#did they build this monster in the studio

[dragonsong17]

I'm playing Monster Rancher Advance 2 again and am just now realizing that I did literally everything wrong in this game as a kid. Did I have fun? Yes! Tons of fun and I have nothing but fond memories of this game. But was I also the World's Worst Rancher? Absolutely!

[kochslut]

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 ╰┈➤ cooper koch.

playing: every breath you take by the police

synopsis: you work as a costume designer and have grown close to actor cooper koch. what started as a friendly connection quickly turns unsettling when you realize he's been following you outside of work.

paring: cooper koch x fem reader!

warnings: stalking, unprotected sex, fingering, +18, dubious consent, manipulation

word count: 4.117

▶︎ •��၊||၊|။||||| 0:10

You've been working as a costume designer for the second season of Netflix’s Monsters for a while now. You were already close with the cast and crew, but no one stood out more than Cooper Koch, who played "Erik Menendez." You were in charge of his costumes, and he was always polite, friendly, and eager to help behind the scenes. At first, it just felt like part of the routine—he was charming and easy to talk to, and you two ended up building a connection.

But over time, his presence became a little too constant. He started showing up everywhere you went, even outside of work. Sometimes, you'd catch him standing at a distance, just watching you, his eyes always locked on you. He was at the café you visited after work, on the street you walked down on your way home, and even in the studio parking lot. It was like he knew exactly where you'd be.

The feeling of being watched went from uncomfortable to suffocating. Every step you took, it felt like he was right there, lingering. You never said anything, maybe out of fear of what might happen if you confronted him. That friendly, charismatic Cooper now seemed like someone else entirely. There was something unsettling about how he appeared out of nowhere, his eyes never leaving you. You tried to avoid being alone with him, but escaping this quiet pursuit felt impossible.

It was late at night when the day’s filming finally wrapped up. After packing up your things, you decided to walk home — it wasn’t far, and you needed some air to clear your mind. The night was cold, but nothing unbearable. The streets were quiet, with only a few people here and there, but the familiar feeling of being watched wouldn’t leave you alone. You just wanted to get home as quickly as possible.

As you turned the corner, your pace slowed. Your heart started to pound, and suddenly the cold felt more biting, making your whole body tremble.

He was there again — Cooper. Standing at the corner by your house, as if he were waiting for you.

His back was turned, and he hadn’t noticed you yet. Should you slip inside unnoticed, or confront him? The question gnawed at you, because any other woman in a stalker situation would feel pure fear and dread. But not you.

Well, part of you wanted to feel scared. You should feel scared. It made sense. But you didn’t. Somehow, in a twisted way, knowing he was always around gave you a strange sense of security. Like he was there just for you, as if you were his only focus. But why, instead of fear, were you feeling attraction? The situation was far from normal, and something was deeply wrong.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to walk towards him. He seemed to sense your presence, turning to face you, and when your eyes locked, the air between you grew thick. There was no going back now; you had to face whatever this was head-on. With each step closer, the tension between you intensified, and when you finally stopped in front of him, the silence was suffocating, as if the world around you had frozen.

"Cooper, you're freaking me the fuck out," you said bluntly, struggling to find words that didn’t seem to exist. You both knew it was a lie, that your attraction to him was only growing. Cooper stood there calmly, just watching you with that unreadable, hardened look in his eyes. You hated when he did that — analyzing you like he was in control. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"No," he said, and you blinked, confused. "I’m not scaring you," he added firmly, no hesitation, as if your attempt to push him away didn’t bother him at all.

Closing the distance with a few steps, he leaned down, his mouth hovering near your ear, making your skin prickle with tension. "Don’t lie to yourself. You know I don’t scare you," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your ear. "If I did, you would’ve run. Called someone... but you didn’t. You’re here, trying to handle this alone." He chuckled darkly, pulling back slightly as his words hung in the cold night air.

Now, you don’t know what to say. Your breathing is heavy, and your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest. What could you possibly say in a moment like this? He’s completely cornered you, and now you’re part of his twisted little game. You try to take a step back, but your body doesn’t respond. It’s like your feet are glued to the ground, and the truth behind his words catches up to you. He was right—you didn’t want to run. Even though logic told you that you should, you’ve never been one for logic.

“Why are you doing this?” After a long pause, you finally manage to ask, your voice hesitant as you release the question that’s been stuck for so long. “You keep showing up wherever I am. That’s not normal, Cooper. I don’t know what you want, but...” You swallow hard, pretending to be scared even though the fear doesn’t come, hoping it will work. “It’s making me nervous.”

He laughs—loud and unapologetic—and it makes you feel genuinely uncomfortable now. Who the hell does he think he is? "I know you noticed. I wanted you to notice." He steps closer, and your heart races—not from fear, but from desire. You liked hearing those words from him. "I’m not following you for no reason. I need to be near you. I need you. No matter where you go, I’ll be there. Not because I want to scare you, but because I can’t stay away from you."

The way he speaks is hypnotizing, and the mix of obsession and desire in his words captivates you. You know you should run away from him; you know that. But there's a part of you gaining strength—a powerful urge to give in to his desires, to let him have you right here, right now.

"Oh God, this doesn’t make any sense," you mutter, denying it to yourself. "Why am I not scared of you?" You find yourself stepping closer without even realizing it, the gravity of the situation pulling you nearer to him. "Why does this feel... right?"

Cooper feels your fingers brush against his cheek, and he smiles.

"You know I’m not a monster. You know I’d never hurt you; I just want to protect you. Watching over you, making sure you’re okay... because you’re mine." His words are possessive, and they should terrify you, but instead, a wave of heat washes over your body. Fear melts away, replaced by an attraction that’s impossible to deny, and Cooper notices it.

He steps closer, the air between you thickening, charged with unspoken tension. The world around you fades, and in that moment, all that matters is the connection between you two. You feel alive, exhilarated by the danger and the desire, and you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been drawn to him all along.

"Why don't you invite me in, and we can settle this like two adults who desire each other?" he says, pulling back slightly but still keeping his hands on your face. His voice is provocative, and he knows he can ask for anything, and you'd obey like a lost puppy. He has power over you, and he relishes it.

You don’t say anything, instead gripping his hand and guiding him into your apartment. You both hurry up the stairs, barely acknowledging the guard on duty. In that moment, nothing else matters; it’s just you two. This night is yours, and you can do whatever you want without interruption.

The sound behind you is muffled as the door slams shut, thanks to the tall man who made it. The silence is thick, and neither of you is sure what to do next. Cooper has been waiting for this moment for so long; he can hardly believe you’re finally his. For him, nothing else matters.

Every breath is an invitation, every glance a promise. You gasp as he steps closer, his eyes studying you with an intensity that feels like they’re devouring you. Your body is already on fire. Finally, Cooper touches you, as if he’s been given permission to unleash everything he’s been holding back. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his fingers lightly grazing your arm, but the intention behind that touch is undeniable: he needs you.

The air is thick with desire. Neither of you speaks because there’s no need. Words are irrelevant at this moment. The longing is palpable, igniting when you throw yourself against him. Your lips crash together fiercely, without hesitation, as if you both need this like a sick person needs medicine. Cooper is elated; he never imagined it would be you to take the lead, but he doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss is urgent, as if time is running out and every second is too precious to waste.

He presses you against the living room wall, the force of his body pinning you in place, leaving you unable to move. But there’s no fear, only a growing desire that intensifies with every movement of his lips against yours. Cooper’s hands explore your body with an intensity that makes you shiver. There’s no delicacy here; everything is necessary. You feel his nails digging into your skin, as if he wants to mark you, making it clear that you belong to him—at least for this night. This overwhelming blend of pain and pleasure only fuels your craving for more.

You reciprocate with equal intensity, your hands roaming over his body, pulling him closer, as if mere proximity will never be enough. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he trails kisses down your neck, each touch igniting a fire within you.

“Where’s your bedroom?” he asks breathlessly, pulling back from the kiss. “I don’t want to fuck you in the living room, not for the first time.”

You shiver and point to the door of your bedroom.

He flashes a teasing smile, scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to the bedroom as your breath quickens. As soon as Cooper opens the door, he sets you down on the bed with a firm motion, standing tall as he admires your body. His gaze lingers on every curve and detail, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips. You can’t help but notice the bulge in his shorts, a thrill coursing through you, mixing anticipation and desire.

“Just look at you,” he murmurs, a hungry glint in his eyes. “I can't wait to have you.”

He moves closer to you, hovering above, the heat of his body pressing down on yours, and you find yourself completely surrendered. “You have no idea the things I’ve done imagining this moment,” he touches your skin. “Knowing you’re here completely for me is more than enough to drive me crazy with desire to enter you,” he whispers as he brings his lips to your ear and bites your earlobe.

Every movement he makes is calculated, precise, as if he knows exactly where to touch, where to provoke, to leave you on the edge of losing control. A simple nibble on your ear has you ready for what’s to come. He glides his mouth down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, sending a shiver through you that makes you involuntarily arch your back. His breath is heavy against your skin, each exhale a reminder of who’s in control here, and it’s not you.

“You like being followed, don’t you?” he says, looking you in the eyes, his hands squeezing your thighs as you become completely inert under his gestures. “You like knowing it’s me watching you… that it’s me who wants you completely.” Cooper lifts your shirt, quickly removing it and leaving you bare from the waist up. He bites his lip at the sight of you, seeming to guess that you already knew he would come today.

His voice makes you tremble, but it’s the touch—his firm fingers exploring every part of your body, every curve—that takes your breath away. His hands are everywhere, demanding, marking territory, as if he wants to engrave on your skin that you belong to him. Now, your breasts are his property too, and Koch makes sure you know it as he starts to suck on them with brutality.

This is going to leave so many marks tomorrow. It’s the only thing you can manage to think about.

“Cooper…” you say, breathless and with a voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles softly, a low, husky laugh, before pressing his lips hard against yours, the kiss filled with possession, with repressed desire. When his lips pull away, he cradles your face with one hand, forcing you to look directly into his eyes, which burn with intensity. “You can tell me to stop… but I know you won’t” he says provocatively, looking at you so deeply that you forget to breathe.

You know you don’t want to stop either.

He leans in, his teeth now nibbling at your shoulder, while his hands explore every part of you, quick and decisive. His fingers find your bare skin, gripping possessively, and the pressure of his bite intensifies the pleasure. His dominance is absolute, and you feel lost with every touch.

When he finally moves down, trailing slowly along your belly with a teasing slowness, his gaze never leaves yours, each second thick with tension. He watches you, savoring every reaction, as if he has total control over your body and mind. His hands pin your wrists against the mattress, his eyes sparkling with pure need.

“Now, you’re mine; don’t try to deny it or do anything you’ll regret,” Cooper says softly, but you know it’s not a lie.

“I won’t, Cooper,” your voice dripping with desire. “Do whatever you want with me,” it sounds more like a plea than a request, and he doesn’t hesitate to agree.

As if confirming your words, he carefully removes your pants while keeping you pinned beneath him, his eyes burning with uncontrollable desire. You’re now just in your panties, and he’s trembling more and more with growing lust for you. Without taking his eyes off you, he pulls down his own pants, tossing them somewhere in your room. He places light kisses along your intimate area, and you almost beg him to claim you already.

As if reading your thoughts, Cooper finally positions his tongue at the entrance to your pussy, his tongue is hot, making you arch your back a little. He explores every inch, as if he is reaffirming the possession he has just declared. The touch of his tongue is both teasing and possessive, and each movement makes you lose control a little more.

Now, he also plays with his fingers inside you, starting with one and increasing to 3 as he hears your moans get louder and louder, you couldn't control yourself seeing that man possessing you like that. To the same extent that he is ecstatic to taste you, and to know that you were fragile like that just for him.

"Cooper… I think I'm going to…" his voice becomes low, almost inaudible and he immediately stops what he was doing.

"No, darling. You only cum when I think the time is right" he has a more dominant tone, apparently he's decided that he's in charge of you tonight and you're not capable of disagreeing.

Cooper gets off of you, standing up and removing all the clothes from his body. You can't help but notice the size of his dick when he takes off his underwear. He knows you're looking, so he starts touching his own member, in an attempt to make you even more crazy with pleasure - which works. He covers the entire length of his dick with his hands, making back and forth movements as he looks at you nibbling on your mouth and completely naked to him.

As if in fright, Cooper comes to you on the bed and turns you on your side, maintaining full control of the situation, a firm hand on your hip as he whispers hoarsely into your ear:

"I know you like this. My control." he whispers. "Don't think you're in charge of anything, I'm the only one who touches you today."

He guides you, positioning your body as he wants, you get on all fours for him, you could feel his cock brushing close to your entrance. His heavy breathing on your neck, his lips drawing a trail of heat across your skin. You feel the weight of his body pressing against yours, and there's no denying the growing tension, which only increases with each touch.

Without hesitation, he bites your neck, hard enough to make you let out an involuntary moan. His hands tighten around your waist, and he pulls you closer, placing himself inside you without any prior warning. You were already completely wet, it didn't take much effort for him to fit inside you without difficulty. Their bodies fit together perfectly, as if they already knew the path by heart.

"You like being mine, don't you? Being taken like this, without any choice." he says as he thrusts his member into you and you moan in agreement. His body moves against yours, in a slow rhythm, but full of tension, as if he was enjoying every second, teasing, stretching the pleasure to the limit. His touch is at the same time soft and hard, his fingers firm as they explore more, intensifying the contact, drawing breathy sighs from you.

Each movement is a new peak of intensity, and the control he exerts over you drives you insane. Cooper continues to guide you, holding your body as if molding it to his, his fingers pressing your skin harder, sometimes leaving bites and slaps on your body that would remain as marks for a long time. "You'll remember me when you see these marks, that's why I make them" he whispers in your ear, letting out a low chuckle.

His words are like a trigger, and the heat that builds between you is uncontrollable. The pace increases, the control intensifies, and you find yourself completely surrendered to desire. Your bodies move together, and there is no more hesitation.

“Ride me” his voice is breathy when he orders you. It's like a hypnosis process, you don't say anything and just obey. He removes his erect dick from inside you, catching you very easily and placing himself underneath you.

You adjust yourself on top of him. Maybe now, you would be the one in charge of the situation and that makes you wetter and thirstier with desire. You start with slow movements, but Cooper's hands are faster and hold your hips, making him in control again. The moans they both let out are uncontrollable, it's not clear which moan is louder. Both of you are in a dispute over who feels more pleasure in this situation, you scratch Cooper's chest while he grabs your hips very tightly.

"Fuck" he lets out amidst moans. “Feeling you feels so good…” he said as you rode faster and faster. He wouldn't last much longer there and you knew that even you weren't capable, it had been long enough since you had both had sex with someone else. Cooper was waiting for you. Another person wouldn't supply what he wanted to do with you, what he was already doing with you.

Amidst all the waves of heat that were being emanated from both of you, Cooper came inside you. It wasn't his plan. He was frustrated for a moment, but he couldn't resist the face you made when you realized he had filled you. "Did you like that?" he teased.

You nodded as you bit your lip. "But you didn't make me come…" you gave a naughty smile, you knew that would make him furious and that was what you wanted. Cooper narrowed his eyes, the teasing smile you gave him igniting something even more intense in him. The frustration he felt at losing control quickly turned into a domineering energy, as if your every word encouraged him to further prove the dominance he had over you.

Without saying anything else, he pulled you back towards him with controlled force, his fingers squeezing your waist as he turned you onto your stomach. His face got closer to your ear, his breathing hot and heavy and he pressed his body against yours, his hands quickly went down your back, exploring every inch with more intensity. His touch was no longer gentle, and you knew he wouldn't stop until he heard what he wanted from you.

Firmly, he leaned into you, each movement calculated to prolong your anticipation. His fingers played with your pussy, making you moan louder and louder and demonstrating how completely you were in that man's hands.

He didn't need any more words. His touch, firm and determined, moved with precision, each second taking you deeper into pleasure. He alternated his fingers and you felt more and more fragile, closer and closer to reaching your limit. The way he moved you, it was as if he was in complete command of your body, bringing you even closer to the edge.

Your breathing hitches as your body responds to each touch. He intensified the pace, each movement becoming faster and deeper. His body began to arch, the sounds that escaped his lips mixed with his heavy breathing. Cooper, realizing you were on the brink, held your hips even tighter, the controller in his hands. The climax came like an explosion, your body shook, and you lost yourself in the moment, you were already completely surrendered to him. He smiled victoriously and removed his fingers, leaving you lying on the bed with your breath hitching.

While the heat of the moment was still dissipating, Cooper began to stand up, quickly adjusting his clothes, as if returning to that calm face. You watched him in silence, your body still throbbing from what had just happened, not knowing exactly how to react or what to say. If anything needed to be said.

"Take me to the door, beautiful. I have to go," he told you with a charming smile and a light voice, almost unrecognizable from the Cooper of moments ago, and you just nodded.

He grabbed the jacket tossed in the corner of the room and followed you to the front door. He was already stepping out when the words slipped from your lips, an attempt to make sense of what it all meant.

"I guess now you stop following me," you said hesitantly.

Cooper paused at the door, his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t turn to face you right away. He let out a low, almost mocking laugh, and then finally turned slightly, his gaze fixed on you over his shoulder.

