“plus, we’re not in the classroom now, are we, professor?”

[hollyberrygarden]

I was thinking over the way Pavlova describes Wildberry's crush. he says (direct quote), "you know well that it won't work out, but you have no intention of giving up!" in their interaction in the kingdom, he also calls it a "foolish" type of love

and I was like. what does that imply about Wildberry's crush?? and how would it apply to Crunchy Chip??

"foolish" implies a lack of good sense or judgment. it's a crush that can only end negatively—heartbreak, fighting, strain, or some other horrible result. Wildberry could either keep his feelings to himself, being unhappy with his own cowardice. he could also confess and get rejected, therefore losing whatever bond he had with his crush in the first place. but he could also be accepted and enter a relationship, but then the worries he has could be true. it could not work out, just like he knows it won't, and it would be unfair to both of them. every possible end result (to someone who is convinced it will not work out) would demonstrate the foolishness of the crush he has. Wildberry strikes me as the kind of guy who doesn't get crushes often, and he deals with them on his own before he chooses to confess, if ever

I'm imagining him in his own head about it, which is why no one else seems to know; it could also be why he doesn't externally react to it when the others are around but pretty much concedes to his worries over it (and openly seems. I guess worried about them!!) when he's talking one-on-one with Pavlova. he has gone over these possibilities to himself without any external input. he is trying to figure out how to make it work, which is the "no intention of giving up" that Pavlova mentioned, but maybe he doesn't have a set answer yet, which is why it's still something he hasn't confessed. Pavlova only knows because it's what he does

I was thinking about why it "not working out" (very generally speaking) is something he would think about, and I wondered what kind of relationship he would want. in an overworld dialogue, Royal Margarine tells him he must be "popular with a tall, muscular build like that." whether it's true is unknown, but Wildberry says he doesn't care about such "trivialities," assumedly being popular. if he doesn't want popularity, maybe he wants something simple?? or steady?? or maybe even straightforward. it's hard to know for sure. he wants something that's actually possible for him and his lifestyle in the kingdom. he's a busy guy who often travels away for important and dangerous business. it would be difficult to be in any kind of steady relationship when that's what you do for work. long distance isn't for everyone

to him, he cannot be with Crunchy Chip because of their duties to their kingdoms. I think it circles back to that. Crunchy Chip is the captain of the cream wolves in the Dark Cacao Kingdom, and he is close enough to the king to travel with him to Beast Yeast. he protects the kingdom every day, as well as the woods surrounding it. Wildberry is a hired bodyguard to the Queen Mother, and he has sworn loyalty to her (and the king and queen of course); he frequently travels for work and is likely gone for long stretches of time, depending. they both have very important jobs that neither wants to give up. during Cookie Odyssey, they each talk about their love for their kingdoms and their respective leaders, even making a bet about who will want to visit the other more. they exchange letters on the regular. Hollyberry herself has noticed how much closer they're getting. he knows how much Crunchy Chip values his position in the Dark Cacaco Kingdom, and he values his own position in the Hollyberry Kingdom. they don't want to leave. they cannot leave. not now, maybe not for a long time. maybe not ever, in a horrible reality

it's foolish in every way fathomable. to Wildberry, at least

[wonderlandwalker]

Patron Saint of hellfire | Eddie Munson x reader

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: Eddie treats you like you're the only virtue worth holding, but it's his vices you're trying to bring to light

word count: 3.1k

tags / content warnings: basically porn with minimal plot, I swear I tried to synonymise more but then i gave up, again, i cannot reiterate how little plot this has, it's just me being self indulgent

a/n: the grammer checker keeps saying my writing lacks clarity but i'm done trying to fix it

The air between you is thick, charged—every molecule laced with the scent of him, of you, sweat and salt and something darker, something desperate. A hunger that doesn’t just gnaw at the bones but devours them, relentless, the kind that lingers long after the body is sated, etched into the skin like an emblem. You move with deliberate slowness, savouring the way his fingers dig into your thighs—not hard enough to bruise, never hard enough to bruise — not when he treats your body like something holy, but enough to make your nerves hum with the promise of more. His grip is worship and restraint in equal measure, caught between devotion and destruction, the scales trembling as you teeter on the edge of it.

Every drag of him inside you is a revelation, slick and filthy, the sound obscene in the best way—a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to his ragged inhales. His breath hitches, sharp and punched-out every time you clench around him, his voice breaking around your name like it’s the only word he remembers. The gasps coil low in your stomach, molten and sweet, a live wire sparking under your complexion, setting every nerve alight. You can feel him everywhere—the heat of his body beneath yours, the way his muscles tense and tremble, the desperate roll of his pelvis as he chases friction, chases you, like he’d follow you straight into damnation if you asked.

His lips part, his gaze locked on yours, dark and fevered, like you’re the only thing left sacred in his world—like he’d carve your name into his ribs a thousand times over just to keep you looking at him like this. Like he’s already damned, and you’re the only altar he knows how to kneel at. The reverence in his touch is almost unbearable, tracing your figure like he’s memorising the shape of you, the feel of you, as if this moment might be the last one either of you gets.

And you can feel how close he is—every tendon drawn taut, his voice raw and wrecked, his hips stuttering against yours. His control unravels with every thrust, every whispered plea against your lips, his body trembling on the edge of freefall. Right as you know you’ve got him there—right as his breath fractures, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—you stop.

His body jerks beneath you, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as you pull away—as you let his throbbing cock slip free, leaving him twitching, flushed and straining against nothing. His hands fly to your waist, digging into it like a lifeline, as if clinging hard enough might keep him from shattering.

You see his restraint unravelling—the muscle leaping in his jaw, the sharp hiss of breath between clenched teeth, and the tremor in his thighs where he fights to stay still. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take.

He just shakes, wrecked by his own want.

And it kills you.

Because you know why he hesitates. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his thumbs flex against you—like he’s afraid his touch alone could break you. Like if he lets go, if he gives in, he’ll ruin everything.

But that’s exactly what you want.

You want ruin. You want his control to snap, want him to forget every reason he ever had for holding back. You want his palms on you like a brand, his mouth like a confession, and his body moving with yours like there’s no tomorrow.

But he doesn’t give it to you.

He won’t.

And that’s the whole damn problem.

Dating Eddie had been… unexpectedly sweet.

Which, given his reputation, you never saw coming. The man was a walking provocation—all sharp grins and dirtier promises, the kind of bastard who’d murmur exactly what he wanted to do to you in the middle of a crowded bar just to watch your breath hitch and your thighs press together. Maybe it was wrong to admit, but you loved those wild flashes of him—the way his fists clenched when you danced just out of reach, the growl in his voice when someone looked at you a second too long.

But he always leashed it. Always.

Now? Now he was soft. Thoughtful. Devoted. And yeah, it was great—obviously. The way he traces every curve, freckle, and dip of you like you were scripture and he was learning you by heart. The way he kissed you like he could imprint his love into your bones with every swipe of his tongue. The way he’d linger, his breath ragged against your lips, his body trembling with restraint as if you’d dissolve if he pushed too hard.

Eddie treated you like something holy.

Which left you in this predicament.