"It’s not that easy to get rid of me."

He stepped closer, his eyes darkening with a hint of something that made you shiver. Then, he recited, in a low and deep voice, the lyrics of the song that had echoed in his mind from the start:

"Every breath you take, every move you make... I'll be watching you."

Before you could respond, he slowly opened the door. The sound of his footsteps descending the stairs echoed through the hallway, each step taking him further away, yet leaving a lingering sense that this was far from over.

You stood there, frozen at the door, breathless as you processed his words, the melody of the song almost reverberating in your head. Even with him out of sight, the impact of Cooper’s presence still hung in the air, as if he had never truly left.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10

hey, angels! i hope you all enjoyed it. i don’t have much practice writing this kind of stuff, but i noticed not a lot of people were doing fanfics about Cooper, so I decided to give it a shot. About the English: it’s not my first language, so I used a translator for a lot of things!

[fayes-fics]

An Artful Arrangement

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: A private art lesson with Benedict becomes something else when a Viscount is your subject...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest. Very mild restraint with hands, sensation play, smidge of breast play, vaginal object insertion, vaginal fingering, oral sex (M to F), masturbation, vaginal sex, voyeurism/exhibitionism.

Word Count: 7.7k

Authors Note: Request fill for Anon, who wanted Anthony as a life model for one of Benedict's private art lessons. This request is from last year and I started writing it before the whole Benedict gives up art thing of s3. I hope artist Benedict returns in s4. Anyway, thank you to @colettebronte for beta-reading this monster. Enjoy! <3

“I’m not sure about this, brother,” Anthony frowns, surveying the jumbled art studio at Benedict’s London townhouse. 

Sunlight is streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear of the property, but Anthony is grateful for the translucent voiles that drape over them; at least there will be some privacy from the surrounding buildings for this embarrassment.

“Too bad,” Benedict shoots back, bemused, fiddling through a pile of paintbrushes.  “A bet is a bet, and you lost.”

“You do not need to revel in my misfortune quite this much, though,” Anthony pouts.

“What can I say? The mallet of death does not always ensure victory at Pall Mall,” Benedict chuckles, readjusting one of the two easels in the room. “And I can assure you, this student will be worth your efforts,” he adds enigmatically as his trusty valet appears in the doorway.

“Ms y/l/n is here, Mr Bridgerton,” Mr Smith announces. “Should I see her in?”

“Certainly,” Benedict nods brightly, observing in the periphery of his gaze how Anthony’s interest is piqued at that announcement.

“A Ms?” Anthony echoes quietly as Smith slips away. “I did not think you offered private art tuition to the unmarried lady,” his voice filled with concern, patently preoccupied with the Bridgerton family reputation should Benedict be inviting innocent young women to his bachelor lodgings unchaperoned.

“Do not concern yourself,” Benedict sighs, knowing exactly where the Viscount's thoughts have gone. “I indeed do not do that. I would not wish for that reputation. Widows who have reverted to their unmarried name, however….” Benedict trails off.

“Oh… right….” Anthony nods in understanding. 

That, indeed, is an entirely different prospect.

—

You enter the room and suspect you may have interrupted a private moment between the two men before you. Both turning towards you, Benedict looks happy to see you once more; the other man - you would recognise his older brother, the Viscount, anywhere - seems taken aback, but you don't miss the tiny uptick in the corner of his mouth, hopefully also pleased to meet you.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” you nod courteously and move towards Benedict, allowing him to take your hand and kiss the back of your glove in greeting.

“Ms y/l/n,” he rumbles, “it is so wonderful to see you again.”

“Likewise, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, enjoying the warmth of his lips through the silk, that trademark flare of exhilaration in your ribcage when your flirtation with him rears. 

This is your fifth private lesson with Mr Bridgerton, and while art has been a wonderful new pastime, you do wonder how much of your enthusiasm correlates to your tutor’s attractiveness. He has been nothing but a gentleman in his actions, almost to your chagrin, although sometimes his glances have felt heated and laden with something that makes your insides glow.

You turn towards Anthony. “Viscount Bridgerton, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. I have seen you from afar at many an event.”

You take a few paces and offer your other hand for him to kiss, but it takes him a moment before he returns to himself and amends his frozen look of surprise.

“Miss y/l/n, the pleasure is all mine,” he replies, and there is something just as velvet in his tone as his brother's, his lips also warm and plush as he kisses your other hand.

Oh, my goodness. They are both entirely too charming and handsome.

“I apologise. When my brother informed me I would be modelling for a widow, I did not assume such a person as yourself,” he explains, his cheeks sporting a delightful dot of colour.

“I was widowed at age 24, my lord,” you explain, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “My late husband, 10th Earl of Pembroke, was a great deal older than me.” 

“Should we not address you as Dowager Countess?” Anthony checks, concerned at any potential faux pas.

“Please do not,” you instantly respond. “It is why I reverted to my unmarried name. I have no wish to be addressed as such. The title lives on in his eldest son, the current Earl, and his wife. Who are indeed older than me. I was my husband's second wife. A companion for his senior years after his first wife died.”

Anthony nods in understanding. “It must have been an interesting union,” he offers politely.

“I was seventeen, and the man was nearly sixty,” you sigh. “My parents saw an opportunity to climb the social ladder and took it. I did not dislike the man completely, but I cannot say I was particularly distraught at his passing,” you explain plainly. “I am, of course, grateful his estate provides for me now.”

Having explained your situation as thoroughly as you wish, you turn back towards Benedict, who appears thoroughly entertained by your bluntness.

“Is this my easel?” you enthuse, pointing to the one nearest the windows.

“Indeed it is,” he returns with a smile as he strides past you and clicks the door closed.

“Now the question is, would you prefer your model be clothed or unclothed? You have not done a piece yet on the naked human form,” he points out.

You look over to see Anthony’s face morph into a thousand reactions.

“That was not part of the deal, brother,” he warns lowly through gritted teeth.

“Maybe not, but I think the lady should get to decide, do you not, brother?” Benedict challenges in a tone laced with amusement, his eyes sparkling.

You can see the war on Anthony’s face and decide to offer an olive branch. “I would not wish to make the Viscount uncomfortable in any way…”

“It would not,” Anthony cuts in very quickly. “I was just pointing out it was not my expectation to do so,” his gaze softening as it slips from his brother to you. “However, if you wish it, Ms, I shall remove my clothing.” something in the way he says it causes a frisson down your spine.

You have only seen one naked man in your life. And that is your dead husband—a portly man of advanced years. Something about the look of the Viscount’s tailored clothing suggests his naked form would be very different. More akin to the rugged gardener you have occasionally seen topless at your country home and, yes, touched yourself while thinking of. You are not sure you could keep your wits about you to paint such a fine specimen of a man.

“Let us just remove our jackets for now, brother,” Benedict suggests. ”The lady may then decide if we shall proceed further,” his tone conciliatory as he removes his.

You smile at his gentlemanly offer. 

“Now,” he continues, rolling up his white shirt sleeves distractingly. “You may choose to pose your model as you see fit.” 

Anthony is doing the same with his shirt, and you find yourself staring at him as well, at the play of muscles in his forearms as he rolls the material. Behind him is an emerald green velvet chaise, and you ask him to sit upon it. He does so and then looks at you expectantly for further instruction.

“Perhaps place one forearm on your thigh,” you suggest, but the pose he adopts isn't quite what you had in mind.

“You can place him in the position you wish,” Benedict chuckles, seeing the knit in your brow, gesturing for you to go to Anthony.

Your heart skips a little as you approach the Viscount, his eyes almost trepidacious as you place your hands tentatively on his shoulders. They are so broad and warm through the thin white cotton of his shirt. You position his arms, noting the latent power in his biceps, fingertips lingering on the material, eager to trail your hands down onto the dark hair dusting his forearms. 

“Would you mind raising your chin, my lord?” you ask quietly, and when he tilts his head up, you almost gasp at the intensity of his gaze boring into yours.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes, please,” you whisper back, “the light catches your face perfectly.”

“Much as it does yours,” he returns softly and something warm spreads under your ribs as you drink in his handsome facial features, almost glowing in the sunlight—a want to run your fingertips over his cheeks, trace the lines of his strong jaw dusted with a trace of afternoon stubble.

“Are you happy with your placement?” Benedict’s voice rings out, cutting into your reverie.

“Yes, Mr Bridgerton,” you reply but do not move, seemingly rooted to the spot.

“Then please return to your easel,” he tutors, with a hint of sharpness you have not heard before. 

Part of you is tempted to spin around and ask if he is jealous, but instead, you shoot Anthony a tiny smile that he returns before withdrawing. 

You round behind your easel and pick up your charcoal, sketching an outline, as Benedict does the same. A few minutes pass pleasantly as you draw, glancing at Anthony around the edge of the easel to ensure accuracy. You could swear every time you do so; his lip twitches in amusement, almost as if he is trying to distract you.

“Benedict,” you call softly when you think your rough outline is done, “please could you check my sketch?”

It's a flimsy excuse you have used more than once now—a wish to have your teacher move closer. He doesn't disappoint. He takes a few strides and then stops close to your back, assessing your canvas.

“I would say that is an excellent start,” he assesses, his exhaled air wafting through tendrils of hair near your ear. “Except maybe here…” His arm curls close around your side, ghosting your dress, and taps the canvas where you have sketched Anthony’s left arm. “I think you flatter my brother with a shoulder that broad.”

“Perhaps…” you concede, and then your tongue runs away with itself. “It may indeed be easier to ascertain the correct proportions for the Viscount were he in less clothing.”

They both chuckle at your bold assertion, so obviously a flimsy excuse. But there is a vault behind your ribs as Anthony rises to that challenge—a glint in his eye as he stands up and plucks open his waistcoat, shucking it quickly from his shoulders, staring you down. 

You swear you can feel the heat radiating from Benedict behind you as Anthony unwinds his white cravat and then, with a smirk, tosses it towards you. It lands draped over your easel; you reach out unthinking, grabbing an end, caressing the fine silk absent-mindedly as you stare covetously now.

Anthony is indeed built like your gardener, possibly even more sculpted. A dark thatch over his chest tapers to a line of hair over his abdominals and trails temptingly into his trousers. You want to see where it leads to. You suspect something much better than you have ever encountered before. With a hint of swagger, he retakes his seat in the pose you had put him in, the stance making his bicep bulge out.

“I do not think I was very incorrect in my proportions, Mr Bridgerton,” you opine tacitly, turning your head a fraction so your temple is brushing Benedict’s jaw, knowing you are goading him.

“Then draw what you believe you see,” he returns, his voice a low whisper, his lips so close to the shell of your ear that your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes hold Anthony’s as you daringly glide your fingertips over the back of Benedict’s hand, lingering on the raised tendons before you push the charcoal between his knuckles.

“Perhaps you can guide my hand?”

“With pleasure,” he hums.

The charcoal glides over the canvas in guided unison for a few laden minutes as you draw under Benedict’s tutelage. Anthony’s chest rises and falls steadily as you glance at him every few seconds—a tension in the air that is portentous, crackling. Your traitorous mind wanders—a jumble of images of you laying with both of these men, bringing you untold pleasures with their mouths and hands.

“Are you even paying attention to the artwork?” Benedict's rich voice lilts in your ear as you realise your hand is almost limp under his.

“I… I must confess, my thoughts may be elsewhere, Mr Bridgerton.”

“Tell us. It could be something we would be most pleased to hear,” he posits duskily, his breath hot on your cheek, letting slip that he likely suspects.

“I am thinking… of other artful arrangements of human bodies,” you offer somewhat opaquely.

“Whose bodies?” Benedict presses, this time his lips grazing your earlobe, as you spy a vein throbbing in Anthony’s temple, looking like he wants to stalk over and claim you.

“The three of us,” you confess breathily.

There is a noise from both men that is a beeline straight into your core, and there is a mouth on your skin. You gasp, eyes closing as you sway backwards into Benedict, his lips travelling the column of your neck as your back collides with his solid chest. The gentle suction and warm wetness set your skin afire, tingles running down your arm. Your lashes flutter open, and your blood runs hot to behold Anthony’s face like thunder until you bite your lip and, feeling emboldened, you mouth to him…

‘Your turn’

Instantly, his mien morphs into one of desire, jumping to his feet as you slide a hand into Benedict's thick hair and grab a handful, making him groan into your skin. 

“You are entirely too clothed compared to your brother, Mr Bridgerton,” you coquette, untangling yourself from his arms and spinning to look back at him with a raised brow, backing away without looking, knowing you will soon collide with Anthony.

Sure enough, you inhale sharply as toned arms haul you into a firm embrace, the hair on his chest tickling the skin above the scooped back of your dress.

“The lady is not wrong, brother,” Anthony provokes, his tone smug now that you are in his arms instead.

Teeth nip lightly on your earlobe while you watch Benedict fight with his waistcoat, almost wrenching it from his torso. Anthony is more taciturn than Benedict, communicating with his fingertips instead, raking over your dress, silently telegraphing his desire through the gauzy layers. Benedict’s stare is heavy upon you as he unfurls his cravat, you melting into Anthony’s lips skimming down your throat. Benedict makes quick work of removing his shirt, throwing it aside, his smooth chest heaving slightly as he advances upon you. Then his lips descend and claim yours in a breathtaking kiss. 

If this is the Bridgerton boys competing for your affection, then you would do anything to keep provoking them. Sandwiched between their bare torsos, Benedict's tongue opening your lips, lathing yours, as Anthony’s mouth skates your shoulder. The taste and feel of them both has you suddenly impatient. To do things you never thought you would even moments ago. A forbidden fruit too tempting to resist. It makes you desirous, unbounded, a keening want to be reckless.

“Take off my dress, gentlemen,” you implore urgently as you and Benedict break apart, twisting to capture Anthony’s mouth now. 

His kiss is just as demanding, equally fervent, your heart racing as four hands trace the contours of your figure. You are not sure of who undoes the buttons down your back or who pushes the loosened fabric from your shoulders. Both unlace your stays, tugging almost impatiently until the garment relents and are certain both of them pull your gathered chemise loose, it falling from your shoulders to form a circle around your light summer shoes. Both make a noise as they realise you are now naked. It was supposed to be a little illicit thrill for yourself, foregoing stockings and underwear in Mr Bridgerton’s presence—little did you know how provocative that choice would be. 

As you toe off your shoes, the atmosphere seems as heated, the sun’s rays upon your back through the translucent window covering. There is a moment where you exchange laden looks with them, their eyes slipping down your naked body before Anthony leans in and retakes your lips.

“Touch me…” you implore, twisting briefly to address his brother before returning inexorably to Anthony’s hypnotic kiss.

Benedict's fingertips ladder up your ribs from the dip of your waist, his lips dragging hot over your bare shoulder blades. And then you gasp into Anthony’s searching mouth as those large hands seize both of your breasts, covering them entirely, your nipples snagging between his elegant knuckles.

“Here perhaps…” Benedict rumbles as you tear away from Anthony to meet his captivating gaze.

“Yessss,” you hiss hungrily, your breath catching as he plucks gently, tweaks that send a zinging bolt between your legs. You cling to the back of his sturdy neck and crash your lips into his. 

“Have you ever laid with two men before?” Anthony’s voice is like velvet in your ear as his warm hands grasp the flare of your hips, his teeth nipping at your neck.

“I have only laid with one man,” you admit as you pull back from Benedict's kiss. “And he looked nothing like either of you.” Your hands rake greedily down both of their honed outlines, a yen to see and touch more.

They puff with pride at your words as Benedict's fingers loop behind your left knee. He roughly pulls your legs up around his hip, surging into you so the rigid mass of his cock, straining in his trousers, presses your mound, making you gasp. Anthony pushes into you, too, his equally sizeable cock passing over the cleft of your bottom, so hot through the fine wool. 

“Did he worship you like you truly deserve?” Benedict queries, his cadence achingly seductive.

“I am not sure what that might entail…” your intentional evasive provocation makes him smile crookedly and lean in closer, his eyes glinting enticingly. 

“Did he feast on the bounty between your legs with his tongue until you screamed for mercy?” his words dripping from his lips like dangerous weapons, heat pooling rapidly right at that very spot.

“H-he did not…”you stutter over a slightly laboured breath.

“Oh, my poor lady,” Anthony tuts sympathetically. “You deserve to know true pleasure,” he adds, surging his hips again but also taking your hand and kissing your knuckles tenderly. 

“Lay down here,” Benedict smiles as he leads you back to the plush chaise. 

Both offer their hand to assist you in reclining, the velvet a plush tickle under your spine as you settle down, looking up at them towering over you, your hands itching to tug open their trousers and find what lies beneath, the fabric straining temptingly.

“What do you have in mind, brother?” Anthony asks, his eyes following Benedict as he turns away and appears to grab something from the bench at the side of the room, the sunlight dancing across the freckles across his back. When he spins back around, he is holding three clean paintbrushes.

“I think a sensual experience…” he replies, looking down to gauge your reaction.

“I thought our art lesson abandoned, Mr Bridgerton,” your gaze fixated upon the brushes of various sizes and bristle lengths.

“With my brother as the subject, I concede maybe so,” he remarks casually. “But I believe you to be a much more interesting prospect anyway….” his voice smoky as he looms over you, his eyes raking over you in a way that you can feel fizzling on your skin.

“Agreed”, Anthony chimes in, taking a proffered brush from his brother as they kneel on either side of the chaise, a silent exchange between them.

You want to ask what they will do, but the words die in your throat as Benedict's tongue darts out and wettens the end of a fine-tipped brush. Then, the damp bristles are upon your clavicle, tracing the arc of bone, leaving a thin, wet streak cooling rapidly, goosebumps erupting over your sternum, nipples pebbling. Without needing prompting, Anthony drags a dry, fanned brush over your ribs, tracing each contour. The sensation is different, ticklish, to the point your abdomen ripples, and you instinctively curl up a fraction, biting your lip to tamp down a giggle. Anthony smirks casually as a large hand wraps around your shoulder and pushes you back flat.

“No, no.” Your clit pulses at the warning tone Benedict employs, his hold secure but not painful, staring you down as Anthony repeats the same move upon the other side of your ribs. Your body rolls yet more, rebelling and pushing against his grip. “Stay still. Or he may desist.”

You bite your lip and exhale shakily as Anthony continues teasing brushstrokes over your stomach, each one a flick that makes your skin shimmer. Benedict releases his hold to paint his wet brush across your other collarbone, leaving a trail of his saliva along its ridge and then continuing down over your breastbone. Your breath catches as he trails under the curve of your left breast, just as Anthony’s brush sinks lower. Your instinct is to clamp your legs shut, a sudden wave of timidity, but both men grab your knees and pull your thighs wide apart. Air swirls around your slit as Anthony leans over and captures your lips in an enticing kiss.

“Do not be shy now….” is Benedict’s hot whisper in your ear, his teeth capturing your earlobe as Anthony’s tongue rolls with yours, swallowing your moans as his brush caresses the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs before he glides it between your legs, passing over your clit. 

Just that featherlight touch is enough to make you arc upwards off the chaise until again Benedict holds you down, brush stored expertly between his knuckles as warm fingertips press upon your diaphragm, and he hushes you. You have to bite the inside of your cheek as Anthony flicks a few strokes, his warm eyes blazing right above yours. The motions have you throbbing, desperate for more, and you can only gasp as he slips lower, pushing just a fraction of the brush into your soaked pussy. When you do not protest, he grins and pushes a fraction deeper as you bite your lip, wanting so much more for it to be his cock. You whimper as instead the paintbrush withdraws, and Anthony makes a show of bringing it to his mouth, sucking its dripping tip covetously.

“Delicious,” Anthony offers silkily, his face inches from yours, a thronging need low in your pelvis, aching for relief, something you never felt with your late husband. His lips are on yours, lust burning in your belly as you taste yourself in his mouth. 

Benedict chooses this moment to swirl his wetten brush tip around your areola, and that has you moaning into Anthony’s kiss, your fingers raking into his lush hair as your other hand shoots out to grab Benedict’s bicep, a need to touch them both at once.

“Please…” your voice cracking, greedy for them both.

“Please, what?” Benedict chuckles darkly, his lips brushing your hairline, again holding you down to Anthony’s sensual onslaught.

“More…”

It's all you can say, tilting to look into his hazy eyes, clouded with lust, enjoying watching you squirm and pant and blossom under their attentions.

“Greedy…” Benedict volleys light-heartedly before kissing you, both of them dropping the paintbrushes, clattering to the floor.

Anthony’s fingers slither back down your centre line, tracing over the sensitive skin beneath your belly button but not stopping until they rest tauntingly over your weeping slit. You gasp into Benedict’s mouth as Anthony pushes a finger into you, his approving groan into your shoulder as you leak down his knuckles has you clenching around his invading digit. He adds another and begins to pump slowly, rocking his fingers rhythmically as your tongue parries with Benedict’s. 

Benedict breaks the kiss to brush his lips down your throat, hot kisses over your collarbone, lower still until his mouth is on the swell of your breast. Anthony adds a third finger, wet, filthy sounds from between your legs as your pussy clings to him, feeling so filled. His thumb hooks under your clitoral hood and starts to flick your sensitive nub in time with his finger thrusts just as Benedict's tongue swirls around your nipple, making your back curve up from the chaise, pushing your breast into his open mouth.

“I could watch this for hours…” Anthony asserts with a wicked little quirk of his eyebrow.

You squirm under them, so achingly aroused you feel on the edge of reason. One of them would be more than you have ever experienced before; both at once is almost lethal.

“Me too…” mirth laces Benedict’s response as he trails the point of his nose over your nipple. 

They glance at each other, telegraphing ideas silently. Benedict swaps to your other breast as Anthony moves, the angle of his fingers changing inside you, twisting as he rearranges between your splayed legs, pushing your thighs wide open, draping them on either side of the chaise.

The muscular swipe of Anthony's tongue through your slit has you crying out his name, a spike of pleasure so rough it catches you unawares, this act entirely new to you, something so intimate about his whole face buried into the wet heat between your legs.

Benedict kisses his way back up your neck as Anthony’s strong arms wrap around your hips, the solid mass of biceps curled into you as he drives you relentlessly, his tongue a spear lashing your swollen clit. Benedict swings around from kneeling at the side of the chaise to leaning over the curved back, fingers spidering down your skin from your shoulders towards your breasts.

“Is this the artful arrangement of bodies you envisaged?” His words are whispered hotly into your ear, your eyes fluttering closed at the decadent, smokey cadence.

You mumble something incoherent, the rush washing through your system stealing your thoughts, just as Anthony’s fingers start to move inside you again as he feasts upon you, closing his mouth around your sensitive nub and sucking hard with his lips.

“What was that?” Benedict chuckles, a teasing lilt that has you nuzzling your cheek into his lips, his fingertips dragging agonisingly slowly lower, over the round of your breasts, your nipples, still damp with his saliva, pebbled painfully even in the warm room, tingling for his firm touch.

“Yessss…” your reply is a sibilant rasp; he must know this is even better than what you had imagined, but he seems to enjoy hearing your affirmation regardless. Such investment in your pleasure amplifies your need.

Your hand shoots down to tug Anthony’s luscious hair, pushing your pelvis up into his face as he groans his approval of your wanton actions, chasing pleasure covetously. His fingers are buried deep inside you, curling and dragging over a spot that has you climbing so fast. Then Benedict roughly pinches your nipples, throbbing in sync with your clit under Anthony’s tongue, and you are sent stratospheric dizzyingly fast, a touch of rough treatment just what you need to push you over the edge you have been skating.

Benedict swallows your screams as you ride Anthony’s face in a wave of pleasure, clenching hard around his fingers, trying to expel them as he fights to stay inside you. Benedict's mouth is hot, possessive over yours, not letting you up for air in a way that only heightens your pleasure, a tingle zipping over your scalp as you burst and fracture under them.

For a few seconds, everything is blotted out, just a rush of blood in your ears and white-hot pleasure coursing through you. Their touch turns softer as you float down, Anthony’s fingers withdrawing from you with a wet noise as you lay dazed, utterly overwhelmed by the sudden intensity.

“Now that was a work of art…” the filthy poet opines velvety, a handsome, lopsided grin claiming his face as you stare up at him hovering over you, your view upside down. 

You are still too stunned even to form words, a stuttering noise that sounds more like a whimper, the only thing escaping your trembling lips.

“I think we may have stolen her power of speech,” Anthony observes wryly, crawling up, dropping pecked kisses onto random spots of your dewy skin.

He settles his muscular body over yours, his chest hair tickling your nipples, his face glazed with your arousal, and his sizeable cock brands your thigh through the material of his trousers. He moves in to steal a kiss that tastes tart, rolling your flavour onto your tongue, seemingly wanting you to savour it as much as he does.

“I've never enjoyed losing a bet more…” he rumbles enigmatically as you break apart, your brow knitting in confusion.

“He would not have been your art model today if he had not lost a bet,” Benedict supplies, his fingers massaging your scalp soothingly, dropping a kiss onto your forehead.

You smile blissfully, head swinging to look at them both, knowing it will broadcast your response, as well as anything spoken could.

“You might be right about the power of speech, brother,” Benedict jests gently as they rearrange on either side of you.

Hands running lightly over your arms and torso. You just assumed, as with your previous husband, that they would immediately move on to pursuing their pleasure, so when they do not, you are slightly confused, especially as their unhurried, sensual caresses reignite that flame deep in your core. After a few minutes of gentle intimacy you are unable to censor your curiosity any longer.

“Will neither of you take me?!”

You don't mean it to sound quite as indignant as it does, even though a large part of you enjoys their shocked expressions, neither expecting such boldness. But then both of their faces morph into a dangerous, smouldering look so similar you can see their shared genetics. It has you biting your lip on instinct.

“We both will if you employ that sort of tone with us…” Benedict threatens sonorously, leaning in so his lips graze your cheek, giving away that is precisely what they want too, a shiver running down your spine at all the possibilities, your soaked clit throbbing anew.

“Is that a promise or a threat, Mr Bridgerton?” You volley back, raising an eyebrow, this new play far too beguiling to resist.

“Insolent little thing…” Anthony growls.

Hands clutch you tightly, blunt fingernails digging into your soft flesh, both of them demanding a kiss, pulling you in each direction to plunder your mouth in turn. A thrill zips all the way from your head to your toes with this sudden change of pace—the gauntlet of challenge you have thrown down, unleashing something primal in them both. 

Before you know it, Benedict is standing up, and the sound of buttons popping open makes you inhale sharply around Anthony’s tongue, wanting so much to crane to see him stripping off, but your entire field of vision filled with the powerful Viscount, his hand seizing your jaw.

“Look at me,” Anthony demands, perhaps a tinge of jealousy that you may even dare glance elsewhere when he is kissing the life out of you. Your eyes meet, all blown pupils and damp lips, and it's blazingly intense like he is peering into your very thoughts. “Oh good girl…” he drips praisingly, and something hot and molten unfurls behind your ribs. The smirk that engulfs his face tells you he knows precisely what those two little words have done to you, lust roaring back to life in your veins. “Such a live wire…” he breathes, and you can see it is nothing but admiration. “I will be back…” his promise trailing off as he withdraws, your eyes tracking his movements away from you, taking a seat in a nearby wingback chair, that handsome smirk still there. It makes you want to reach out your hands and beckon him back, a slight pout that he has left you so soon.

But you inhale sharply as warm, ropey thighs part yours, and your attention is pulled back to Benedict, prowling over you on all fours, naked now. The glimpse of his rigid cock bobbing between his legs catches your breath before he claims your mouth and lowers himself upon you. So much heat and lithe, supple musculature. He doesn't even ask; your knees spreading wide is the open invitation that he takes, angling his hips and slipping into your waiting weeping pussy with one decisive thrust that has you grasping his shoulders and calling out. The blistering stretch is unlike anything your previous husband could achieve, and you are grateful for just how aroused you are, the feeling just the right side of painful. He holds still buried to the root, his handsome face rightfully smug as you adjust to this novel feeling of utter fullness.

“Is that what you needed?” He leans down and whispers those words in your ear, your breasts crushed under his smooth, hard chest. The tone is doused with brazen provocation that you can't help but rise to, one of your hands sliding covetously down his back.

“I think you know the answer you seek. Impress me, Benedict...” you incite as you grab his shapely rear, his responding groan vibrating your entire being. He withdraws and surges back in, your toes curling into the light fuzz on the back of his calves, what you have fantasised about for many weeks now, better than anything you have idly thought during each art lesson with him.

Benedict nuzzles into your neck and starts to set a rhythm that has you panting with each stroke, your back chafing the rich velvet fabric of the chaise, engulfed in his heat and woodsy scent, caged around you, his hands hooked under your shoulders, pulling you down onto his invading cock, his lips murmuring encouraging words onto your throat. 

Movement out the corner of your eye distracts you, and you twist your head a fraction to see Anthony naked now, too. That dusting of dark hair on his chest tapers over his toned stomach, a thin trail leading all the way down to the patch around the base of his cock. He has taken himself in hand and is watching you intently, eyes trained on you as his brother fucks into you over and over, rolling with him.

‘I want you…’

You mouth to Anthony, a need to have him desperate and wanting. His nostrils flare, and he bears his teeth, his grip on his cock vice-like, speeding up, a glistening bead of moisture squeezing from his tip at your very words. 

“Call her a good girl,” Anthony snarls, an instruction as much as a suggestion.

“Why would I when she is looking at you while I fuck her?” Benedict scolds satirically, and that has you swinging your attention back to the man inside you, a little flare of guilt in your gut that you are unable to divide your attention between them, wanting them both. “There she is,” he teases gravelly as his lips ghost the shell of your ear. “There’s my good girl….” he adds for good measure, the lowest register you have ever heard from him, and you cannot help your body’s response.

You clench around him, and he groans long and low, his grip on you harsher, snapping his hips so forcefully his hip bones dig deep into your splayed thighs, your eyes rolling, his tip grazing your hilt.

“So fucking perfect…” he curses, his mouth opening yours, raiding you, setting a pace so punishing now you can only cling to him, moaning loudly, him nudging your swollen clit with each stroke. The chaise squeaks under the onslaught now, feet scraping hard on the polished wood floor.

Still, you cannot stop your stolen glances at Anthony as Benedict huffs into your neck. He looks so majestic, knees splayed, eyes trained on you. You want to climb into his lap and ride him until your teeth are rattling. You can feel yourself climbing higher, each jolt to your clit another step closer, a gentle flutter in your pussy you know Benedict can feel, him emitting little groans with each involuntary constriction.

“You are so close. Come for me again; I need to feel it,” Benedict pleads breathily, pulling up to meet your gaze, a sheen across his forehead as he ploughs into you, never faltering in his athletic pace. 

One of his hands sweeps down your flank, long fingers squirrel between your bodies, unerringly finding their target, a scream ripping from your lungs at the extra stimulation. A few flicks from him, and you are gone for a second time, hurtling towards the stars, bowing upwards, tensing hard, each muscle snapping taught as body and mind are flooded with ecstasy. 

Distantly, you hear Benedict growl, more animal than man, a litany of filthy praise you can barely decipher tumbling from his lips as he pulls out abruptly, you whimpering at the sudden loss, your pussy bereft, rippling around nothing now as his hot seed spills onto your belly.

He collapses onto you for a few beats; his weight is heavy and cloying, his lips meeting yours in an artless kiss. Then you feel him climb off of you slowly, a soft rag dragging over your skin as he cleans you of his seed and mingled juices. He kisses your cheek chastely, but his words are interrupted by Anthony calling out across the room. 

“Are you ready for more?”

Your attention immediately snaps across to the Viscount. Without thought, you are springing to your feet, gait uncertain, like a newborn fawn finding its legs as you take a few shaky steps towards him, an exquisite ache between your thighs from all that has transpired.

“Are you coming to me?” Anthony coos impressed, his hands shooting out to steady you, gripping your waist.

You nod enthusiastically, utterly drunk on the tide of pleasure coursing through you, which greatly entertains him. You climb into his waiting lap and draw him immediately into a filthy, wet kiss. Your tongues tangle as you shuffle forward into the wide, comfortable chair, his hips sliding forward to meet you, and without preamble, you rise fractionally and sink onto him, your puffy, swollen channel suctioning onto his thick veiny cock with a filthy sound. He groans beautifully as you sink, taking him into your pussy, the stretch of him just as mindblowing, perhaps even a shade thicker, like his physique. You stutter a curse, eyes to the ceiling, wrapping your arms tight around his neck, your nipples pressed into the fur of his chest, his balls pressed between your bottom cheeks as you sit speared upon him. 

“Are you going to ride me?” His question is rich like chocolate, buzzing against your chin where his mouth is now hooked open, his teeth grazing the bone there.

“Yes,” you slur, tilting your gaze down to look down at him, already knowing you would do it until your body gives out, so desperate again to feel that high only they can provide.

“Good girl.”

They know it's a weapon now and deploy it with gleeful abandon. Reflexively you contract around Anthony’s cock, both of you calling out, his muscular thighs tensing under your weight, his toes lifting from the floor. He utters a curse, too, a hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, then cupping the back of your head, tugging the hair at your scalp between his knuckles.

“Ride,” he commands, low and slow, a menacing tone that has you stuttering with restoked arousal. A burning need to please him, to do precisely what he tells you to. And so you push up until his head is just inside your pussy, then drop back down, shuffling your stance wider to get a better range of motion. He watches you with a hooded, scorching gaze; a devastating quirk of his eyebrow has you moving steadily. Pressing all of yourself into him, with each pass, his hard abdomen scuffs your distended clit, your pussy lips so puffy now with so much arousal and repeated blows.

He nudges your face aside so he can teeth your earlobe. “You feel exquisite. All swollen with lust,” he croons, his breath gusting hot, his choice of words making you flare hotter, driving onwards with renewed vigour, a slight burn in your thighs as you rise and fall upon him, feeling yourself dripping down onto him, needing to cling onto him to keep seated.

“Could we do this on the floor?” you murmur into his stubbled cheek, realising your range of motion is slightly restricted by the shape of the chair.

His response is immediate; without leaving your body, he effortlessly takes your weight, wraps an arm around you and somehow manoeuvres smoothly onto the floor, his spine now resting on the front of the chair cushion—so much vigour and athleticism from both of these men. 