Because he worshipped you—reverently—with his mouth between your thighs, savouring you like communion. With his hands cradling your face as he fucked into you, slow and deep, murmuring, "Fuck, look at you, so perfect, so good for me," like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never dared to speak. He ruined you in the gentlest ways, drawing out every gasp and shiver until you were shaking apart beneath him, until you sobbed his name like a plea.

And God, you hated how much you loved it.

Because fuck, you didn’t just want gentle. You wanted the real Eddie—the one who’d wreck you and make you thank him for it. The one who snarled curses at hecklers, who pinned you against the bathroom door at the Hideout, teeth at your throat, inhibitions drowned in cheap whisky and filth spilling from his lips. You wanted the Eddie who’d flip you onto your stomach with a growl, who’d mark your thighs with his fingerprints and your skin with his teeth, and who’d remind you—between panting, filthy kisses—that even saints fall to their knees.

And Christ, you were tired of waiting for him to figure it out.

You hadn’t planned it—not consciously, anyway. But the moment you caught that wild, desperate glint in his eyes when you pulled away—just before he could cum, leaving him gasping, his fingers knotting in your hair like he was a breath from snapping—something in you ignited.

You had to see it again.

Had to drag that spark into open air and watch it burn.

So you pushed.

Teased.

Denied.

Again and again and again—

Your hands on his belt, undoing it slowly, savouring the hitch in his breath as you never quite touched where he wanted.

Your tongue tracing the vein of his cock while precum beaded at the tip, tormenting him with the crusade.

Your body sinking onto him, just shy of where he needed you—close enough to torture, never enough to satisfy.

Eddie, ever the goddamn martyr, took it.

Every.

Fucking.

Time.

—growling, resisting, defiant, even as his body sold him out with every ragged breath, every frantic jerk of his hips. And Christ, the noises he made—guttural, wounded, your name a blasphemy on his lips, the only blessing his sinful mouth had ever known.

“C’mon, sweetheart—just this once—let me—fuck—!”

The words fracture into a gasp as you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw, just to feel him unravel—like even the phantom of your touch was enough to wreck him, like he was one frayed thread from coming apart.

And there it was: that tension, wire-tight, humming between you. His pupils drown the warm brown of his eyes, nothing left but plain hunger. His hands twitch against you—gripping, releasing, gripping again—torn between yanking you down and flipping you beneath him, between pleading and claiming.

He was breaking.

You could see it—the way his throat locked, the way his teeth sank into his lip, biting back a sob or a swear. The way his voice, usually honey-smooth when he was trying to be good for you, turned raw, ruined.

“Fuck—please.”

Close.

So close.

But not yet.

You grind down against him—just once—a slow, deliberate roll of your frame, the friction agonisingly brief. Just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth, to wrench his head back into the pillows as his tongue catches between them, biting down hard to stifle the groan clawing up his throat. And then you still.

The pause is persecution. His body arches beneath you, every ligament locked, trembling with the effort of holding back—like the need inside him is a living thing, ravenous, threatening to swallow him whole. His hands flex at your waist, fingertips finally digging in hard enough to leave a mark, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up. Just lets out a shattered exhale, ragged and uneven.

"Eddie."  Your voice is a whisper, edged with challenge and something darker— something malecious — as you drag your nails down his chest, leaving faint, pink trails in their wake. His breath hitches, chest expanding under your touch like he’s starving for air. "You wanna cum, baby?"

His answer is a broken noise, half groan, half surrender. "Y-yeah—fuck, yeah, please—"  There’s something raw in his voice, something beyond desperation.

Fear.

The kind that lives in the hollow of his ribs, in the silence between heartbeats—the terror that if he lets go, if he snaps, he’ll ruin you. That the hunger inside him, the one gnawing at his restraint like a wild thing, will be too much. Too scorching. Too rough.

Too eager.

You can see it—the heave of his chest, the tendons in his neck pulled tight, his jaw clenched until it twitches. His hips jerk once, involuntary, before he forces them still again, a broken gasp tearing from his lips. He’s the eye of the hurricane, a storm barely contained in every frazzled breath, another battle in his endless war. It’s a brutal stalemate of muscle and bone and sheer fucking willpower, all straining against the need threatening to split him open.

And yet.

He holds.

Some stubborn, adamant part of him clings to discipline, to the dread that this is just amusement—that you’re being sardonic, that if he really lets go, if he surrenders to the itch clawing at his membrane, he’ll ruin you too.

As if you wouldn’t let him.

As if you wouldn’t beg for it.

As if you wouldn’t fucking thank him for it.

You lean down, your mouth a slow, searing brand against the shell of his ear—close enough that the slightest shift would catch flesh between your teeth. Your voice is tempered with honey and sin, each word a deliberate provocation:

"You could make me."

A shudder wrecks him—violent, full-bodied, as if lightning has scorched the words into his soul. His fingers spasm against you, and for one suspended, hungry second—you’re certain he’ll break. That the last fibre of his control will snap, and he’ll finally, finally give in.

But he doesn’t.

His restraint is maddening. Beautiful. Agonising. Every inch of him is coiled steel, a spring wound to the point of bursting, his body locked in brutal defiance. You feel the tremors wracking through him, the raw, shuddering effort of denial—of refusing to take what he craves so desperately.

And you—

You want to annihilate him.

You want to crack him open, peel back every stifled groan, and every choked plea. You want to watch him come undone, to be the flood that drags him under, the reckoning he can’t escape. You want to be divine wrath and unholy absolution, the force that burns through his resolve until nothing remains—

His heartbeat is a ferocious thing, thrashing against your palm like a caged beast—each frantic pulse a hammer strike in the fraught silence between you. The heat of him burns into your skin, his blood a fevered drum beneath your touch while the war inside him rages behind those darkened eyes. You stare at it—the fraying edges of his control, the way his breath saws through his teeth, ragged and sharp, as if he’s one whispered plea away from snapping.

Then—

Eddie breaks.

His voice is smoke and gravel, stripped raw, a growl ripped from the depths of his chest as his fist twists in your hair. The grip is brutal, sending lightning-shocks of thrilling pain searing across your scalp as he drags your gaze to his.

“Tell me you want it.”

The words are ground between his teeth, his voice trembling—not with worry, but with the sheer, splintering effort of holding back. He’s dangling over the edge, one breath away from freefall. “I need to hear you fucking say it.”

And you—

You don’t hesitate. Not a heartbeat. Not a flicker of doubt. Your answer is an abdication — an inauguration.

“Take me.”

His restraint doesn’t just crash—it fucking implodes.

A low, guttural sound tears from him, the last vestiges of his control collapsing inward like a star giving way to gravity. Eddie doesn’t just fall—he erupts, demolishing every boundary, every hesitation, with a groan that vibrates through your core. And, God, you want to drown in it—in the raw, unfiltered flood of him, in the way his need devours you like a riptide, dragging you under, deeper, deeper—

The version of him you’ve grown accustomed to—the one who would stoop at your altar for eternity, who would worship you with reverent hands and whispered prayers—vanishes. In its place stands something feral, something devout in a way that puts iconoclasm itself to shame. 

This isn’t devotion.

This is desecration.

And then there’s nothing but him. The world tilts, the room spinning in a dizzying whirl as he flips you over, his body a furnace against yours. One hand pins both of your wrists above your head, his fingers lacing through yours in a grip that’s as possessive as it is familiar—like he’s reclaiming what was always his. His weight sears into you, tainting you with every ragged inhale, every tremor that wracks his frame. But he’s not shaking with hesitation anymore. No, this is the aftershock of holding back for too goddamn long, the seismic release of a man who’s finally stopped denying himself.

His mouth crashes against yours like he’s starved for it—like he’s been dying of thirst and you’re the first taste of water in decades. There’s no finesse, no patience, just the brutal, consuming need to take. His other hand grips your thigh, yanking it higher, wider, his palm a brand as it slides up, leaving fire in its wake. There’s no room for gentleness here. No room for hesitation. Only this: the sharp sting of his teeth, the bruising press of his hips, the way he claims every inch of you like he’s carving his name into your bones.

The first thrust is a revelation—blinding, brutal, a declaration so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs. You have to fight to keep your eyes open, to watch the ruin you’ve orchestrated unfold—because God, it’s beautiful. The way his control fractures, the way his body bows over yours like a man in sacrament, like a sinner finally surrendering to damnation. His touch is everywhere, rough and reverent, dragging you against him with a desperation that borders on violence. As if he could fuse your bones together if he just held tight enough. As if he could carve this feeling into them, rewriting every moment he denied himself with the searing mark of his touch.

Every snap hits deeper than the last—a dire rearrangement, a reckoning for all the time he’s wasted curbing the desire.

"This what you wanted?"

His voice is a wildfire let loose, a growl scraped raw against your throat as his teeth find your skin—kissing, scraping, and biting. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t need one. Not when your body is singing its reply with every shudder, every gasp, every broken noise he wrings from you.

"Wanted me to lose control?"

You can’t answer. Can’t fucking think—not when every drag of him inside you is pure incandescence, not when his rhythm is relentless, perfect, each withdrawal a taunt, each thrust a demand. His breath scorches your neck, his chuckle a hot gust that prickles down your spine. It’s carnage, every movement a chord struck in the symphony of your undoing, and he conducts it with a goddamn smirk on his lips. This isn’t just fucking.

It’s punishment.

It’s fealty.

It’s everything.

It’s punishment and worship fused together—his hands rough with greed, his touch reverent with something dangerously close to dread. Every movement is contradiction and deference, the bite of his fingers against you a stark contrast to the way his lips brush your pulse point like a whispered benediction. He’s unravelling you, thread by goddamn thread, even as he wills himself resilient — as if the outright force of craving you is enough to rip him apart at the seams. 

“Tell me you’re mine.”  It's not an inquiry, it's a fucking dictation.

It tears from him like he’s mitigating the clash between desperation and demand. It’s not just words— it’s a need, carved from the very marrow of his bones, and you can see the overture in it, the consolation he’s reaching for and the tenacity that’s written into his genetics.

Your reply comes without thought, without hesitation—pure instinct, molten and immediate, giving him exactly what he’s so wretched for:

"Yours.  Always yours."

The words ignite something primal in him. A growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your ribs as he claims your mouth, his kiss equal parts possession and surrender. This is more than ownership—it’s covenant, it’s consecration, and it’s the last frayed cord of his control snapping.

And then—

The realisation creeps into your veins like poison—too late to stop the spread. He’s a quick fucking study.

Before you can flutter your lashes, his hips roll with devastating precision. The tables turn so violently your guts plummet to the floor. Your arch is instinctive, a silent plea, but his palm presses down on your abdomen, pinning you under his newfound dominion. His tongue clicks in mocking agreement, the sound travelling straight through your sternum to pool liquid-hot between your thighs.

A predator's grin slashes across his features as he leans closer—but not close enough—his breath scalding against your parted lips.

“Oh no, love.”

His voice is refined malice, syllables dripping with a cataclysmic edge that makes your pulse stutter. The hand not holding you down drifts up, tracing counterfeit awe down your throat, a farce of tenderness.

“You wanted to play with fire?”

Each word is candied malevolence, a lullaby wrapped in a threat.

“Gonna show you exactly how it burns.”

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Winter (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Mature language. Grief. Toddlers. Unreliable narrators. Miscommunication.

A/N: I was so excited about this chapter! These scenes are the ones I wrote first. Also, the biggest hug to anyone who is reading this. I had not expected the amount of love my first chapter got, and I am so grateful!

THERE WAS AN old northern superstition —more like an old wives’ tale, really— that said if there was snow on the wedding day, the marriage was doomed to be a cold one.

It hadn’t been snowing the day Cregan had married you, but his marriage was proving to be icier than the lands beyond the wall. You weren’t interested in spending time with him at all, and you actively tried to avoid him. He had tried to convince you to share rooms, trying to foster some intimacy, to no avail.

Cregan had hoped that if not a loving wife, he would get a caring mother to Rickon. The boy was too small to grow without one, not yet having reached his third nameday. But you hadn’t shown interest in that either. Instead, you pretended the two of them didn’t exist.

He would like to say that the days went on the same way they did before he wed you, but it would be a lie. Winterfell ran much better now there was a lady present. Cregan had been wrong about you. It seemed like you could run a keep, and you did so with ruthless efficiency.

The castle had never been warmer, the meals so well planned. Even the servants seemed happy, now that they didn’t have to follow Cregan’s too broad instructions. It seemed that asking them to clean and cook was a little too vague for their tastes.

As for you, grief still followed you around, like a too long shadow that refused to budge even in the face of Winterfell’s brightest light. Sara had befriended you, with little success. While you had been far more welcoming to her, you still looked constantly tired and sad.

The lack of sunlight had made you lose your southron tan, leaving you with a look of quiet frailty that made Cregan want to wrap you in a thousand blankets and keep you safe. He just was unsure of the execution.

You scared him. He was man enough to admit it. People were often afraid of things they didn’t understand, and Cregan was no exception. You were made of absolute ice. There was no better description. Cold, but as fragile as glass.

He was running out of ideas on how to bond with you. Invitations to tea were denied, nor did you want to ride with him to see his tenants. You seemed at ease enough around Sara, and some other northern ladies, so social interaction wasn’t what you disliked. It was him.

Never had Winterfell’s corridors been filled with so many women. The northern lords already called you Queen Alysanne’s second coming, with your all female court. The only thing missing was your husband. You didn’t have Cregan’s ear, simply because you didn’t wish to. He would support your endeavors if you asked him to. He had offered his help with your attempts to establish a charity, since the North didn’t have Septas to take care of it, but you had proudly rebuffed him.

There was no pleasing you. He was at his wits’ end. Hence, the awful choice he had made that day.

To try to force you to be in his company.

“Why are you ordering my servants around?” You complain, barging into his chambers. While usually the kitchens were the domain of the Lady of the household, Cregan didn’t know you took it so seriously. “Do you not think me capable enough?”

“I do!” Cregan sits up in his bed, bewildered. He had given the orders around lunchtime, hoping you would not find out, yet here you were, less than half a day later. Far more soon than he had expected. “I just want to throw a feast to honor you.”

“You intend to honor me by giving me more work?” You place your hands on your hips, highlighting your figure, and Cregan is but a man. He cannot help himself, his eyes lingering for a second too long, and his brain coming with no response to your statement.

You seem to take his silence for affirmation.

“Seriously? Do you at least have a guest list?”

And your tone is so haughty, your words betraying you believe Cregan to be an absolute imbecile, he cannot help but give a heated retort.