“Turn around, sweet girl,” you startle and whip your head over your shoulder.

There sat on the chase, lower half now wrapped in a drape of crisp white fabric, looking like a Grecian statue made flesh, is Benedict—a sketchpad and charcoal in hand. 

“Turn around so that I may draw you in the throes of passion,” he clarifies, that dangerous crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You look back to Anthony, suspecting from the twitch of his lip he is more than happy about this development. Silently he spins you both around and lays prone on the polished floor underneath you, still rock hard and buried deep in your pussy. Placing your hands on his chest, you lean forward slightly, take a deep breath and then start to ride again, slowly, the slight discomfort of the hardwood under your kneecaps heightening your pleasure somehow. The range of motion possible now allows you to experiment, to test the delicious drag of his cock by tilting your pelvis in each direction, then in a circular motion, hitting a spot inside that has you hissing and your nails scraping through the thick thatch of hair there.

“Take what you need…” Anthony advocates through gritted teeth, reading your every signal. 

Your eyes ping up from his imploring expression to Benedict, his gaze holding yours daringly as you start to fuck his brother again. Wantonly, luxuriating in the rapt audience you have. A liquid cascade of heat deluges you, the scrape of charcoal on the page spurring you on—to be more daring, leaning back to grab Anthony’s knees as leverage for your movements, your breast pushed high into the air, more performative knowing this carnal moment is being committed to paper.

Benedict mouths words of encouragement as you glance down to see Anthony’s eyes now screwed shut, his biceps bulging in stark relief as his hands clamp your waist, and his hips rock upwards with each downstroke you take, chasing his peak with the same vigour you are, each press of his cock better than the last. Your muscles scream from all the effort, but you do not stop, a bead of sweat sliding down your spine as you ride roughly, with abandon. Anthony’s eyes are open again now, his hands cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples so hard you stutter. Greedily you mash his thick cock right against that same spot that has your mouth slack, head tilted up, and fingers curling into his flesh, shocked at how close you are yet again in such rapid succession.

“Say it,” you grit out, staring up to the ceiling, not looking at either, not sure even you know who you are even asking. 

“Good girl..” it's in perfect unison, and that is what pushes you into oblivion.

You grind to a halt, pussy contracting in waves around his cock as he writhes under you, him gasping loudly as you again float far away, that blissful cloud almost making you miss his urgent call, him eventually hauling you off of him, just in time for him to paint your belly with a thick arc of seed, his whole body jerking with the almost violence of release.

He collapses under you, quivering, utterly spent, and you do the same. Faceplant into his chest, rubbing your nose into the musky dampness of his chest hair as you huff breaths, bone-deep but sated exhaustion from the exertion.

Pliantly, you allow Anthony to slip out from under you and you feel him pick you up bridal style as you curl into him, fatigue lapping your edges. He places you onto the chaise, and then both men are flanking you, limbs tangling and gentle kisses as they entwine around you. It’s a few quiet, tender moments before curiosity again gets the better of you.

“May I see it?” you query quietly, abashed, pressing your nose into Benedict’s shoulder, not willing to meet his gaze.

His laugh is rich and resonant, reaching around to grab his pad and show you. There, in elegant charcoal lines, is a scandalous but beautiful rendition of you, naked, your peaked nipples standing proud, head thrown back. The detail is perfect, even down to the patch of downy hair at the apex of your thighs. There is no rendition of Anthony, but at one glance, you can tell it is a depiction of an erotic capture of a woman riding a man. The very picture of passion, just as he promised.

“It is stunning,” you gasp.

“It is yours,” he rushes out.

“I… I want it to be yours,” you confess ardently, your hands sliding to grasp Anthony’s arm draped over your belly. “Both of yours..” you confirm.

Warm lips kiss your cheek on either side. 

“We will treasure it.” Anthony asserts as Benedict nods sagely.

You stifle a yawn and nuzzle into their warmth as Benedict suggests you all retire to his bedroom upstairs. 

“Tis only 3pm...” your protest is nominal at best, and you allow him to pick you up, wrapping you in another sheet as Anthony does the same, trailing behind you as Benedict ascends the stairs.

“When is your next art lesson?” Anthony queries as the door to an opulent bedroom swings open.

“Tomorrow?” you riposte cheekily, and they both chuckle as you add: “If you will have me…”

“I do believe that can be arranged,” Benedict confirms fondly as he approaches a handsome four-poster bed.

“Artfully…” Anthony adds wryly as you share a laugh with them both, falling into their welcoming joint embrace.

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[the-californicationist]

Solomon's Seal

John Price works hard to maintain his self-discipline, but sometimes he loses his grip on that fiery temper of his. When he needs help to feel in control again, he turns to you and your impeccable rope skills. You try to keep things professional, but that proves challenging for both of you. After all, John is just a friend, one of your best clients… so why do you keep imagining him as more?

TW: rope bondage, femdom, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, female genitals. Please check AO3 link below for full tag list.

Big huge thank you and kudos to the amazing and beautiful @gemmahale for her ideas and support on this one! Love you, bestie.

You had cleared your schedule the moment you hung up the phone with him. His voice had sounded so strained, like he was struggling to say the words. You knew that, sometimes, John Price’s work asked too much of him, but this time, he seemed so far beyond his usual level of need that you decided it was better to play it safe and cancel all of your other clients for the week. 

As you cleaned your studio, you made additional preparations. Something in your gut was telling you to prepare for the worst. You did your best to remember what he liked. No music, low lights, a soft fan for a bit of a breeze, and jute ropes — none of the synthetics in sight. You eyed your collection; eight hanks should have been enough, but you grabbed four more from the back room just to be sure. 

You never really pried into his life during his visits, knowing there was probably much he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell you. He had given you just enough information for you to understand the basics, and you had scoured the internet with those small clues to uncover the rest. At best, he was a soldier, handling the expected dangers and stressors of the job. At worst, he was a literal weapon, aimed and fired at His Majesty’s darkest enemies; a demon hunter meant only for darkness and secrets and pain. 

When he had come to you last November, bruised and battered, craving your particular set of skills, you had surmised that it was the latter. Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of the news, you looked at the bombed buildings of Urzikstan for a sign of him, hoping you wouldn’t see one. When there was a battle lost or won, plastered across the front page of the news, you wondered if he had been there in the thick of it, protecting the world from the monsters that ravaged that land, keeping them from your privileged doorstep. 

You checked your clock. He’d be in from Heathrow within the hour. You got to work in the wet room, digging around for the soaps he liked best. His favorite bathing oil was a complex, spicy mix of coriander, basil, and bergamot scents. You’d never admit it to him, but you used it when you found yourself thinking about him, unable to get your equally complex, spicy warrior out of your mind.

John was so different from most of your clients. Many people who came to you were usually seeking something other than what you were prepared to give them. Half of your customers came for sex, for which you added them to your blacklist. The other half was a mixed bag seeking humiliation or reassurance, trying to use you and your art as an alternative to counseling or as a way to explore their kinks. They usually didn’t return after they experienced the level of your craft. You did have a handful of repeat clients who appreciated the practice itself, but they usually had their own partners to play with. You were just a novelty to them. An escape. 

Working as a traditional Bakushi was no fleeting hobby, not for you anyway. For you, it was a spiritual calling. John was one of the only clients who understood that and actively wanted to learn more. He had asked for stretching routines, breathing exercises, and advice on meditation. Your soldier was the real deal, even if he couldn’t remember any of the terminology to save his life. You were just happy he had managed to adopt the word shibari into his vocabulary. You could forgive the rest. He didn’t need to know the names of the knots or the positions of the body in order to benefit from his practice. 

Your doorbell rang. You took a breath to calm yourself. You needed to be centered for John. Yes, you were excited to see him, but he needed you to be his rock right now, and you needed to push your own desires out of your mind.

The door cracked open, and there he stood. He was just as you remembered him, but he looked like he’d been through hell. Those bright blue eyes were sporting a dark, purple shiner on his left orbital bone. He had cut his lip across the top and bottom, a red line still marring the sensitive flesh. John had cut down his beard to a more manageable level, but his hair was long and unkempt. What worried you most were the dark red welts he wore around his neck. It looked like ropeburn. 

“John,” you smiled softly, “So good to see you again. Please come in.”

The formalities of such a polite greeting seemed silly to you after what you had been through together. Sessions with John were always… intense. 

He stepped into your foyer, looking at you like he had missed you, but you didn’t allow yourself to give in to the fantasy. He needed you to be professional, and you had a job to do.

You took his hand and led him into your sitting room, offered him a glass of water, and sat beside him. He held your hand in his, refusing to let go, playing with the small bones in your middle finger absentmindedly. You smiled at him, enjoying the quiet of his presence, letting yourself take in these silent moments, unwilling to break the spell of peace until absolutely necessary. 

He seemed content to bask in the tranquility as well, happy to rub your delicate knuckle back and forth with his thumb, letting his eyes explore you, lingering on your long, silk robe, his gaze burning into your sternum at the join of your breasts. 

“How can I help you, John?”

He took a long breath through his nose, his eyes diverting back down to your connected hands; shame, regret. 

“I lost control, again.”

You had heard those words from him before. When he first found you, he told you about his temper. He hadn’t given you any details, but apparently he had hurt an enemy beyond what was necessary. Something he had done had changed him. He wanted to be different, to be more even-keeled, so he’d come to you for help. 

“The same as last time?” You asked, hoping it would be better than you suspected.

“Worse,” he looked up at you and flashed a tight-lipped, bitter smile. 

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. 

“Tell me what you need,” you ran your other hand across his wounded cheek, watching as the shine of his eyes gleamed in the low light. 

His emotions were at war all over his face. His wet lashes, the twitch of his lip, his darting, avoidant eyes; you could almost hear him fighting in his mind. You put a stop to it, scooting closer to him on the deep sofa, holding his stubbled chin in your hand, 

“Hey, you know you can tell me. If it’s within my power to give it to you, you know that I will.”

“I know, love,” he nodded his head, “I think you might try to talk me out of it, is all.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to work it out. Rebuilding your trust together after some time apart wasn’t something to be rushed. Finally, after a few moments of thought, he studied your face and admitted his desires,

“I want it all. Just like last spring, but more. I need more.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. You remembered last spring. Vividly. In fact, you had thought about that appointment more times than you would ever admit. He had pushed himself so far, he’d trusted you so deeply, and you’d watched him heal from his wounds. He’d found a new kind of peace. You remember holding him, still bound, both of you sprawled across the floor, sweaty and grinning, your foreheads pressed together, sharing in his joy. 

But, you also knew that him wanting more meant that you would be restraining him from head to toe. He’d done arm and chest bindings with you, and in the spring, you’d put him in a single-leg frog tie. But, you’d never done full body work with him. For all of his progress, John still had issues letting his power be taken from him. He wanted to be in control, almost to the point of obsession, and it was only when he was in your ropes that he was able to practice internal control over himself without threat of judgment or danger. He could examine his temper in your safe setting, testing it like a scientist, finding new strengths within himself, mental hurdles to overcome.

However, you worried about what his mental state would be like when he was fully at your mercy. Had he ever been at anyone’s mercy? You doubted it. 

He could see you rolling over the problem in your mind, watching as you thought it through, imagining the possibilities. 

“What d’ya say, love? Think we can try?” His eyes met yours, and you nodded. 

“Yes, let’s try.”

“I might… uh,” he hesitated, clearly unsure of how his next request might be received, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I might need you… after. I know that’s not what you do, but after last spring, I thought you might make an exception.”

You were fully aware of what he meant. Last spring, laying there sweaty and swimming in euphoria together, you had broken your own rule. You’d let your body slide over John’s naked, tied form, and you’d rubbed his cock across your belly and on top of your pussy, sharing an orgasm together. It was reckless of you, and fully outside of the scope of your role, but it was what was right for you both at the time. He hadn’t asked for a repeat performance, always the perfect gentleman, until now.

You nodded, 

“Thank you for asking. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll check in again at the end. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You moved to leave the comfort of the sofa, but he caught your hand,

“Can we start now? Just a bit. If that’s alright.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “Any new injuries I should know about?”

His face stretched into a boyish smile,

“Too many to count.”

You shook your head, ducking into your studio to grab one hank of rope,

“You’re the only one who gets a pass on that, you know.”

You watched his eyes dart to your hands as you untied the bundle, looping the rope end over end, making your first bight. His energy was electric, but you could see something dark slithering underneath. 

“I’ll start now, but you need to talk to me. What makes it worse now, John?”

You stood in the middle of the room, watching as he moved into position in front of you. You waited patiently, not needing to give him instructions. John knew what you wanted from him. 

He avoided your question, going through the motions of preparing his body for your work. He tugged off his coat and tee shirt, raking it over his broad back, and you tried to ignore the aching red marks that littered his scarred skin. Then, he unbuckled his belt, letting the metal tip clatter and clang in the quiet room, dropping his jeans and peeling off his shoes and socks. Naked, he folded his clothes and lay them to the side. Then, he found his neutral position, kneeling at your feet, palms flat on his thighs, head bowed as if in prayer. 

“Hands behind your head, palm to palm,” you spoke your first command, listening to the timbre of your voice and knowing it was different. You were changing into the person that he needed; someone strong, unyielding. 

He complied, but he looked a little surprised. You’d never asked him for this position before, but you knew it would get his attention. He would feel the vulnerability of it immediately, his sensitive ribs and armpits exposed. 

You started your work, tying his wrists carefully, making sure to leave the proper amount of room, running the rope, rubbing between the soft jute and his hairy skin to check and double check it for safety. As soon as you had one wrist bound, you moved to the other and heard him begin to talk. 

“I nearly lost one of my men last week. Good bloke. Took a bullet for me, so I broke the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“All of them,” he looked up at you, rueful and yet unrepentant.

“Would you do it differently,” you admired the smoothness of his wrist, watching as his pulse beat just under the thin skin, rushing through blue veins, “If you could go back in time?”

“No,” Price’s voice was like that of a beast. A dragon. It was a short, simple word, but within it, you understood exactly the feeling of vengeance he was carrying within it. No, he would not go back and change his actions. He would repeat them. That much was clear. 

“It doesn’t sound to me like you were out of control, then,” you looped the knots of his wrists around a temporary harness, simple and quick. This was just for now. You had bigger plans for him after you bathed. 

John’s mouth turned up into a wry smile, thinking about your assessment, then he said,

“You might be right, love. But, I’m here. I needed this. Needed you. There must be a reason I feel so bloody lost.”

“Let’s find your way back, then. Stand up.”

You led him by the end of the rope to the wet room. The off-white tiles glowed yellow in the candlelight you had prepared, and as you turned on the tap, the room filled with steam. You watched John’s face become indecipherable as you untied the ribbon of your robe, letting the silk pool at your feet, stepping into the shower before him. 

You pointed to the small stool in the middle of the wide shower, 

“Sit.”

It was a huge installation. During the build process in your renovated space, you’d asked for two large rainshower heads and a massage wand with a flat drain in the center. John knelt in between the two heads, but well within reach of the wand. You switched it on, watching the water jerk and flow through the metal hose, holding it towards your chest and out of his eyes. 

You started with his feet, washing them with only warm water first before moving the wand up his legs, wetting his body in stages. You didn’t use your hands yet, but you were eager to. John was quite the specimen, and you felt yourself flush as your eyes explored his body, lingering on places they really shouldn’t. 

You were adamant that you were a sex worker who didn’t have sex. You tried to make it abundantly clear that your clients were paying for shibari practices only, and that you did not do… happy endings. Other than your encounter with John, your clients orgasmed alone, and you went to great lengths to ensure it remained that way. But, here was your weakness, asking you to wash him while he was in your knots, warning you that he might crave a sensual aftercare scene, that he’d been thinking about you. It made your skin flush, and even though you were comfortable in your own skin, his obvious desire for you in such a carnal way made you hyper-aware of your bare flesh. 

The wand sat back in its hook, water paused, and the only sounds were the quiet drippings against the tile, a slight sucking from the drain, your breathing. You scraped the soap into your palm, making sure to lather it into a rich, thick foam. You stood, walking around him to his back, and began with his bound hands and arms, rubbing his warm, swollen muscles with your palms, spreading the suds over him liberally. 

A long, animalistic groan shuddered through John’s lungs, echoing in the bath. It set your nerves on fire to know that you were giving him such pleasure. You wanted more. 

You moved to his back, massaging the scented soap into his body, working his skin firmly to promote his bloodflow. As you made pass after pass, his moans became steady and breathy, his mouth hanging open, unable to fight the relaxation he was experiencing. 

You washed his legs and feet, needing to bend over him in order to reach the length of his huge thighs. In doing so, your bare breasts came in contact with his back, only light tapping at first, swaying forward as you washed him. You could tell that he could feel you, and he froze, his noises of pleasure turning into hitched breaths, shocked and inaudible. 

Your clients usually washed themselves, but John had asked for special treatment, and this was a new experience for you, too. You tamped down on your excitement, but you couldn’t hide your nature. As you leaned forward to wash his knees and shins, ankles and feet, you had to press your soft tits and contrastingly taut nipples against him, over and over, like two inkless stamps, leaving impressions on his wet skin. 

Standing again, you waited to give yourself a minute to compose your emotions. The tips of your hair were damp, and your chest was shining from his soapy torso. You tried to wipe the shine away, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. He needed to be looking inwardly, finding his deeper meaning. Staring at your gleaming, sensitive tits was not what he was paying for, no matter what your biology might have wanted. 

You stepped around to his front, and you marveled at how big his frame truly was. While sitting, even though the stool was low, his eyes were directly in line with your furry mons. If he only tilted his chin up a little, he could lick…

Your mind clamped down on that thought like a vice. You breathed steady, kneeling before him and reapplying the soap to your hands, trying to refocus yourself on your work. 

That was proving more difficult by the moment. Washing his broad chest was like something out of a dream. His nipples were so responsive, and now you could see the way his face twisted with pleasure as your hands massaged your serums into his skin. Every swipe over his pink nubs make him gasp in a new pitch, his brow furrowed with desperation, but his eyes stayed pinned to the tile, just like he was meant to. You expected all of your subs to avert their gaze, to concentrate on their mind, and you made it clear that the practice would stop if they lacked the discipline to do so. 

You had never been more grateful for that standard, because if John’s sharp, pale blue eyes found yours right now, you might not be able to keep yourself from losing your own control. 

You stepped out of the shower for a moment, grabbing the tie from your robe, slipping it out of its loops. Then, as a way to anchor yourself, you wrapped it tightly around your wrist, twisting the knots you made so that they would face inwardly, the discomfort reminding you of your duties as his dominant. It would work for now, you hoped. 

Already, you could feel yourself coming back online, as if someone had splashed cold water in your face. That was, until you turned back to John and saw the last part of your process.

You peered down into his lap, hands full of creamy suds, ready to wash his belly and his nethers, only to discover that he was as hard as steel. His cock flagged tall and curved, tapping on his abdomen, far beyond his bellybutton, giving you a reminder of what was plaguing your dreams. It was beautiful. The uncut skin of his shaft folded around the rim of his ruddy head, eager to be slicked down so that you could tease the tip of him. His balls were round and full, hanging as he sat on the edge of the bench, and all you could think about was what delight was stored within them, ready to burst.

You focused on your knots, letting your one ribbon keep you grounded, and you finished the job. Your hands rubbed soap along his belly, fingers dancing through the thick happy trail of his lower abs. He was built like a workhorse, and although he was fit, his body was well-fed and wide, his core wide and protruding with his strength, thicker as he sat on the stool. There was no bodybuilder’s trim waist. He was all power, heavy and built for unimaginable destruction. You’d never seen his equal, nor a man even close to his immense form. If someone had told you John was one of Zeus�� many bastards, roaming the earth immortal and inhumanly large, you might have believed them.

“I’m going to wash the rest of your body. Remind me of your safeword so that I know you can use it,” you commanded softly, hearing your own voice bounce around the hollow room. 

John did not meet your eyes, fully committed to his submission, but you could see his cock pulse with anticipation. He spoke quietly but clearly, 

“Red.”

“Louder,” you instructed. 

“Red,” he obeyed. 

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Good. Stand up.”

You needed to make sure he was ready to proceed. John, experienced as he was, could get stuck in his sub-space just like anyone. So, you made him practice, let his mouth feel the word again and again, primed and ready to be used. 

Finally, you reached for his genitals, washing his cock and being mindful of where you spread the soap, scrubbing ever so gently down his ballsack, and then swiping across his cleft, washing through his legs to clean every last bit of him. 

Then, trying to be almost clinical about it, you washed him off, cleansing his lower extremities to ensure his comfort before hosing down the rest of him. 

Finally, you shut off the water and began to towel him dry, wiping at his dripping skin, trying to ignore how his body’s heat seemed to radiate onto your bare body, inviting you to lean just a little closer, to press into that lovely burn. 

But, you didn’t. You discarded the towel and untied your wrist cuff, leaving it with your robe. You reached behind John’s head and unbound the center knot of his ties, allowing him to bring his wrists to the front of his body like handcuffs. You used the end to lead him like a prisoner through your space, parading him to the studio quickly and quietly, eager to begin the main event. 

Once inside the studio space, you finished untying his wrists, setting him free once again. He looked down at them, running his fingertip across the raised ridges left by the ropes before dropping his arms to his sides, waiting for your instruction and guidance. 

You knelt next to your basket of rope, retrieving a hank from the stack and unwinding it. His eyes darted to your hands, watching you prepare it just for him, like a dog expecting a bone. 

“Lay in the center, arms at your sides,” you told him and watched as he followed your instruction. He was less hard now, more relaxed than before, but before long, as he lay there letting his excitement build, he strengthened again, his prick bowing up onto his stomach, flushed and full. 

You got to work. Your first goal was to put each of his legs in an advanced frog tie, turning his body on its side so that you could bind his ankle to his thigh, first one leg and then the other. Once his initial ropes were in place, you checked their tension, moving two fingers around and around, trying not to notice his mounting enthusiasm every time you brushed along his inner thigh. Then, once you were satisfied, you helped him into a kneeling position, pushing a thin buckwheat pillow under his knees for comfort. 

He shook his head, 

“Don’t need it, love. I wanna feel the floor. The pain… helps.”

You eyed him, turning your lips into a soft grin, 

“If this were a normal session, I would give that to you,” your tone got his attention, and he did look at your face now, needing to see your intent, “But, what I’m about to put you through is something different. Trust me, John.”

“I trust you.”

He settled into the pillow, returning to his meditative position. You took his hands in yours and held them between your two palms, squeezing them tight, binding them without rope for a moment. Then, you began to breathe in deep, cyclical patterns, over and over. He breathed with you, and you saw the tension leave his face. Whatever had happened to John on this last tour was plaguing him, and you slowed things down to give him a chance to control himself again. 

He breathed in with you, and his air rushed out with yours, washing over your skin like a summer wind, keeping your body responsive to him. Every now and then, as you meditated together, you caught his eyes fixed on something other than the floor. He was staring into the darkness between your legs, shadowed by your body and covered with curly hair, hidden from him in plain sight. It was hard for you to focus, knowing he had his mind on your body, but eventually, he averted his gaze, focusing inwardly again. 

Finally, when you felt his heart rate slow, you used another hank of rope to create a short waist belt, applying more tension than usual as you fed it along his hips, knowing his thick ass and thighs could take the pressure. Still, you were adamant about safety, watching him every moment for discoloration or discomfort. 

He was fidgeting now that the tighter straps were on him, and you saw him closing off his stance, bringing his knees closer together. You caught him, and used one of the loops on his thigh to pull his legs apart again,

“Spread them. Let the pressure flow through your belly and out of your center.”

“Aye,” he sighed, settling into the pain and doing his best to spread his knees wider, concentrating on the feeling. His cock was leaking now, leaving little dark marks on the canvas of his knee bolster, bobbing between his legs as he spread them wider, shining and wet. 

You grabbed another rope, trying to hone in on your work,

“I’m going to bind you in almost the same style we practiced last spring, but it will be modified to provide more of that challenge you’ve been looking for. Place your hands behind your back, palms on your elbows, if you can.”

Not every sub had the flexibility to obey, but John did. He’d been doing his stretches. As he assumed his position, his arms’ placement made his chest broad and high, stretching his pecs open while his back was pinned, the skin folding in on itself as his shoulder blades folded back like featherless wings. You threaded your rope over his shoulders, centering the bight at the back of his neck for an anchor point. It was essential that no pressure was applied to the front of his throat, and you were ever-mindful of the fresh injuries that marred his neck. 

“What happened here?” You asked, letting your finger pass under a rope that lay on his injured skin, making sure it was loose and gentle. You would give him tightness elsewhere. 

He was hesitant to answer you, but he shrugged,

“Bastard came up behind me. Before I could react, he had the wire around my throat.”

“Did you escape on your own?” You pried, trying to keep him talking as you started the long process of his arm binding. 

“Aye. He was so busy trying to choke me, he forgot I still had free hands and plenty of bloody knives in my belt.”

You praised him for his openness,

“Good.”

“Is it?” Now, you heard the doubt in his tone. It made you pause, but you simply continued with your ties, not allowing him to know that you were challenged by his cynicism or regret or whatever darkness was making him lean on his fear and anger instead of his peace.

You left his question unanswered, allowing it to hang in the air between you, forcing his mind to dwell on it. You needed him to answer it within himself before you went opening more portals to other emotions and struggles. 

You added more and more rope to his binding, and when you finished, you pulled the cord forward across his chest, resting it below his nipples, making sure to graze them as you checked your tension, enjoying the trembling shudder that came from him as your reward. It was the most advanced harness you had performed in a long time. This one was unforgiving. He couldn’t twist left or right. His shoulders were forced down and back, shrugged tight against his body, and his arms were completely powerless. He could pull and heave to try and move his hands away from his back, but there was no escape.

You sat across from John once more, holding his chin up so that he would know you expected him to look at you, and you asked him,

“Do you have any pain or tingling?”

“No.”

“Say your safeword to me one time.”

“Red.” 

“The next step will be the final rope, and then we can sit together for as long as you need. Do you want to continue?”

His eyes stared into yours with a bright clarity, and he answered softly, 

“Yes.”

You could tell that he was slipping deeper into his sub-space. His eyes softened, but his body shivered. If you brushed your fingers along his ribs, his muscles would kick and jerk. Anything harder, like a deep tissue massage against those huge thighs and he whined for you, smokey and gravelly, full of feral need. 

You moved behind him, taking a rope and placing it across his forehead, using your hand to tilt his head back until his eyes were staring at the ceiling. Then, you carefully crafted a face harness, making sure there was not too much pressure on his more delicate bones while still limiting his range of motion so that he was forced to keep his chin pointed up. 

You connected the rig to an anchor point on his wrists, and then you took your position in front of him again, staring at his bearded jaw and injured neck, watching his body struggle to relax into a very uncomfortable pose. 

“Breathe for me, John,” you knew it was a lot. 

Controlling someone’s body was one thing. Even Price had experienced tight knots before, but when you took control over the head, that animal instinct all humans keep deep within themselves tended to come alive. It was a primal fear. You watched John’s chest rise and fall, his stress tumbling around in his breaths as he tried to stay calm. 

You reached out both of your hands and rested them on his chest, feeling the way he jerked at your touch, overstimulated and sensitive. You pet his fur, the thick brown hair that dusted his body, soft from the oils you had used. As he breathed, you felt it moving in his lungs, and you let your fingertips ghost over his nipples, rubbing them with the backs of your knuckles, admiring the way they perked up at your attention, puffy and swollen from the unforgiving rope that made them bulge outwardly.

“Mmf–fuck,” he coughed, his eyes knitted into a worried sort of agony.

You smiled, bringing your own nipples towards his chest, letting your soft peaks brush against his hard ones, moving your breasts up and down, drawing little circles and crosses over his chest. 

You knew he couldn’t see what you were doing, but he could feel it. He knew, instinctively, and it was sending him into a drunken daze. The pleasure of your touch combined with the pain of your ropes pushed him beyond where he had been before, and perhaps it was past where you had dared to go as well. 

“Control your breaths, John. There is nothing else you are responsible for. I’ve taken it all from you. You need to breathe and to spread your peace through your mind. Focus.”

He didn’t respond, but his breathing stilled, and his eyes closed. You removed your touch from him and let him bask in the sensations he was experiencing. 

Minutes passed, then more. It had been almost an hour, and you were admiring the way he stayed strong, at first. You reached out to him to anchor him when he seemed like he needed help, caressing his arms and back, massaging the muscles that must be burning white hot by now. He was much more determined than any other sub you controlled. If anyone could handle this difficult position, it was him. But, he was not invincible. You saw the way his breathing became labored, and his cock, which was losing and regaining its hardness as time went on, throbbed from its struggle. 

“Do you want to continue?” You asked again, touching him as you had before, moving your hands from his chest to his belly, petting him rhythmically, avoiding his phallus but touching everything else around it. You knew it must have been teasing him, forcing him to imagine how your hands might feel if they reached just a little further. 

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained due to the position of his jaw, and you watched the bulge in his neck bob up and down.

More time slipped by. Your hands had wandered down his legs and across the soft pads of his feet. His body was buzzing with the energy he was spending in order to stay the course. He must have been far beyond simple pain at this point. You remembered a similar scene you’d experienced, and this was much longer than you ever expected to be in it. If John was anything, he was stubborn. 

But eventually, you heard him speak, 

“We knew it was a trap before we went in. I was reckless, and angry, and I wanted my fuckin’ revenge.”

He paused but you just kept up with your massage, rubbing him down, letting him know you were still there. He continued,

“That bastard was gonna shoot me,” John’s voice cracked from his despair, and you saw shining tears stream down his temples and into his hair, “It was me that he wanted. Then, my… one of my men, he jumped right in front of the gun and took the bullet for me. I thought he was dead. I thought I was, too. But, after… I left my team. Charged in alone. I did things to those men that I'll have to think about for the rest of my bloody days. I became… something else. Something… “

You wiped the tears from his face, petting his cheeks, letting your thumbs brush over his lips gently. He sighed, and you could feel his breath on your fingers,

“It wasn’t right. I knew better, I just wanted them to bloody pay. Wasn’t sure if I was going home with a fuckin’ medal or my papers. Didn’t care.”

There was a long pause, and then, his voice became small. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, but they were wide, full of fear and uncertainty,

“Am I a monster? Is that… Is that the real me? Who am I? What am I?”

You leaned forward and planted delicate kisses across John’s stretched neck, licking and sucking at his skin in very light, careful touches, tasting his wounds and trying to heal them.

You sat back, removing yourself from his body, letting him sit alone for a moment before you said,

“You are a human being. You are capable of love and hate, pleasure and pain. You might feel like you need to answer for some of your violence, but your own humanity is not defined by your actions. You believed that was the path you needed to take. You destroyed dangerous men before they destroyed you. That is not a monster. A monster destroys the innocent. Were those men innocent?”

“No,” he snarled, full of spit and ire.

“They made their own choices. They controlled their own lives. Your perception of your own control is too broad, John. You couldn’t save them. They didn’t need saving. You did. It was you who needed to be saved.”

“I should’ve been able to stop… to stop… stop killing. I couldn’t. I needed them to burn for what they did to my fuckin’ soldier. To my friends! Fuck!” 

John was gasping now, too full of emotion to control his breath, releasing his stress in deep, bellowing grunts. You unfastened his head harness immediately, freeing him. The instant he could move, he let his head fall forward and placed his cheek on your breast, stretching himself as far as he could, hoping you would be there to catch him. 

And you were. You held him in your arms, wrapping your own across his many knots, feeling the fibers of his ties and the smooth warmth of his body, separate but unified. You could feel his wet cheek upon your skin, his anger rolling off of him in waves. He was letting out each breath as an exhaled hiss, the fire in his eyes at full peak, a blazing rage that seemed like it would suffocate him. 

You picked up his head in your hands, resting your forehead on his and told him, 

“Let it go. Just like that. Scream. Let it out of you, John. Forgive yourself.”

He let himself go for a moment, howling like a wild boar, full of unnatural rage and pain. You heard his shouts and tucked them away from your heart, keeping them for later, choosing to just let him express it and have his crashing waves of feeling wash over you, but you refused to drown in it. He still needed you. 

“Do you forgive me?” His plea was that of a boy, innocent and achingly pure. 

“I forgive you,” you replied without hesitation, “Forgive yourself, now.”

He shook his head back and forth, rubbing his face on yours, bitter and despondent, 

“I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you to,” you barked, grabbing him at the base of his skull by his hair, forcing his head back into that same bent position, holding him by force, “Trust me, John. Say it out loud. I forgive myself. Say it. C’mon.”

“I… forgive...” 

“C’mon. I know you can do this,” you used both hands to hold his head under your control, your chests pressed together, your breathing equal and ragged, both of you pulled to the end of your abilities.

“I forgive myself.”

“Again!” You gasped. You tugged at his nape, forcing him to arch his back with what little movement he still had access to.

He grunted in response, breathing heavy, each exhale a guttural shout,

“I forgive myself.”

“Good. So good. Let it out. Use the pain; let it wash you clean.”

You let his head come forward, and you saw a new man staring back at you. Before you knew what was happening, you felt your lips crash together with John’s, sliding along his mouth, tasting him and being tasted by him. His tongue slipped into the hollow of your palate, folding and twisting for more and more control, taking you into him as much as he could manage. Then, he pulled away abruptly, resting his forehead against yours again,

“I’m sorry. I just… I feel…” You watched him search for the words, “I feel like I’m back. It’s been so long, but I can feel myself again.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you,” he tilted his head, exhausted, sitting back on his heels, his face a serene picture of peace, “I need you to touch me, like this. Please.”

You looked at him for a moment and then moved your hands between his legs, finding his warm rod waiting to be held. As soon as your fingers touched him, his whole body convulsed, and he cried out at the sensation. 

You began to rub his shaft with long, slow strokes, avoiding his head for now, finding a nice, easy rhythm, encouraging John to match your breathing. He did, stealing kisses when your faces were near one another, and eventually, you were nose to nose, sharing your breaths again, listening to the rush of air and the wet slick sound of his tacky precome being spread all over his length. 