“Of course I have. Truly, I am more than capable of organizing it on my own. Arra let me do it a few times, and I was unmarried for quite a while. I am experienced enough to…”

It is the wrong thing to say. You bare your fangs then, and Cregan has a moment of absolute and utter clarity. You are not a seahorse. Such a puny creature could never hope to deliver the utter destruction that you cause with your next words.

“Yes, and your precious Arra is dead! She is gone! Why can’t you understand it?” You turn on your heel, face absolutely thunderous, and go to rush out of his chambers.

Cregan loses his head fully, then. He grabs you by the arm, hard enough to hurt, and forces you to face him. For a frightening moment, he fears himself. Fears the wolf, the one screaming for him to strike you and remind you of your place.

How dare you come in his chambers, uninvited, after rejecting all his offers of companionship, to lecture him on grief? As if he could forget Arra was dead. It wasn’t so long ago that Rickon cried for his mother still, unable to understand why he didn’t have one. It wasn’t so long ago that Sara had to take over the role of Lady of the House, and suffered mockery from it. And it wasn’t so long ago, Cregan woke with a scream choked in his throat, reliving that awful morning in every dream he had.

He still did, sometimes. Less, now that he had more urgent matters to occupy himself with. Cregan was ashamed to admit it, but before Jacaerys and your arrival here, Winterfell had been far too empty to keep the ghosts away.

Now, with the war, and the flurry of activities that seemed to follow you, Cregan had little time to dwell much in his dark thoughts. Throwing himself into his work had allowed him to begin healing a wound he wasn’t even aware existed.

And wasn’t that a terrible thought? That Cregan was a man who thrived on war and hunger? Winter was coming, after all. It wouldn’t catch him unprepared.

He had sworn a vow to protect you. As long as Jacaerys had no children, you were third in line to the Iron Throne. To think of hurting you was not only to think of staining his honor, but to think of treason.

Cregan holds you there for a second longer, curious about your reaction. His grip must be bruising on your arm, he can feel the delicate bones under your flesh shift with how hard he is holding you. Yet, you show no fear. Your hands are balled into fists.

Were he to strike, you would strike back. Your face is the very picture of anger, your body coiled and ready to tear him apart.

He throws the feast. You sit next to him in icy silence and somehow manage to speak and dance with all the guests but him.

Cregan does no longer dream of trying to hunt a seahorse. Instead, he sees the world at a much lower angle than usual, and runs for his life. Somehow, in the dream, he knows a dragon is hunting him.

OF COURSE IT is today. The only day you actually wish your Lord Husband to be in the castle, and he is not.

You had spent many of your days fervently praying for him to leave on an errand, and yet, the day he does, you cannot even enjoy it.

Because the boy has gotten sick. And look, you have visited the nursery before, it is a part of your duties. You also cannot deny that you had been curious about the tiny version of your husband that will inherit everything.

The boy is cute, you suppose. In the manner all babes are. He is well-behaved, and quiet, and takes well to his teachings, even if they involve only naming things aloud.

Had you not hardened your heart to it already, you would want one of your own. You know, though, that their only inheritance will be tears and petty squabbles over land, so it’s best they are not born at all. It had been so between your husband’s father and uncle, and it was being so between your mother and your uncle Aegon.

The only assurance a woman has in a life spent as little more than property is her children. They are to inherit their father’s lands, and that is supposed to be enough. But for the second sons, said promise is always broken.

You had never, not once, thought you would come to understand Alicent, yet here you were.

You reflect on this as you hurry to the nursery, worried the damn boy will die before you reach it. When you get there, you feel the urge to scream. There is not one, but three serving girls hovering by the door, and the Maester is mixing some herbs in a chalice.

The child sleeps peacefully, unaware the surrounding turmoil. He looks impossibly small in his bed of furs, shirt open and chest covered in strange poultices. The boy… No, Rickon, had taken ill after the first snow. Perhaps he had been spending too much time playing outside, or he lingered too much in his wet clothes. You wouldn't know. You tried to avoid him as much as you could.

After this was over, you would have a stern talk with his maids. They shouldn’t be this careless. This was your husband’s heir. Someone had to care about him.

Not you. Never you.

“Will he be alright?” You ask, as the Maester places a wet cloth on his forehead. You have never liked children, never having had the chance to be one yourself. Your mother’s constant quest for the Iron Throne and her love for Daemon had often left you in the hands of the help. And when you were old enough, you had to take the role of the mature sibling alongside Jacaerys, helping raise your brothers.

Jacaerys. You hoped that wherever he was, he was suffering. You despised this place, and he had dared plot with your mother behind your back to get you here. With your beast of a husband, and this child of a previous marriage, whose existence would forever ensure your future children would inherit nothing.

You weren’t going to have children. Despite loving children, you despise your husband too much to ever lay with him. But most of all, you are beginning to fear you will become a damn Hightower. You feared that if you had children and faced the prospect of them only being second sons, you might be tempted to start a war too.

“He will, Princess.” The Maester, unaware of your inner turmoil, places a reassuring hand on your arm. He surely believes in the gentle hearts of women, or some nonsense like that. “The fever will lower with the tea we gave him, and the cool cloth on his forehead. His lungs are strong. He will breathe normally soon.”

The boy’s chest flutters oddly. His ribs show with each inhale, depicting his trouble breathing. You cast a dubious look at the cool cloth. If this was all they could do, it was no wonder your grandfather had been rotting alive.

“Is that all you have to say? Why do his ribs show?” You do your best to channel your mother, tone imperious. “If this is truly…” Before you can insult him by calling him the worst the Citadel has to offer, a boy comes in. You let out a sigh of relief, your desire to berate the Maester subsiding. It’s the same boy you had sent to Castle Cerwyn to retrieve your husband.

“Princess!” He says, extending a hand to you. Much to your astonishment, he hands back the message you had sent to Lord Cregan. “I have grievous news. The road to Castle Cerwyn is fully blocked. I couldn’t get past the river. I cannot go over it either and avoid the forest, for it is not fully frozen.”

“This cannot be!” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. Cursed your husband, and his plans to visit the Cerwyns’ tenants today, of all days. “You have to get Lord Cregan. Send a more experienced rider.”

“My lady, I would advise not to.” The Maester says, meekly. “Even if the rider does manage to get past, it is very likely Lord Stark is in the village, snowed in.”

“Well, then send a damn search party!” You yell, uncaring your language is unbecoming of a Princess. You cannot be here while the child… While Rickon dies. The child has a parent, and it is your husband, you do not even care for him!

“It is not as simple.” The Maester cringes when you turn on him.

“Of course it isn’t. The only simple thing is the cure for the child’s malady, isn’t it?” You growl. “Do something useful, if you think a rider cannot reach my husband. Get me someone who can, and fix the boy.”

It would be easier for you if the boy died. You could have the children you so craved. The obstacle would have removed itself. Relationships between half brothers are never as strong as between full ones. At the very least, this child could cast out you and any children you birth when Lord Cregan passes. At the very worst, he might have them killed, as your mother intended with her usurper brother.

But you are not so craven as to let an innocent die. He is still a boy, no older than three namedays. He is vulnerable, and his father is not here.

You sit next to the bed, eyes fixed on his chest. Rickon will not die on your watch.