You reached behind him and grabbed another bolster, putting the soft pad behind his back. Slowly, you helped him lay down onto it, knowing his arms would be crushed by his weight, but making sure the stress was something he could stand. His legs were spread wide, fully pliant and open to you, and you sat between them, bringing your hands back to his center, working his curved shaft up and down, watching as his belly filled with air, expanding from his breaths, only to collapse again, the muscles within him clenching and releasing in an undulating pattern of lust and need.

“Oh, fuck,” he bit his lip, wrenching his eyes shut, “Please… I need… Bloody hell, I need you, love. Please.”

“Are you sure, John?” You tried to check in with him, ignoring your own desire to immediately fulfill his wish, your pussy swollen and dripping in anticipation. 

“Yes. I want you to take me. Please.”

His eyes looked up at you, his body bent and bowed, sweet and desperate for you, looking to you for his pleasure.

Carefully, you straddled him, feeding his head between your legs, sighing with joy as his tip slotted into the soft divot of your hole. He couldn’t thrust up into you. In fact, he couldn’t participate at all. You were the only one who could bring him pleasure or bring him pain, and that thought made your head rush, making you dizzy with desire, knowing that this man, a ruthless killer, mysterious and brutal, steady and kind, all of what he was — he was helpless beneath you. 

As you sank down onto his girthy tip, your body ached from the stretch. It was an effort to fit him inside of you, and you breathed through it, wanting to push yourself flush to his hips. When you met his warm root, you shared a loud moan together, the relief overwhelming you both. 

Then, you used your hips to make grinding, wide circles, churning his cock within your core, making yourself even more soaked, feeling your movements sending repeated signals to your cunt to make more and more slick come. It seemed endless, and it pooled out of you, matting his hair and drowning his dick in hot, sticky fluid. 

He was grunting softly at the apex of each circle of your hips, his voice hoarse and full of want. You heard him wanting more, wanting you to hump him up and down, to slide yourself along his cock from root to tip. But, you were in charge, and you set the pace. So, you continued, around and around and around in an impossible spiral, using your hands to play with his nipples, pinching them cruelly, positioning them under the tight rope to make them ache to be free. 

“Ungh, fuck! You’re fuckin’ soaked, love. Feels so bloody good.”

You smiled down at him, refusing to take his bait, knowing he was beyond ready for more. 

Sure enough, he began to beg you, his skin flushed and his heart beating hard from being edged by your grinding,

“Will you fuck me… please? Just… I need… fuck, I need more. Fuck me, please! Oh, fuck…”

“Shh. Be good for me, John. Trust me.” 

You stayed the course, rocking your hips around his base, never letting him thrust in and out, just winding yourself around him like a tight spool, pushing him to his breaking point. He felt so good inside of you, and his cock was so deep, you could feel the turgid body of his shaft if you pressed down on your lower belly, your fingers finding his outline through your skin and muscles and fat, your hands making indentions in your flesh, teasing him from the outside. 

“Cut me out,” he snarled, straining against his bindings hard enough to hurt himself.

You peered down at him, slowing your hips to a glacial pace,

“You know your safeword, John.”

“Cut. Me. Out.”

His eyes were vicious when he looked up at you now. He was like a hungry wolf; his gaze held within it a dark promise that — if you cut his leash — he would destroy you. 

On one hand, your body celebrated that realization. It was eager to be devoured by this monster of a man, but you had worked hard to control your primal urges, and you decided to put your hound back in his cage. You let your hand snake around his throat, squeezing where it was safest, digging in your nails for him to feel your threat more vividly, knowing it would hurt him against his healing wounds,

“If you want to stop, say the word.”

You waited, watching his tortured face, panting and wet from tears and sweat, but he remained silent. You licked your lips, 

“You came here for a lesson in self-control, and I am your teacher.”

For the next half hour, you made sure John Price understood who was in control of his pleasure. You sat on his cock, rocking back and forth until you felt his body tense up, and then you pulled yourself off of him, leaving his throbbing prick out in the cold, tapping at your ass cheeks, begging to be let back in. 

You ignored him, touching yourself with your fingers, using the chubby flesh of his lower belly to rub against your cunt, smearing your wetness all over him as you played in your hole. 

Then, you would put him back inside and start the process all over again, grinding and stopping, grinding and stopping, until your mighty sub was whimpering for release, his balls tight against his core, ready to flood you with his come at any moment. 

Finally, when you saw how fuck-drunk he was, coming in and out of consciousness like he’d been drugged, you decided to relieve him of his burden. You caught his eye and made sure he knew what was coming. Immediately, you had his full attention. He began to chant, hoarse and rasping under his breath,

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…”

You let the anticipation build, slipping your pussy over his head in feather-light swipes, letting your folds tickle his cockhead mercilessly. Then, you began to bounce your hips on his cock. 

“Ungh– love, I’m —” he growled, his words breathless and broken, unbridled. 

“I want your come,” you confessed, getting lost in your own pleasure, “I want it in me… Deep. In. Me,” you changed your tone, tightening your grip on the nape of his neck as much as you dared, “And I’m going to take it from you.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours, shining with fresh tears, overstimulated and raw. 

Then, you saw the relief smooth across his brow, and you waited for a breath before you felt it, spearing yourself on him to his hilt, plugging your cunt so that his come would be plugged up inside of you, filling your emptiest parts, making them warm and swollen with his spend. 

You felt him bursting inside of you, his girth stretching you every time he throbbed, spraying inside of you over and over, dumping his load into your soft hole. When you felt him finish, you began your grinding circles again, causing him to roll and twist, aching from the pleasure and pain. 

“Nngh… love, please… can’t… I can’t…” 

You yanked the slip tie out from under his shoulder, and suddenly, he had control of his arms again. You did the same to his legs, freeing him from your ties, ending his captivity. 

Like a flash, he erupted upwards toward you. His hands went to your hips, sitting up to hug himself around your body, crushing you to his chest and forcing you down into his lap, spearing you on his sensitive rod as if you had planned to pull him out. His mouth savaged your breasts, biting them cruelly, his fingers holding you tight enough to leave you bruised. 

You grabbed his face, holding his bristled cheeks in your hands again, bringing him up to kiss you. You pressed your lips to his as delicately as you could manage, trembling from your bliss. He kissed you back, and that’s all you did for what felt like an eon. Your mind swam through a blank, glittering cosmos, and the only thing that was real was the feeling of John’s mouth on your mouth and his sex on your sex, his hands on your body and your hands on his body, his pain and your pain, his love and your love. You and he were muddled together like pigments on a palette, jonquil and fuschia, no longer existing as one or the other and yet both smearing together, mixed and inseparable, ready to paint a bright, endless sun. 

You had melted, it seemed, under John’s sweating, heaving body. His ribs bullied into your belly every time he took a breath, and his cock had softened so that it slipped away from you. Your body ached for its comfort again, every nature-made part of you punishing you for losing it, coaxing you to do anything to get it back, to fill the space left vacant. You were tucked into his chest, folded and hiding beneath his chin, rubbing at the flat of his sternum with the back of your hand. 

His finger brushed a stray curl from your brow, touching your hair with respect, staring down at you in awe,

“My hero,” he purred. 

You smiled, kissing the stubble on his chin,

“Am I, now?”

“My head…” He stared up at the ceiling again, going to it for comfort like a long lost friend, “It’s so quiet. So clear. You’ve done that for me, and I’ll be thanking you for the rest of my days.”

“I’ll always be here for you, John. You are my muse in more ways than I’ll ever admit,” you laughed breathlessly, a little sad. It was bittersweet, falling in love with a man you couldn’t have. But, you found yourself in him and now you would need to work out how to live without that mirrored reflection. You felt linked to him, two unbroken cords looped together like Solomon’s seal, inseparable and yet laid on two disparate paths. 

“Don’t…” He said, his tone sounding even more sorrowful than yours.

You sat up on your elbow, bringing your face up to his to look at him, to see his emotions, 

“What?”

“Don’t make me hope.”

“What do you hope for?” Your voice fell into a whisper, your heart not having the strength to ask your question aloud.

He matched your tone, purring out his confession with a tired but cheeky grin,

“For a woman who can bring me to my knees,” then, his expression turned serious, and his eyes traced his finger as he played with the stray curl he had found, studying its winding path, “For a healer. Someone who can remind me of who I am. Everytime I stop to catch my breath, I’ve been hoping for you.”

Your heart stuttered, knowing that he was not a man to settle down in one place. You looked down at his chest rising and falling with his breath, matching your rhythm, unable to meet his eyes,

“How long can you stay?”

He put a thick finger under your chin, just as you had for him during his session, making you meet his gaze, 

“Let’s start with tonight…”

He planted a soft kiss on your left cheek.

“...then tomorrow…”

His lips kissed your right cheek, dragging hungrily across your skin, 

“...and all the tomorrows that you’ll give me. I’ll take them all, if you let me.”

John placed his final kiss on your open mouth, lips parted, concentrating on what he was saying. You smiled, kissing him back in earnest, 

“Tonight, then. And tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow,” he nodded, smiling brightly, rolling himself over you to shield you from the chill of the room, folding you into his darkness, safe, bound to him without a cord, knotted together without a bight, tangled for however long the strands would hold.

AO3 Link --- Thank you for the kudos!

[perfectlyoongi]

DAD!JUNGKOOK who sings the nursery rhymes as if they were songs from his own show. with microphone in his hand, Jungkook began to use his sweet voice to entertain your child, making them dance between laughter and screams, helping them spin with his free hand; Jungkook jumped, taught your kid basic dance steps and did everything to ensure that those songs were something important and unique to your child. “the next song is dedicated to all the kids with big dreams! never give up on them! itsy-bitsy spider climbed up…”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who flooded the bathroom when bathing your child. whenever Jungkook offered to bathe your kid, you knew that endless moments of heartfelt laughter awaited you as well as several minutes of mopping; because, with rubber ducks and plastic boats, Jungkook always created a story without beginning or end, making your kid the great god who guided the little duckling back home — it was only natural for the great god to want a little turbulence in that sea so calm, right? “what if today we take the duck with us to the bathtub and take him to fairy island, popcorn?”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who buys matching pajamas for the whole family to wear during winter festivities. the arrival of the cold months brought with it the welcoming knowledge that family nights were just around the corner; to complement all the laughter and stories shared, Jungkook thought it best to ask santa for comfortable clothes for the whole family — it was just a coincidence that you received a reindeer onesie, Jungkook a snowman onesie, and your kid a little onesie of a gingerbread man. “what do you say we call your dami and we go create gingerbread houses before we go to bed?”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who builds a fort out of boxes and sheets to play magic with your child. in your back garden, boxes of the most varied sizes were strategically placed in a small castle adorned with old sheets from your old house; on the hottest summer days, when you went to drink lemonade on your patio, your relaxation time was complete with the sight of Jungkook on all fours roaring like a dragon while your kid, wearing a paper hat bigger than their head, shouted gibberish so that their wooden wand could defeat the great dragon Kook. “today i am going to tear down the entire castle and take the great magician Jeon to my cave!”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who paints the pavement with chalk with your child. on the most boring days, when Jungkook missed you and your child just wanted you to get home quickly, your husband would carry your little baby out on his back; with a bucket of chalk in hand, Jungkook and your kid spent hours painting the sidewalk in front of your house, creating a complex game of hopscotch, preparing a new game in colorful tones to be played when you got home. “your dami will love your idea of popping the bubbles that you painted. you are as creative as your father.”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who offered his childhood stuffed toy to your child when they had their first nightmare. you had been out with your friends the first night your child had a nightmare; awakened by their screams in the middle of the night, Jungkook quickly ran to your kid's room, seeing tears wiping their innocent face, making Jungkook's heart squeeze at such an agonizing sight. after calming your child with a hug filled with endless kisses, Jungkook would momentarily leave their room, only to return with a slightly grubby but very loved rabbit. “when i was little, here Mr. Hoppy fought all the monsters that wanted to take me. he told me it was his job to protect you now.”

DAD!JUNGKOOK who got a matching tattoo with your child when they turned 18. a heart made from the fingerprint of Jungkook's thumb and your kid's thumb gained a special place on their bodies; on the day your child turned eighteen, before going to celebrate with their friends, Jungkook took them to his favorite studio and, after deciding to wear the tattoo on their left ribs, your husband and son spent hours lying down exchanging small talk as they waited for the art to form within them. “don’t tell your dami it was my idea or i’ll sleep on the couch. say this was the gift you wanted, okay? please.”

[sparrowlucero]

Instead of discourse about showrunners and lesbians and whatever, I'm gonna bring a different type of discourse...whats ur fav and least Dr Whomst monsters. Hard mode: only the practical ones.

ok so I do like all the obvious ones, I like the angels, I like the vashta nerada, I like the not-things, I like the eternals. Here's a few deeper cuts (focusing on the tv show specifically):

they peaked with these maggots. they rock. pretty sure they're made with taxidermy? really great puppetry. I really like this thing:

what a cool design for this kind of forgotten midseason episode.

this is such a fun design for a langolier-type monster. I love how their crest and tail gives them the silhouette of a grim reaper

The 60s cybermen rock. I feel like they're hesitant to use them often in the modern show because they do look very 1960s but I think there's something really uncomfortable and evocative about the cloth faces that's lost when they're cool metallic robots. The mix between looking like an old diving suit and the implication of there being a chopped up person inside is gnarly and I love it. Simple, creepy, iconic design.

My favorite design in the show is probably this:

The 456 from the spinoff series torchwood. They didn't need the puppet to emote or move a ton since it spends the entire season in a little tank obscured in mist, so they just went crazy with the design and made it really bizarre looking. Extremely top tier alien. Anyways, negative. I really don't like this satan. the satan kind of sucks. the impossible planet is great atmospheric sci fi horror; every image of build up in it is haunting and leagues ahead of the climactic scene where he meets the satan. It singlehandedly kind of kills the vibe.

Personally I would have just kept the actual appearance off screen, just have it be eyes in the dark or something. Apparently they also tossed around the idea that it would end up being a normal little girl who was chained up in the cave and I think that would have visually fit the rest of the episode better.

I'm really not big on the modern design for the sea devils (the green one on the right). I think the classic ones clearly took a lot of direct influence from real animals and generally is a pretty thoughtfully realized design, the modern ones seem like they were first and foremost using the classic ones for reference and didn't quite capture the nuance of the design. Sad, as I would really like to see design for these guys with modern puppetry.

I think this is actually a pretty contentious opinion but the work of the specific studio who headed this redesign generally wasn't my favorite. Apparently there was some sort of major, semi public falling out between the fx studio that had been working on the show since 2005 and the people who started running the show in 2018, and they were briefly replaced with a much less experienced studio. No hate to them of course (I think this was actually their first job like, ever, and a lot of the work was done in crunch time?) but the difference did stand out to me:

[p0orbaby]

Slow Motion Mountain Climber

summary: leah signs up for pilates, what could go wrong?

warnings: none

a/n: based on this request !

word count: 981

-

Leah texts you on a Tuesday morning, right before your alarm, like she does whenever something has gone terribly wrong in her life. Like when she found out gluten was in soy sauce, or when she discovered she might have to use that godforsaken 6 train in New York. This time, it's a message that reads: Just signed up for Pilates. You may never see me again.

You roll your eyes, groaning at the incoming rant that's sure to follow. Leah's the kind of person who only does new things for one of two reasons: someone dared her, or she's trying to prove to herself that she is still young and can get away with eating three chocolate croissants in a single sitting. You suspect it’s a combination of both. She’s mentioned something about trying to build a "strong core," which you assume is code for "I'm slowly being bullied into this by the fact that all my teammates have six-packs and I have a soft spot for bread."

At 7:45 AM, just as you’re pouring coffee, Leah calls. You pick up on the third ring because you’re not a monster.

“I’m going to die,” she says, without so much as a hello

“Bold start to the day,” you reply. “Anything specific, or is it just a general feeling?”

“Pilates,” she says, and it sounds like a curse word. “Do you know what that is?”

You almost spit out your coffee because, yes, you know what Pilates is. You’re not sure what’s more shocking: that Leah doesn’t know or that she actually followed through on signing up.

“Yeah, Leah, I know what Pilates is”

“Well, it’s hell. No one told me it was this hard. And the instructor—she’s, like, smiling at me while she’s killing me. How are you supposed to trust someone who's trying to make you do something called a 'teaser' while she grins like a lunatic?”

You can picture it now. Leah, in the middle of a room full of people who've been doing this since their nannies signed them up for ballet at age three, contorting herself on a reformer like it’s some kind of medieval torture device. Meanwhile, the instructor—probably named something like Tiffani with an 'i'—is telling her to “engage her core,” as if Leah didn’t already have a job that required her to do that for 90 minutes straight, several times a week.

“Did you die, though?”

“Almost. My legs were shaking. My abs��I didn’t even know I had abs. Why does anyone do this willingly? I’ve literally been fouled by Fran Kirby, and that was less painful”

“Maybe you should stick to yoga”

“Yoga!” Leah scoffs. “I can do yoga. That’s just stretching and pretending you’re one with the universe or whatever”

You let her have that one because there’s no use arguing with someone who once mistook a meditation class for an excuse to nap in public.

Leah continues, “This class, though—it's not natural. They make you put your legs in straps. Straps! Like a harness, but for your feet. And then they expect you to lift them while you're suspended in the air like some sort of flying squirrel”

You’ve taken Pilates before, so you know exactly what she’s talking about, but you can’t help but laugh. Leah, in her infinite wisdom, probably signed up for the most advanced class because, as she said once, “Go big or go home.” Now, she’s paying for it.