THE SOUND OF a door opening jerks you awake. Disoriented, you sit up on your chair, and check that Rickon still breathes.

He does. He has awakened with the sound of the door opening, just as you did. But unlike you, he has begun wailing. You get him. You would like to cry too.

“What is it?” You snarl at the serving girl who dared enter in such a manner. The sound of Rickon’s cries grate in your ears, shrill and loud, awakening you fully. You try to coax him into laying back down to no avail.

“Milady…” She stammers, holding a breakfast tray. The reason for her interruption becomes clear. Had it been so long already? You remembered standing vigil over Rickon until sundown, and changing the cool compress a few times after, but no further. By the Seven, you were a terrible caretaker. “I… There are…”

Rickon wails harder.

“Father! Father, want father!” He cries. He then attempts to remove the cool cloth from his forehead, and get up, escaping the furs laid over him.

The serving girl stares at the boy. You stare at her. Rickon continues to squirm. When it is clear she is expecting you to soothe him, you sigh and turn to the child.

“Rickon, you have to lay down again.”

“Father! Father!” He wails, face beginning to turn red, his breathing labored. You are unsure if it is his distress or the sickness, but it worries you nonetheless. The child cannot die. You are not prepared to deal with it.

“Shh, Rickon, I know you are hurting.” You tell him, as you pick him up. “Father is not here. He is trapped by the snow.”

At this, he cries harder. You can hear him gasping for air as he squirms in your arms and kicks at you. His snot is getting everywhere. Good Gods, what if he dies? Would your husband actually force you consummate the marriage if he loses his heir? The thought alone is enough to force you into action.

“He is not trapped. He is snowed in, just as when you cannot go out and play. Happens all the time.” You reassure him, rubbing his back. You know your words to be a lie, but the boy doesn’t. The weather has been especially rough this season. The snow storm is unusual in its fierceness. “He will be back soon.”

Rickon perks up at that.

“He will?”

“As soon as he can.” You promise, hoping it is the case. In truth, you do not know. Your husband is unaware Rickon is ill, and holds no fondness for you. You doubt he will be rushing once the road clears. In fact, you think he might be celebrating the weather and praising his northern gods for the excuse to get a respite from you.

Well, too bad. You would send men each hour to check if the storm waned and the road was accessible once more. He would have to come and tend to his child.

“Where is father?” Rickon asks you, a suspicious look in his little face. He is eerily similar to your husband. His sobs have turned more subdued.

“With Lord Cerwyn.”

“Why? Hurts! Father!” The boy demands, petulantly. He is clearly feeling better if his lungs allow him to shriek like that. You are no healer, but his agitation is worrying you. What if he has a fit because he overexerted himself and then dies?

“I want your father too.” You mutter under your breath. “You do not see me wailing.”

“I love father.” He sobs. “Want him.”

And you are not made of stone. You have never been, no matter how hard you pretend. He is still a babe, hands chubby, face round. He still smells like one, a mix of the nursery, and sweet innocence.

Without even realizing it, you have cradled him into your arms and begun rocking the two of you. He keeps wailing, so you begin singing.

“I loved a maid…” There is no need to be a good singer to soothe babies. You are unsure of what they like about it, but you know it works. It had worked for Aegon and Viserys, why not for Rickon? “As fair as summer, who had sunlight in her hair….”

You begin to rock him as you pace through the room. As his tears begin to subside, and he begins to grow curious about the soft song, you realize he is not the threat to your future children you had envisioned. Rickon is beautiful in the manner all babes are, soft and sweet. His little fists cling to your wool cloak, gray eyes meeting yours with fascination.

Charmed by him, you keep singing. Seasons of my love is enlarged and repeated ten times over, and now includes verses about northern babies who look exactly like their father.

“I loved a boy…” You hum, softly. It feels like hours have passed when Rickon’s eyes finally begin to drop. Of course he would enjoy the verses about winter the most. “As white as winter, with moonglow in his hair.”

The door opens, slowly. You hear the wood groan as it does, but Rickon takes no notice. He burrows his head next to your heart, yawning.

You turn to look at the newcomer, pleased that having put the fear of the gods into the maid who had dared enter before had proven fruitful. The pleased smile drops from your face when you realize it is your husband.

Lord Stark is drenched to the bone. His hair is stuck to his head and shoulders, dripping water onto his furs. The cloak he had worn is wet, and he is quick to remove it, leaving him in simple breeches and a jerkin. His face is the picture of worry.

“I rode as hard as I dared.” His voice is low, pleasantly so. You had never considered the northern accent he sported attractive, but when his voice is gruff, and pitched low, you might see the appeal. “How is he?”

He shouldn’t have bothered with the low tone. Rickon would recognize his voice everywhere because he perks up considerably.

“Father! Father!” Rickon claps. He attempts turning in your grip to look at your husband, which makes you fear he might fall, so you perch him on your hip so he can do so.

“The fever has broken.” You hand Rickon back to him, feeling a hint of embarrassment when his eyes linger on the way you had been holding him. “He’ll live.”

“Thank you.” And his voice is earnest and soft, and it makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Is it her still? Does Arra Norrey stand in this room with you, too?

The embarrassment from earlier, and the anger at the thought of your husband being soft because you remind him of her make you snap at him.

“It’s fine. I missed my siblings.” You cross your arms over your chest, awkward. Why does he keep staring at you? Is he… Oh, by the Seven, he is smiling at you? So softly? You cannot stand it. “I will send for a bath for you and Rickon, after washing myself. Less I catch a cold too.”

Look, princesses do not flee. They simply walk hurriedly. Very hurriedly.

[xxsinisterbunniexx]

Dating/ Relationship headcannons for eyeless jack? For female reader, please! Thank you!

Haha so like believe it or not I’ve started writing dating headcanons shortly after posting my general NSFW headcanons…. And then I got distracted

Also um so like me when I said I was gonna answer a bunch of requests over spring break and then proceeded to not answer a single one after that…. SO YEAH IM WORKING ON IT

Anyways…

𓆩♡𓆪 Creepypasta boys dating headcanons 𓆩♡𓆪

+love languages as a bonus

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus, Tim/Masky, Brian/Hoodie

Jeff the Killer

☠︎︎ physical touch, he’s very used to touch being used in a negative way, towards him or by him so soft touches would make him melt

☠︎︎ likes to have you in his lap

☠︎︎ like wdym you need a chair he’s right here???

☠︎︎ he flirts with you by being sarcastic and snarky ☠︎︎ so like you might think he hates you at first before you realize he has a crush on you

☠︎︎ not great with his words/expressing his feelings

☠︎︎ you’d need to have thick skin to be with him, because he will definitely say things he doesn’t mean during an argument

☠︎︎ and he LIKES to argue, so if you hate conflict he’s probably not for you

☠︎︎ jealous and a bit possessive too, so you’d have to be careful about how you talk to other people and how often you do so

☠︎︎ he needs a LOT of reassurance and attention but he won’t ask for it directly, he’ll just get snappy and mean without an explanation

☠︎︎ it’s not always obvious why he’s upset so he’d need to be with someone who is both perceptive and patient

☠︎︎ he’s not the best at figuring out why you’re upset, so direct communication is best for him

☠︎︎ ride or die tbh, he doesn’t like very many people so if you’ve somehow wooed him you ain’t ever getting away

Ticci Toby

✘ touchtouchtouch

✘ he can’t feel pain or temperature so he values the things he can feel

✘ his hands are always on you in some capacity

✘ he’ll have his arm around you, he’ll hold your hand, and he LOVES it when you hold his arm

✘ he’ll also bear hug you and pick you up whenever he sees you (and he expects you to run into his arms)

✘ kinda OBNOXIOUS lol, like he’s the type of bf who does shit to annoy you just because he likes to see you get all riled up

✘ pokes your nose, licks your face, bites you, anything to get your attention

✘ no press is bad press

✘ the way he expresses love and affection is… unconventional

✘ like will sometimes just be so over the top and cannot read the situation

✘ he’d be very blunt in how he feels about you and generally is uninhibited when speaking about his feelings

✘ This can sometimes lead to issues so would need thick skin if you’re gonna date him

✘ he’s spontaneous and super energetic so you either need to be someone who can match that energy or super go with the flow

✘ has trouble seeing things from your perspective sometimes, but in an argument he doesn’t get all heated he just shuts down

✘ so he’d definitely do better with someone who’s not very temperamental

✘He’s a wild ride but if you can be down with all he’s got going on, he’ll stay in a long term relationship

Eyeless Jack

𖤐 gifts! He would definitely be bringing you back little trinkets

𖤐 it could be fun and pretty things he’s found while he’s out or little snacks/your favorite drink, etc

𖤐 just anything he can bring you to show you he was thinking of you

𖤐 treats you like you are dainty because he’s scared of breaking you

𖤐 he loves so gently

𖤐 makes sure you know you are valued by him

𖤐 regularly tells you he loves you, that you’re beautiful, he appreciates you

𖤐 plans the cutest dates and really likes to take you out

𖤐 the dates would be super tailored to what you’re into

𖤐 arguments are more like open discussions and he genuinely wants to help you change and grow as a person

𖤐 he’s a bit protective and only slightly jealous, no more than anyone else really

𖤐 he doesn’t want to hold you back in anyway really so he doesn’t often tell you what to do

𖤐 he would do best with someone who’s softer and less judgmental, he has a lot of shame around his eating habits and feeling like a monster

𖤐 he tends to give more than he takes so he’d do better with someone who’s also very generous that way there’d be equal dynamics between you two

BEN drowned

⚠︎ quality time, but not so much in the way of just liking to be around, he likes if you actually make plans to see him, even if it’s just to hang out

⚠︎ loves to play video games with you and he gets competitive

⚠︎ somewhat like Toby he is a little shit!

⚠︎ like he just LOVES to annoy the fuck out of you

⚠︎ he just thinks you’re wayyyy too cute when you’re angry

⚠︎ really likes to show off who he’s with

⚠︎ will buy you clothes, makeup, etc really anything to doll you up and show you off

⚠︎ once you are official he will be telling everyone in the existence of ever

⚠︎ especially because…

⚠︎ he’s SUPER POSSESSIVE like oh god HE’S SICK

⚠︎ like if someone LOOKS at you a little too long he’s got a problem

⚠︎ god forbid someone hits on you

⚠︎ but rather than taking it up with you, he just secretly ruins their life

⚠︎ he may not always be the best partner, he can lack empathy at times and arguments with him are a nightmare because he will twist your words and may manipulate you lightly

⚠︎ will randomly come through when it really matters

⚠︎ would do better with someone who’s (and forgive me here for my choice of word) a bit tsundere-like

⚠︎ he likes someone who takes effort to win over because he loves the chase

⚠︎ he also likes if you’re easy to embarrass or get a reaction out of

⚠︎ your relationship will feel like constant push and pull

X Virus

☣︎ acts of service

☣︎ Cody is a problem solver and will do what he can to make you happy and help you when there’s things troubling you

☣︎ at the same time, he has periods where he gets really invested into what he’s studying and may not pay attention to you for days

☣︎ so if you’re caring and will support him while he gets like that >>>>

☣︎ like bringing him food, helping with his laundry, etc (daily tasks he would need to do but he’s too hyper focused to take care of himself)

☣︎ you may have to convince him to shower during these periods

☣︎ would likely be pretty inexperienced in romance

☣︎ would defo be one of those guys that gets exponentially hotter after getting a girlfriend because she teaches him how to dress and be presentable

☣︎ rambles on about his experiments so you would ideally be a good listener and someone who will engage with him even if you have no idea what he’s talking about

☣︎ not super jealous but has CRAZY accurate senses when it comes to someone actually liking you and subtly flirting with you

☣︎ it’s like a siren goes off in his brain and then he’s like “not that person”

☣︎ pussy whippedddddd like once he’s into you you’ve got him on his KNEES

☣︎ got him opening doors and carrying heavy stuff like shittttttt

Tim/Masky

꩜ acts of service

꩜ Tim is not always the best with his words and can be kind of awkward so he’d rather just do things to show he cares

꩜ protective almost in like a dad way, like would make sure your car had all the fluids and maintenance it needs (can u tell I know nothing about cars)

꩜ or you’d randomly mention something you want and it’ll magically appear

꩜ he’s very practical, so dates and anniversaries are not too over the top, he keeps it simple

꩜ he’d do best with someone who’s more chill and laid back

꩜ he’s slow to open up and not the best at discussing his feelings so someone who is patient & perceptive is better for him

꩜ if it’s cold he always wants you to take his jacket (also loves to see you in it)

꩜Chivalry ain’t dead while he’s around

꩜ doesn’t get jealous often, he’s pretty mature

꩜ he’s very closed off and secretive about the parts of his life that he’s not proud of, so he’d need to be with someone who’s comfortable with not knowing everything

꩜ this also means it would take you a while to meet Masky

☆ Masky isn’t around all that often so you won’t get a ton of attention from him

☆ he views you as more of a pet than a girlfriend

☆ will give you the occasional head pat or say something flirtatious which often borders on sexual harassment

Brian/Hoodie

𖣐 words of affirmation

𖣐 he likes to be told that he is valued!

𖣐 but also loves to compliment you, and he is quite charming

𖣐 LOVES to tease

𖣐 he’s constantly taking pictures of you or recording you

𖣐has a picture of you in his wallet

𖣐 writes you little love notes and hides them in places you’ll find them easily

𖣐 he’s really perceptive so you can’t easily hide your feelings around him

𖣐 he will call bullshit if you try to say “no, I’m not mad” because he KNOWS

𖣐 not really jealous at all tbh

𖣐 if someone hits on you he takes it as a compliment

𖣐 like yeah he knows you’re hot

☹ You don’t see Hoodie for a while

☹ because lowkey he acts like a stalker at first even though you’re dating Brian and therefore also him

☹ he wouldn’t just come up and approach you, he has to be a weirdo and watch you from the shadows

☹ like just come talk to me you freak

☹ he will also leave you letters but they’re a little more sinister than Brian’s and in places that are off putting

☹ eventually he’d approach you, but like Masky he more so sees you as something to toy with rather than a girlfriend (even though his affection for you is definitely deep in there somewhere)

Hope you enjoyed :3

[neil-gaiman]

Hello Mr Gaiman. I have read all of your books.

This is not an ask, rather an answer.

I would like to say thank you for saving me. Knowing I will never meet you will not change the way I feel about you or myself.