“Maybe you should ask to start in a beginner class,” you suggest, knowing full well she won’t.

“Yeah, no. I already told them I’m an athlete. Can’t back down now. But I swear, if one more person tells me to ‘breathe through it,’ I’m going to punch them in the face”

You imagine the looks on the faces of her Pilates classmates as she throws a fit in the middle of a serene, candle-lit studio. You’ve seen Leah frustrated before, but this is a new level of agitation, and it’s all directed at something she willingly signed up for.

“Maybe it’s good for you,” you offer, “builds character”

“Yeah, and scars. On my pride”

You laugh again because you can see where this is going. Leah, who tackles challenges like they’re personal vendettas, is going to keep going back to that class until she can hold a plank longer than anyone else, even if it kills her. Or, more likely, until she finds something else to distract her, like knitting or extreme ironing.

"I’m just saying," she adds, after a pause, "if I end up with a six-pack, it’s because I earned it. None of this ‘strong core’ bullshit. I want abs of steel. Like, I want to be able to crack a walnut between my ribs”

You’re crying with laughter now, imagining Leah doing sit-ups in front of a mirror at home, testing her progress with various hard-shelled nuts.

“Don’t worry, babe,” you say, trying to calm yourself down. “If you do get abs of steel, I’ll make sure to bring walnuts everywhere we go”

“Good,” she replies, and you can hear her finally start to laugh along with you. “You’re on walnut duty. And if this all goes horribly wrong and I never make it out of Pilates alive, just know it was the straps that did me in”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’ll be fine. But maybe next time, start with a class that doesn’t sound like it was designed by someone who secretly hates people”

Leah sighs dramatically. “Noted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend the rest of the day lying flat on the floor and cursing Joseph Pilates”

“You do that, babe,” you say, hanging up as you imagine her sprawled out on the carpet, texting you updates about how her muscles are rebelling against her. And you can’t wait to read every single one.

[btsmosphere]

Supercharged | JJK

Epilogue: Sweet Taste

prev | masterlist

🗲summary: It starts with a blow to the chest that changes your life. When your city’s most celebrated hero pays a visit, it turns out the noble Bolt has no trouble tossing lives aside. Lives that won't be missed. Lives like yours. Seven mysterious and powerful men give you another chance – one that starts to feel more like a curse the moment you meet golden boy Jungkook. The boy who wants you as far from his brothers as he can get you. Is it you he hates, or the blue lightning that now runs through your veins? And could it be his golden light that illuminates your heart when darkness threatens? 🗲this chapter: How it all boiled down.

🗲pairing: jungkook x female reader 🗲word count: 1k 🗲genre: angst, action, eventual fluff, enemies to lovers, slow burn, superheroes/villains au, found family 🗲rating: pg15 🗲warnings: mentioned death, violence, weapons

a/n: and with this, we've reached the end of supercharged!! that is surreal to me🤯here's a reminder to those of you who may have already reblogged the masterlist to keep on your blog for reference (I'm honoured!), you may want to reblog it again now it's completed so all the links are there! since reblogged posts aren't updated on this wonderful site lol🤡 I also want to give a sincere thank you to everyone who had read, especially those who left even a single comment, reblog, tag or ask. this story was a lot of work but also a lot of fun and I'm so happy now I finally shared it! to hear anyone enjoyed it makes it all worth it😊you guys are the absolute best! I hope you enjoyed the ride, though there's still the epilogue to go👀 let me know what your favourite moment of this series has been!💜💜

“More information has emerged after celebrated hero, Bolt, was found murdered in his home yesterday. Another beloved hero, Monsoon, also fell in the same battle.

“The anonymous attackers, who many theorists have already connected with the lair attacked by a monster earlier the same day, have sent several records to our studio, apparently taken from Bolt’s home. They have… requested that we display these on air.”

The screen cut away from the reporter’s face to a series of photographs. Weapons laid out, one by one, labelled in Namjoon’s handwriting with the locations they were stolen from, and the purpose each one served.

Next, a map with several red crosses marked on it; the places Bolt had attacked, and several more he planned to. Your home was one of them.

There were other files on the drive Jin had mailed to them. Detailing Bolt’s plans, his building of weapons and allowing them to be used to justify his ‘confiscation’. Jin had been careful not to record too much, but it painted a grim picture nonetheless. Had Bolt been preparing to rule the city?

You knew there would be people out there who would never shake their star-studded image of Bolt. But there would be others ready to see him for the monster he was. All that mattered was that you had all shaken up the grip he held over this city.

The last clip that jumped on screen was from only the night before. Of course, Bolt had cameras. And, in the end, it had turned out to be most useful to you.

“Flush out the rats and they’ll have nowhere left to run.”

The dark, fuzzy image shifted into static. The next voice was your own.

“You did this to me.”

Another cut.

“You were nothing before I gave them to you…”

It faded to black again. Good. It was past time for the people to start questioning the man they had idolised for too long. The man who would have thrown their lives away, too, the moment they happened to be in his way.

The reporter’s face returned, looking grave.

“This has left citizens wondering: who was Bolt really? Was he truly as heroic as he seemed?

“But it remains to be seen how we can stay safe in the wake of his demise.

“Next up, we report from the scene of a spate of attacks in the early hours since the hero’s death was announced. And stay tuned to hear from the families who say their loved ones died needlessly when working for Bolt-”

The screen flashed off and you turned to find Hope lowering the remote, hand on hip.

“Good to know the tv still works!” he beamed.

Snorting, you followed him over to the kitchen. The table had been set upright again. All in all, the scene was only partially being lit by the hole in the roof, most of which Jimin had already pieced back together.

An intimidating amount of dust and debris remained to be cleared, but you were sure Yoongi would just hide it by making the space look extra bright and fresh until someone could be bothered to pick up a vacuum cleaner (which may well be buried itself).

Oh yes – Yoongi. You were sure he would be playing his usual lighting tricks again… once he was strong enough. After seeing to Bolt’s fate, he was the first place you had all run to. Hobi and V had already been at his side. You remembered the crushing dread in your chest at seeing their faces, the tightness with which you squeezed Jungkook’s hand.

All you had to do to quell the memory of that feeling was cast your eyes over your white-haired friend. He sat at the table, sagging a little wearily onto his elbows, but grinning begrudgingly up at a giggling Jin and Jimin.

He was alright.

Jungkook sat across from the injured Yoongi, staring just as intently. You knew the protective fire that burned in him for his team, because the same one lived in you. And you had walked through that fire enough times, finally ending up on the right side of it.

Sliding into the seat beside him, you wordlessly put your hand on his back. Let it drift to circle his waist.

Jungkook’s fingers loosened their death grip on his mug, gaze shifting to you. You felt his sigh more than heard it, his back relaxing where you held it. Together you shared a smile.

Although perhaps it wasn’t quite as private as you first thought, because a second later Jin was thumping another mug loudly onto the tabletop. Jumping, you sheepishly turned away from Jungkook and accepted the drink Jin pushed towards you.

“Right!” The eldest clapped his hands to gather attention now that you were all here. “Y/N and I have made some good progress checking inventory. The ceiling seems to be… looking up!” (you all groaned as he erupted into his squeaky laugh) “We’ll be settled back in in no time – with no one to bother us.”

“Quite,” Namjoon agreed. For perhaps the first time, when he turned to face you, you were certain you read pride there. “With Bolt and Monsoon out of the picture, we’ll let Pheonix take their place.”

“So, nothing much to worry about at all!” Jimin chimed in, to a round of chuckles. Even Namjoon gave him an indulgent smile.

A grin of your own on your face, you sipped your drink, welcoming its flavour which nestled beside the sweet taste of revenge curled in your gut. Even with a gap letting fresh air in through the roof, you felt warm all over. Mostly from the heat of the arm pressed against yours.

You couldn’t imagine keeping your distance from Jungkook ever again. Having been victim of his fierce fight so many times, you knew you could always rely on it now he stood by your side.

Thank you for coming with me on this journey💜What was your favourite moment?

<prev | masterlist

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[justalittlerandomartist]

Daddy’s Little Monster

•Alastor x teen! daughter! reader

•Platonic, you sickos

•What if… Alastor had a daughter who wanted to be a serial killer too?

You woke up to a red sky. There was a great pain in your head, and your vision was blurry. Once you were fully oriented, you stood up. What was this place? It was like prison, and god, it smelled awful. When you looked up at the pentagram over the sky, it dawned on you. You had died. You were in hell.

It was no surprise why you were in hell. You weren’t the best human. You indulged in a bit of cannibalism, and wanted to be an assassin when you were older. Older. That was something you’ll never be. You were just 13, thirteen and dead. However, how you died was a mystery. You had no memory of how you died.

Could it be you were murdered? No, you hadn’t made many enemies. Maybe fell from somewhere high? No, you were too scared of heights to be anywhere high. Hit by a car? You were always careless crossing the street. Yes, that had to be it.

You looked down at your new form. You had bright blue skin, and dark blue hair(She kinda looks like Ruby Gillman). The hair in your pigtails was now in thick, tentacle, like strands. Your ears were similar to fins, and your limbs were long and stretchy. You were some sort of kraken.

It made sense you were a sea creature though. You had always found yourself fascinated with the sea and the animals that inhabit that. You wished that one day you would be able to dive in there, and never have to return to the surface. You had longed to be down there with the fish and the animals. It felt like home more than the surface ever did.

You felt…at peace in hell, like you wanted to stay here. Sure, it was a little rough around the edges, but it felt like home. But your friends…everyone you left behind. Wouldn’t they miss you? For a moment in time, you wanted to go back. Go back to tell your best friend you loved her one last time. You felt her pain and her tears, and it broke your heart. But you can’t change the past. All you can do is love her and remember.

You decide to walk around your new environment. The buildings look old and run down, and people are fighting. You pass a porn studio, and laugh to yourself. Hell seemed like the kind of place where a giant porn studio would be a normal occurrence. Something catches your eye. A vending machine for drugs. You think about it for a second, but decide not to get anything.

You walk near a place called Cannibal Town, and saw some demons eating a guy. You wanted to join in, the taste of human flesh lingering in your brain, fueling your desires. In front of you was a singing demon, with a resemblance to a porcelain doll. She seemed to improv her whole song, and it amazed you. You loved to sing, and was impressed by her skills. You wanted to tell her, but you would feel bad for interrupting her song.

After exploring hell, you found a street corner to cozy up in. As your first day in hell concluded, you thought to yourself ���is eternal damnation as bad as I thought?’

______________________________________

•Hi! My names Vicky, I’m a sucker for platonic au’s. My head cannons take a while, but if my requests are open, I might make your idea for a fanfic, so be sure to ask.

•This was fun to write and it is not done. I’m just tired.

•Part 2 •Part 3 •Part 4 •Part 5

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Acciaccato

Chapter Thirty Six

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader

Other characters: Castiel, Missouri (mentioned), Cain, nameless thugs, Benny, Sam and Kevin

Word Count: ~3100

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, still unbeta'd, Dean has a few hard thinks about his past whether he wants to or not. The show must go on.

Super, extra, mega, uber, and deepest thanks to @lastactiontricia on this chapter. I know you could have done so much more with it, but I'm taking the knee. xoxo

Series Masterlist

The rooms the band nabbed in Vegas were straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It was almost a sin not to share, but at this point Dean would have been stuck with Kevin and even if the kid hadn’t come back in the wee hours with a handful of his own groupies, he doubted Kevin and he would have the same ideas on how to treat a hotel room in the middle of a stay.

Or how to respect a roommate’s privacy.

Instead, he luxuriated in his spacious suite. He told himself he wasn’t hiding or moping. He was just carefully taking some Dean-time before their second show. Besides, he had his therapy appointment in an hour anyway and his laptop was already set up on the desk in his room. 

The softness level of the complimentary robe didn’t hurt either.

Dean turned on a ‘70s music station on the all access cable and checked out the city below. There was a time when he was in Vegas more than he was in LA, every minute he wasn’t needed in the studio he was either on the road or in one of Cain’s gyms or clubs. 

As he took in the city skyline, it was difficult to stomach that he had ever been that guy. Like rewatching a movie where he once idolized the hero, only to see later, the guy was nothing short of a mass murderer hiding behind a badge. Of course, Dean was ashamed of what he did with all his time here. But more than that, he was terrified that that truth would get out.

That you would realize who he really had been then. Not just some self-absorbed rockstar who fucked anything that turned his head.  Who threw away friendships because it was easier than actually working to maintain them. But the mindless rage monster, the guy who was numbed to the point of hurting himself and others to feel alive instead of trapped between planes of existence.

Cain had called it ‘pure’, that base instinct to hurt and dominate, a warrior’s need for victory. But Dean knew now it was an escape, to separate himself from his actions, and to justify the pain he caused and experienced. Dean had no idea if Cain was the man’s given name or not, but it was apropos, the way the man spoke, it was no wonder he was named after the first known murderer.

The room service coffee surpassed the chintzy little one cup brewer they provided in the kitchenette and Dean drank it down greedily. He sat on the leather couch and debated on how he was going to kill the next hour, besides getting dressed. One of the hardest parts of therapy, for Dean, was the build up. Which was why he usually tried to have plans beforehand, so he didn’t overthink too much before they even got started.

But after last night, and being in Vegas at all, he felt safer being alone. Or less exposed, at least.

Dean sighed, set his mug down, and picked up his phone. His wallpaper was the same as always, him and Baby, both bright and smiling for the camera. What the phone screen didn’t say was that Cas had taken the picture. Or that Dean had spent three months in between tours finally fixing her up with his own two hands. There were a lot of things Dean regretted in his life, but the stuff with Cas was at the top of his list.

Before he could stop himself, he pulled up Cas’ number and hit the phone icon. It was the middle of a work day, something he usually never thought about, and Dean was suddenly ashamed to admit he had no idea what Cas was doing for money at the moment.

“Hello?” that gruff familiar voice answered, clearly doubting it was actually Dean calling.

“Hey, Cas. How’s it going?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything alright?”

Dean leaned back and tried to sit with the uncomfortableness. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just— felt like checking in.”

The seconds ticked by, but Cas didn’t seem too keen to start up a conversation. The sound of someone working out a riff in the background drew Dean’s focus as his self-doubt almost had him hanging up the phone. Then Cas started moving, the background noise shifted and then disappeared.

“Sorry, we’re recording, but it’s slow going.”

Dean never felt so disconnected from his friend’s life. He didn’t even know they were like a real band or even what they sounded like. Let alone recording. “Wow! Cas, that’s—- that’s great. So what’re you callin’ yourselves?”

“Holy Terror.”

Dean chuckled. “Damn. That’s actually pretty dope, man.”

“I was out voted. I wanted ‘All in the Family’, but apparently that has incestuous implications.”

“Yeah, man, I’m with your bandmates on that one. So— who’s all playing with you? Besides, you know, the kid?”

“Jack. They have a name.”

“I know, dude, it’s just weird because it’s not like I’ve even met ‘em.”

“It is weird for me, too. My life has changed so much in the past year, and I imagine so has yours.”

Dean huffed. “Understatement of the century right there.”

This conversation was inevitable the moment Dean pressed the call button, but still he felt like he owed it to Cas to salvage it.

“And who else you got? Don’t tell me they’ve got you singing too.”

“No, I haven’t fallen so far as to attempt that kind of puppetry.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. How did he forget what a sarcastic asshole Cas could be?

“There’s also Balthazar.”

“Nooooo.”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Okay, well, maybe you won’t be the one with the highest totals anymore, that guy’s more of a porn star than a musician most days.”

Castiel exhaled deeply through his nose. 

“What?”

“Our fourth member—- has actually done porn.”

“Cas? Don’t tell me you—”

“He volunteered.”

Dean looked up at the vaulted ceiling of his hotel room and then back at the television and its band facts scrolling at the bottom of the screen. “Wow! Well, I guess you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Gabriel actually paid for the studio time. Which has been helpful. Though Frank keeps a security guard on him at all times.”

“Frank let you guys in? Huh.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No— I’m not. I mean it’s Gabriel is all. Not that you’re not qualified or however that sounded.”

“That’s— very fair of you.”

Dean kicked his heels up onto the coffee table. “Well, that’s the new me. I’ve matured and shit.”

“And shit.”

“You get it.”

“I should get going. Where are you? Should I call you back later?”

“Tonight’s Vegas round two, so no. Got Phoenix this weekend though, so maybe Sunday afternoon if you’ve got time. If not, no biggie.”

“How long will you be on the road?”

“Five months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Eh— got some double duty at the tail end, since, you know.”

“Yeah. Well, I wish you all luck.”

“Back at ya, buddy. Let me know if you want me or Trouble to pump up this new gig up online, alright?”

“I’ll consider it. Thank you.--- Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling. It was good to hear your voice.”

Dean swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, you too.”

“Goodbye.”

“Yep.”

Dean hung up and dropped his phone and his hands into his lap. Deflated and a bit untethered, he guessed it was as good a time as any to get dressed.

The inner workings of the casino held an intricate hive of activity. From the hotel portion, to the venues for shows, out onto the actual casino floor, to the shops, restaurants, spas and other specialty amenities that kept people there and spending, workers bustled and hustled at every opportunity. 