Love your fiction work. I feel bad for the fact that it’s not fiction to me. It is my life story.

Very sad one. That I am still trying to make sense of today.

I was raised by the other mother. Not really, but I was raised by a bipolar narcissist who hated me and loved me but didn’t know how to do either. She sexually abused me for 12 years.

No one ever believed me. No one.

So I would pretend that I was Coraline and that I was brave. I was. But that was because I knew that the spell had to break at some point.

I am 24 now. She is old and frail but the hell she has made in my mind - I almost never escaped. Until I understood that I truly was stronger.

Because she tried to make me just like her, but I refused. I picked kindness.

If you can’t find a friend, be one. If you can’t find someone you look up to- become someone who others can look up to.

I did. I tried my best. I promise.

I want to tell you the ultimate secret that no one ever could. You probably figured it out a long time ago, but it still makes me feel better to write it here, even if I know that you might never reply or ask me if I am safe, or dismiss me like a crazed fan/abused child who desperately needs help and attention.

I don’t. I would like to be your friend. But I know it is not possible.

So I want you to know I know why they do it.

They do it for the same reason as you wrote books. To not feel alone.

But that is the problem with existing in this world. Evil is nothing but not understanding yourself and hating different people from you.

Ignorance brings hate. How do you justify yourself in a world like this?

Simple.

You change the world by breading more people who believe hate is love, and love is hate. Evil needs justification. Kindness needs non.

I sat alone for 24 years and told no one. The paragraph above was just the start and the ending.

My story is still unfolding. But I wanted to let you know you are no longer sitting alone at your birthday party.

Because the only present I ever got was knowing someone else like me existed.

Someone who could look evil in the eye and stare back.

And never stop talking about it.

Thank you Mr. Gaiman, for writing “View from the Cheap Seats”

When I read it I put it down as well as the razor that I wanted to end my life with.

Because you were my only friend. And you still are.

And I cannot take the injustice anymore. If they won’t read, I will read to them.

I will save them just like you saved me. Making reading cool and easy.

And I will do it for you and me. So that no one else can see the horrors anywhere but in books and movies.

And I will do it one act of kindness and love at a time.

So they will know that injustice is just a state of mind.

Thank you Mr.Gaiman. You gave me hope.

And now I will do the unthinkable. I will try until my dying breath to change their mind.

One step forward into a future where you are not sad and a story like mine is just a horror movie and not a reality.

Because you are my only friend, and I hate to see my friends sad.

Leto

I'm so proud of you, and this made me tear up.

[bengals-barnesbabe]

My Type

~ a blurb I came up with at 3:33 am

TW: suggestive fluff & not exactly a blurb

₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ✳︎ 𓏸 ˙₊ ❊ 𓈒 𓇬 ⁺ ⋆ . ₊

Hard Knocks, the show surround your favorite team that has either become the bane of your existence or an absolute treasure. Either way, one clip of your personal friend, Joe Burrow, driving a golf cart has yet to leave your mind.

The golf cart itself wasn’t special. Nor were the practice outfits of the four players riding in it. It was just Joe. And the way he drove it.

It was carefree, fluid, and almost too much. Not too much for him, obviously; you haven’t seen anything that’s been proven to be too much for him. It was too much for you.

He just looked so soft. Warm Bengals beanie atop his blonde curls with only the pink-tinted flesh of his earlobe poking out. His strong arms covered a black long-sleeved tee. It was cute.

What wasn't cute was the way his thick thighs filled his grey pants to the point that you could see each muscle in his long legs. Or his defined jawline and cold-flushed cheeks that sit on the border between just hot and ridiculously hot.

You'd never felt this way about the quarterback. In the years of knowing him and being friends, it never crossed your mind that Joey Burrow was seductively handsome. He'd always been handsome but like a picture-perfect handsome. You could tell why he was a heartthrob; you just never felt the intense heart-pumping yourself.

Then you watched him lick his lips while reversing a golf cart, slide his left hand into his pocket, and drive off with one hand on the wheel.

One simple act after another, but done in a sequence with all the additional factors to create a moment that had you dumbstruck.

Dumbstruck and questioning every interaction you'd had with him as you watched the 12-second clip over and over and over again. One video cannot change how you see someone you've known for years with such ease.

And you were right. It wasn't just the Hard Knocks clip; it was the many saved videos of him mic'ed up on your phone, the overwatched and much-appreciated clip of his 47-yard rushing touchdown, the infamous Body Armour ads, the Bose ads, the Alo clip of him just running that take up space on your iPhone 14 Pro and show no sign of being deleted.

You thought you were in the clear because you never saved the videos or edits of him being outwardly seductive and hot. No photos of him shirtless or with sweat dripping down his beefy body as he works out. No, you started away from them, always at arm's length with items of temptation.

Or were you?

"What are you watching?" His deep timbre causes you to throw your phone in the most guilty manner. You both watch wide-eyed as it bounces on the carpet until it's thankfully faced down in the middle of his living room.

Joe turns to you, his face growing red as he holds back his laugh. "Was it really that bad?" He asks, releasing his giggles hostage.

Instead of responding, his cute chuckles fill your ears and warm your heart, making it thump just a little bit harder. Because since when was his laugh so cute?

The sound of your name flowing off his pink, pouty lips and the way your heart skips a beat brings you back to the present.

"Huh?"

"Huh? That's all you can say?" He smirks, looks down at the phone, then at you, then back to the phone.

The next thing you know, you're both diving for the phone. It's almost comedic how panicked your face looks compared to him as he swipes your phone and turns it over like buried treasure. All the dramatics just to see his face fall because you have auto-lock on, which is the biggest feeling of relief off your shoulders.

"I was so close." He sighs.

"Sorry, Joey Wheels, you just weren't fast enough." You chuckled taking the phone from his outreached hand.

He chuckles lightly, "You know, I am gonna figure out exactly what had you so awestruck." As another stroke of luck, his phone starts ringing. "Just not today."

~ Night of Broncos @ Bengals Game ~

You were stressed but relieved following the aftermath of what that game did to you. Especially being at the stadium, it was like every minute that passed would end you. You like being kept on your toes, but not that much. As soon as the game was over and you could relax, you got a simple text from Joe.

MVP: stick around, let me drive you home

It was innocent; it wouldn't be the first time he's given you a ride home after a game, and it probably wouldn't be the last. You always preferred public transport because of how close you live to the city, so his offer was out of pure generosity.

But why did such a simple text reignite that same anxiety and tension as you had during the game?

Was it because of these confused feelings you've kept in for a week?

Or the potential conversations that could be had over the 10-minute ride?

Then you thought back to his pregame fit and visibly shivered, but it had nothing to do with the slight chill in the stadium.

Joe walked into the stadium in an all-black outfit: simple black jeans, black sneakers, a brown and black checkered bottega jacket, and one of his signature black shades. He looked the most fuckable, you have ever seen him- and this was after his slim shady tank top look.

Now you're imagining sitting next to him in his sleek Porsche, his jacket unzipped to the middle of his chest, definitely exposing his sexy-ass idea not to wear a shirt underneath it. But that's not even the worst part; you can keep yourself calm enough by just not making eye contact.

No, the worst part is now, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the shades sit on his head, and his fucking hand is inches away from your thigh.

Your exposed thigh, because after hearing how nice the weather would be for the game, you decided to put on some heavily distressed black skinny jeans. His fingers are practically causing their own electrical current as they graze your soft brown skin. And to top it off, he's wearing his signature smirk.

Because he always knows exactly what he's doing and how to get a reaction out of you.

"Out with it, Bur- His hand slips, and he grasps your thigh during a sharp break at a red light, then he looks over at you.

"Sorry about that," He smiles, lying through his perfectly pearly teeth. "Didn't want anything to happen to you, pretty girl."

You stared at him in pure disbelief. “You did that on purpose.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because you know something.” He looks away, but you catch the light chuckle he lets out. “I don’t appreciate you torturing me just because you don’t feel the same way.”

“I never-

“You didn’t have to, just-

Before you know it, his lips are on yours. Here you are, sitting at a red light, surrounded by the oddly quiet city, with Joe’s pillowy soft lips melting against your own.

When he breaks away, the light is green but the only thing moving is his hand against your cheek.

“I do feel the same way. I always have. It’s you who’s been taking over a year to figure it out.” He says softly brushing his thumb over your lips.

You lean in almost closing the distance between you. “I really like you, Joe.”

The light turns red again, effectively blending with the bright blush across his face. “Thank god, cause I’ve been dressing like a complete slut to games trying to get your attention. I was debating just showing up to your place just sweaty and shirtless.”

The car turns into a bubble of laughter as you lean back against the window trying to clam yourself down with the coolness from the outside. The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride. You’re watching the city lights pass by while he drives safely down the streets, slow enough because he knows how much you love the view and so he can unashamedly glimpse over at your beauty.

Minutes later you’re walking hand in hand up to your apartment. “You know…” You bite back a smirk as you reach the door.

“What?” He raises a brow, pulling your hand to his lips.

The simple act warms your skin in a way he wouldn’t be able to notice unless you were grinning like a fool. Which you were.

You can’t help but giggle your next words out. “Your plan of showing up sweaty and shirtless would’ve worked too.”

He lightly scoffs with a timid smile on his face. “Same goes for you, princess. If I had known me driving one handed turned you on so much… well you wouldn’t have thrown your phone across the room a few weeks back.” He smirks cupping your jaw and placing a light kiss on your forehead.

“You’re such a tease.”

He chuckles darkly, tilting your head and leaning down until you’re sharing one breath. “That’s the whole point, sweetheart.”

⤜♡→

main masterlist

[vanillarosekiss]

stepdad!john | punishments

aaaand we're back to using capitals because i've figured out that i type differently on my mac compared to on my phone LMAOOO. also figured i should write for john since most posts have been abt simon recently.

warnings: taboo themes (clearly) however all consenting!!!, bratty!reader gets humiliated, impact play, overstimulation, degradation towards the end, john being mean, and many other things i cannot think of!

word count: 0.9k

(ps. went to type 'count' and accidentally typed 'cunt' sighh.. it made me giggle)

You knew it was going to come to this one way or another. You'd been testing his patience all day, relentlessly. Rolling your eyes when he speaks, mumbling silly incoherent replies under your breath, and snapping back with rude quips every time he asked you to do something. Maybe you were having a bad day. Maybe you just didn't care. Whatever it was, John noticed straight away, and he didn't appreciate it at all.

He tried to keep his patience. Tried to give you a chance. Warned you once. Then twice. But he knew you didn't care; you were going to push him to his absolute limits.

It struck a nerve when you'd mumbled something like "It's not like you're my real dad, quit bossing me around." Whewww... the minute that left your lips you knew you'd regret it. He'd heard, of course, and that was his final straw.

"Come here. Now." he said, before you started to walk away from him.

You hesitated - just for a second - but there was something wired in your brain that made your legs move to him before your brain could think and catch up. Maybe subconsciously, this is what you wanted. Either way, you were totally fucked.

You stood in front of him, arms crossed like you had something to prove. Fake confidence. He wasn't stupid, he could tell. That defiance you tried to mimic? It only made him smirk, knowing that you were really the complete opposite of what you tried to show yourself as.

"Got a real smart mouth on you today, hmm?" he started, his voice low and in control. "What did I tell you would happen if you kept talking back?"

You shrugged. Acted like he was taking up the most valuable 5 minutes of your day to lecture you in behaviour.

He raised a brow slightly. "I said I'd teach you a lesson. And you didn't believe me, did you?"

Before you could even answer, he grabbed your wrist, tight but not too hard, and pulled you down firmly over his lap. It somehow felt like a familiar territory, like he'd done this before. The way he held you down was so solid that all you could do was squirm and protest.

"You're not my real dad," you mock yet again, mouth muffled by his large bicep.

He flipped your tennis skirt up so you were exposed, the fabric of your tiny thong being the only thing that covered your cunt. His hand came down suddenly on your ass, hard and sharp. You gasped, the stinging feeling unexpected.

"You don't get to act like a brat all day and then try to dissmiss it," he almost growled, his frustration working himself up. "You want to play grown-up, you'll get treated like one, and you'll take your punishment like one."

Another slap. Then another. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to keep stinging so much that your breath fell heavier and you couldn't stop yourself from squirming.

"Count," he commanded.

You stayed quiet. Big mistake.

Smack. One that was harder this time, you felt yourself jolt forwards in his lap upon impact.

"Fine," you hissed. "One."

Smack.

"T- two," you gritted your teeth together, knowing it would only get worse if you didn't do exactly as he said.

He kept going, slow and measured. Not only did he spank you, but he also lectured you at the same time, his voice low and close to your ear.

"You think I don't notice the way you try to push me? Tryin' to get my attention like a needy little girl, hm?"

His hand stroked between your thighs, trailing up towards your now soaked panties, a little too high. He laughed when he felt the dampness of your skin.

"Look at ya," he murmured, fingers toying with the thong. "Bratty all day just because you wanted this? Wanted daddy to fuck you? Could've asked nicely."

You first blushed in embarrassment, and then glared at him for mocking you.

"Maybe I just like pissing you off." A challenge.

He chuckled, seeing straight through you. "Yeah?"

One arm wrapped around your waist, his hand slipped underneath the fabric, fingers sliding across your slit.

He almost groaned in victory. "Soaked. And all I've done is spank you. Filthy girl, aren't ya?"

You whimpered as he pressed down just enough on your aching bud, fingers still teasing you. He rubbed slow, cruel circles before dipping inside. The strech of his fingers made your hips buck, but he pushed you down, tightening his grip on your waist.

"Stay still. You don't get to come until I tell you to."

You tried. You really tried. But the pressure, the humiliation, the way he was watching you. It was sending you into overdrive.

"John- please-"

His fingers curled a little more as you said his name like that, all whiny. "You beg so pretty when you're not mouthing off," he muttered, fingers moving stronger inside you. "What do you want, baby? Wan' to come on my hand like a good girl?"

You nod frantically, but he tsks you, slowing his movements to an agonising pace.

"Gotta use your words. Hardly being a good girl right now."

"I wanna come," you whine again. "Please, John, I-I'll be so good."

The tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes out of sheer desperation and overstimulation may have eventually softened him up. Or they may have not.

there's a link that would go so perfect with this but i cant find it :(

update… i found the gif and not the link:

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