So it wasn’t surprising that not one, not two, but three different employees stopped him backstage as he walked around hours before showtime. His therapy with Missouri had left him drained, but in the way muscles were sore after a workout. His feelings were stretched thin, but the conviction he held them with was strengthening. He was emotionally tougher than ever, but it still exhausted him. 

He gave himself some time in the wings, soaking in the memories of the concert the night before and the energy the fans had poured back out to them. He wanted to finish strong then and there, because then he could put the whole damn city behind him for the rest of the tour.

If only the universe worked in his favor.

Once he got downstairs, his past came back to knock him on his ass. Outside Phantom Traveler’s dressing room stood three men, two of them Dean didn’t bother trying to recognize, they were just goons. The third was someone he couldn’t forget even in his best dreams.  

“Hello, Dean,” Cain’s natural civility oozed old money.

“What are you doing down here?” Dean asked without any pretense. So much for the abundance of security. But knowing Cain, he probably paid them off.

“I was hoping for a chance to catch up. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Dean snipped, clocking the lanyards around Cain’s and his bodyguards’ necks. “So you’re here for the show?”

“Of course. You know I was always impressed with your endeavors.”

Dean couldn’t tell if the heat clawing up the back of his neck was from embarrassment, pride, or anger, with Cain things were always complicated. And the fucker knew it.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean felt petulant, but he really didn’t need any favors from the guy.

Cain took a moment, holding Dean in that calculated gaze, then took a step forward. Dean did not back up.

“You know I’m actually surprised you’re deigning to talk to me yourself. Alastair said you sent some Cajun mongrel after him last night.”

“Well, Alastair decided to come at us like a scumbag pap, so-.” Dean shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal if he didn’t make it a big deal. He was barely making polite conversation anyway.

“He does tend to be too dramatic for his own good.” Cain slipped his hands into his pants pockets, casually, but also disarming himself in the process. 

He was untouchable as ever.

“What do you want, man? Not that I’m not enjoying shooting the shit, oh wait, I’m not.”

“Don’t be rude. I wanted to remind you the door’s still open when you’re ready to get back to yourself. The ring’s not the same without you in it. And I hate to have you keeping all that raw talent untapped.”

The words tickled Dean the wrong way as they ticked off of Cain’s tongue.

Dean shuddered and swallowed against the rising bile.

“I’m out. Find yourself another prize hog. I’ve moved on.” He felt the dead look in his own eyes as Cain tisked at his refusal.

“Is that what you tell Ms. Y/L/N? Swear you’ve gone straight, to keep her from looking at you with fear in her eyes? I must say she seems just as smitten with you as that covergirl is supposed to be.”

Dean clenched his jaw and his fist.

Cain let his words sink in and then he took Dean out by the knees. “She doesn’t know, does she, Dean?”

“So what?”

“A man is not what he thinks he is, but he is what he hides,” Cain recited with a raised brow. “What did I tell you about those that don’t understand your dark side? You’ll only disappoint them in the end.”

Dean felt like a kid getting reprimanded for talking back, though Cain was more the dotting teacher type. “Some things should stay buried.”

Cain straightened up and nodded in agreement. “I could always fill her in myself— if it’s too much for you to explain. We could even bring her out after the show, together. Give her a tour of our operations and let her see for herself what you’re capable of? Then maybe you’ll see that she’s not worth the worry.”

“Not a chance. In fact, don’t even fucking look at her.”

“Dean! I’m offering to put some polish on the time we spent together. I’m willing to let Y/N in on your true nature. If that makes it more palatable. You know, it’s not just Alastair that misses seeing you in the ring. I’m sure the boys wouldn’t mind having a fresh— distraction around. We’ve all seen her, you know.”

Dean felt the rage wash over him, the snarling, festering truth; his Hyde side was never truly gone.

“Leave her out of this.” Dean warned, low and bitter. He felt his skin vibrating, his weight shifted naturally onto his toes as his body readied to strike, to lash out and protect. 

Cain looked at him with something close to pity, even as he threatened Dean to the edge of sanity. “I don’t think you understand the lengths I’ll go to bring you home. With or without her, you can’t change who you are inside or where you belong.”

“Everything alright, boss?” Benny’s voice broke through Dean’s thundering thoughts.

“Ah, here’s your man,” Cain’s eyes brightened and he spun on his heels to greet Benny outright. “Yes, hello, Cain Charles. Mr. LaFitte.”

Benny didn’t blink at the uneven introduction, just shook Cain’s hand and held his equally icy glare. “Pleasure.”

“Right. Dean and I were just catching up. But we can leave you gents to set up for the show tonight.” He looked over his shoulder at Dean and then at his two thugs. “Boys? Let’s go find out if they’ve got the box seats open yet.”

Benny, with his flawless instincts, stepped up to the plate. “Why don’t I go with ya? See if I can ease your way?”

Benny nudged Dean with his elbow as he gestured Cain and company down the hall towards the elevators. “You good, hoss?”

“No,” Dean practically grunted.

“Well, go on. I’ve got them.”

Dean shook his head, but kept the rest of his response to himself. He kept his eyes on the back of Cain’s perfect salt and pepper waves until Benny followed half of a beat after. Finally, they disappeared behind sliding metal doors.

Dean gasped out the breath he had been holding and turned and punched the cinderblock wall that led to the dressing rooms. His knuckles burst open and he bent in half with the hot, familiar pain. It wasn’t enough to take away the gut twisting worry that Cain had planted inside him.

But it was enough to bring him back to himself, to that moment and to his hitching breath. He inhaled and shook out his hand. Then he exhaled.

Dean told himself that setbacks happen, that he still was in control of his actions. It just was going to be a long night.

The lights poured down on Dean from every angle, surrounding him with inescapable heat and scrutiny. The show was half way over, he just needed to calm down and be in the moment. But somewhere in the dark, he knew Cain was watching him. No, watching them. 

He flashed a forced grin, cocky and reckless. Fake it ‘til you make it. But the fans loved it, so he kept up the ruse.

“Kevin?” he asked playfully.

“Yeah, Dean?”

“How about we skip the next one and give ‘em some Prophet and Loss instead?”

The crowd screamed in agreement, but Kevin took his time, playing up his indecision.

“You guys wanna hear the new stuff don’t you?!” Dean bellowed, egging them on. Internally begging them to let him out of singing about Lisa right now, or about who he used to be. He couldn’t wait until the album was released and they could focus on the new music, and just touch on the hits.

The fans bayed with excitement.

Kevin played along, ignoring the rest of the setlist and absolutely flexed on the solo.

Letting Kevin have the spotlight, Dean backed up next to Sam, nodding at him as he kept the bassline going. Sam had taken the news of Cain’s reappearance seriously, putting Jesse on Madison detail until she would be taking the flight back to LA the next morning. Bobby and Victor were given blatant warnings that every band member was to be escorted to and from the show and their rooms, yourself and Charlie included. Benny personally promised he’d ensure it got done. But that was only a bandaid on a wound that had been left festering for too long.

Cain knew all of Dean’s tells, and most of his secrets.

Sam, now, held Dean's gaze, silently checking in. But Dean could barely look him in the eye, he was that rough.

Which, of course, Sam noticed.

Guilt was par for the course with Dean, if something sucky was happening, he always felt somewhat at fault. But this was entirely and undeniably his fault and that weight was enough to pull him under and if he wasn’t careful, he’d just let himself sink. To give in to the temptation and be the guy Cain wanted him to be: the fighter that Alastair had curated out of the bar fights and back alley brawls of Dean’s formative years.

To succumb to the anger, and the fear that he’d never be more than that animal, was just too easy.

So, when Sam gave him that incredulous look on stage, Dean had to use every ounce of self control not to just punch his lights out. Fuck him, of all people, for judging Dean. 

He was fucking trying, okay?!

Then Sam’s face shifted and his massive forehead hitched and the puppy dog eyes came out and Dean didn’t want to be seen anymore. He shook his head, shrugged and continued winding his way around the stage, touching base with each member until he was at Kevin’s side. Dean fell into rhythm with Kevin’s extended solo, swaying and bobbing with the beat as it mellowed into a much more upbeat swinging vibe than anything the song it had emerged from ever held.

In that moment, Dean remembered how insanely grateful he was that Kevin had joined the band. His unique twist to the music, mischief, and raw talent were something like paddles to the chest, a resuscitation. A new chance at life for the band.

That bright reminder of hope, of progress, got Dean through the rest of the show. They brought out Annie next and ‘Baby’ was as smooth as the chrome on her namesake.

There were things coming for him that he hadn’t outrun. But on that stage, he was the one who was untouchable. And if it was going to all slip through his fingers by the consequences of his own actions, at least he’d leave it on a high note. 

He gave the people what they came for, and they all left the stage sweaty and smiling.

Tagging:

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@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

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Chapter 37: Portato

[inkdemonapologist]

My BatDR Take That Used To Be Hot But I Left It Out On The Windowsill To Cool So You Should Be Able to Eat It Now Without Burning Your Tongue

its not actually that hot, is what im saying

Anyway my BatDR hot take is that BatDR's story is not fundamentally worse than BatIM with one exception; an exception that, for BatIM, covers a multitude of sins:

BatIM has a theme.

I can't presume the intentions of the creators, but if I had to write an essay on the themes in BatIM, it wouldn't be hard to pick one out: the cost of obsession, or even just, the ruin Joey brought on the studio. In the very first chapter, Henry asks "Joey, what were you doing?" and every single thing in the rest of the game revolves around that central question: what WAS Joey doing? Each audiolog is a snippet of the studio's path to this messed up state; each character you meet is someone ruined by Joey. The major antagonists echo Joey's flaws -- obsession with Bendy as more than a cartoon, obsession with perfection, obsession with fame and greatness and legacy -- but even without that, they're also each a picture of how the lives of people caught in the path of Joey's dream were ruined by it. Bertrum, for example, doesn't match the concept of rubberhose cartoons, but as yet another person screwed over by Joey, he fits the central question of the story, so he feels like he belongs here. Ultimately, in a narrative sense, the Ink Demon isn't the story's monster -- Joey is; the Ink Demon is just the consequence of his reckless ambition.

But what's the theme or central question of BatDR?

You can... try to pick out a theme. There's some promising options, because it feels like the story WANTED a theme, stating its emotional intentions more overtly -- "there's always a choice" to leave the darkness and chose hope; family and the struggle of living in a heavy legacy's shadow; or even just good old mewtwo-brand The Circumstance's Of One's Birth Are Irrelevant, It Is What You Do With The Gift Of Life That Determines Who You Are.

I think, even WITH the clumsy execution of Joey's "arc" and Audrey's lack of real choices, any of those could work about as well as BatIM. But unlike BatIM, the majority of the game doesn't tie in. Joey's tour can be considered relevant -- a picture of the family legacy and the "darkness" that Audrey doesn't yet know she's inheriting -- but like, the audiologs and hints and environment of BatDR are mostly teasing the question of What Is Gent Up To, and the takeover of Gent is detached from Audrey's choices, her family, her legacy, and Gent never really becomes a relevant threat to those things in this game. The Cult of Amok and the Ghost Train have nothing to do with any of these ideas. It might've been neat if Audrey had ever considered, "Did my father really drive all these people insane?", a hint of actually having to wonder about the darkness in her past. Even Wilson only barely brushes against these concepts; he doesn't like Joey and he also is trying to escape his family's heavy legacy, but it doesn't really reflect on his actions and we don't find that last part out until he's about to be dead.

There's also the question Wilson poses of "real" people versus ink creations, and what counts as valid "life." It would be an interesting theme with a lot to build off of in this setting, it ties into Wilson more as Wilson seems to represent the opinion that Inky Things Aren't Really Alive, which could've tied to Audrey (as an ink-person who has yet to accept that part of herself) and maybe given Wilson a reason to think it's fine to sacrifice her, it could've even tied to Gent (who don't even seem to value human life) -- but after Wilson asks the question, it doesn't tie into the direction things go. He smooshes a little Bendy, we see hints of his disregard for Betty, and then everyone continues with their plan to destroy the Ink Demon without any further moral quandaries about inky life.

The thing is, when you compare an element like, say, audiologs, there's a lot of differences you can point to -- but I don't actually think Lacie Benton's audiolog is notably better, taken on its own, than Grace Conway's or Kitty Thompson's, and yet tons of people were intrigued enough to flesh out Lacie. None of them are big plot points or compelling characters on their own; Lacie and Grace both give us a little note on what it's like working in the Studio, and Kitty shares a little bit on how Gent's expansion is affecting people. But when Lacie talks about Bertrum trying to make a creepy animatronic, that ties back into Joey's ill-fated schemes that are the point of the whole story. The question we're asking through the whole game is "what happened here?" so the fandom is interested in who Lacie is and what her life was like and extrapolates a whole person out of a couple sentences. But that's not the question in BatDR -- what has Wilson done to the Cycle and the Demon? Why? Who is Audrey really, and why is she here? Telling us new things about the Studio's fate seems strangely irrelevant to those questions, just an attempt to create a Mystery To Speculate On like the previous game did... but what question you're asking and how it fits into your story's main theme, like, matters. I absolutely believe that one clock animator guy would've been in EVERYONE'S crew if he'd been introduced in BatIM, but the context makes a difference; fleshing him out feels less relevant here.

The explanations of how and why Wilson did everything he did are baffling and handwavey, but in and of itself that's not a worse problem than anything else in the franchise -- I STILL don't understand why the Ink Machine needs pipes in the walls or even how it works, there's no good reason for Sammy to believe the Ink Demon will "set him free," most of Alice's motives don't make sense, etc etc etc. But the thing is that in BatDR, the wibbly bit is the closest thing to a central question we have! Wilson, what were you doing? The theme doesn't really explore or connect to that question, so the explanations that are finally tossed our way feel lacking in a way that BatIM's handwaved elements don't. There's a lot about Joey's motivation in BatIM that we can't know, but the heart of it resonates -- Joey wanted something, he was willing to exploit people to get it, and he became obsessed and prioritised that dream at any cost. We'll weather a thousand logistical inconsistencies if it's got heart.

But all of that said.... to be honest, I don't think Lacie overtly fits that theme anyway. Even, like, Sammy is iffy -- we don't really know what happened to him, only that he didn't used to be made of ink and worship Bendy, and now he does. We assume Joey's nonsense had something to do with what happened to him (though the books later assert his influence was indirect at best), because when there's a pattern, we can fill in the blank. So many fan creators found a place for Lacie, Grant, and Shawn in the cycle as butcher clones or lost ones, so many people imagined that Wally must be the Boris we meet, because that would've fit the pattern, the idea that the point of what we're seeing is the downfall of the studio. It's not actually that BatIM did a great job tying everything together -- it's that BatIM gave us a compelling idea and that was all it took to make everything else SEEM like it could find a place to fit. This is what I mean when I say BatIM's theme covers a multitude of sins. There's a LOT of characters in BatIM that don't make sense. There's a lot of inconsistencies and things that just sort of happen without any real reason. Characters don't really have "arcs" so much as different states they happen to be in at different times. But because there's a central question and the story doesn't wander away from it, our pattern-loving human brains will slot in all the pieces and do all the work to make the story feel at least somewhat coherent.

The things that happened in BatDR aren't a whole lot less coherent than BatIM imo, they just don't tie into a bigger theme or any of the questions the story's asking, making "how do they fit into all this" feel irrelevant, making it easier to forget entire sections and harder to get invested in audiolog characters. I think a lot of the other criticisms people have for BatDR's story are very valid, but I also suspect that if BatDR had a more successful theme/central question, then a lot of its flaws would be easier to overlook -- just like BatIM.

[delirious-donna]

They Call Him The Reaper [Hanma Shuji]

an: after many discussions on discord with @unknownspecies over Shuji and especially soft Shuji in the past few days, this idea was born. A huge thanks to Zoya for helping a ton with the inspiration and characterisation.

pairing: Hanma Shuji x female reader

warnings: SFW, suggestive at best but only in one section, canon level violence mentioned, fluff, photographer timeline Shuji, soft Shuji, self-indulgence

Masterlist

They call him the Reaper.

A title bestowed upon him when he was only an adolescent. A delinquent with seemingly no moral compass, little compassion and a desire to watch the world burn, but only after being the one to strike the match. Nothing but a thug with no qualms about being used by others to enact their worst ideations.

Even now, in his mid-thirties, the namesake remains.

Sure, he isn’t the most upstanding citizen, but he is a far cry from those youthful years when he would pull the wings off insects just to watch them writhe. He found his passion, and it wasn’t taking orders without question. Perhaps those years helped him capture the world in a way that others couldn’t, a unique take on the subject of his photographs that no one but he could draw out because he didn’t see the world like anyone else. 

His studio was full of his favourite shots, landscapes blown up to cover large sections of the walls with small intimate photos scattered around in what seemed like a haphazard way when, in fact, there was a logic and pattern that only made sense to him. Photos taken with a polarizing filter caught your eye amongst the raw scenes on display. Natural sunsets stood out against a sea of cityscapes with twinkling lights, the pure magic of the sun outshining any number of neon lights that covered the glittering buildings.

It was safe to say that he had an eye for photography, and his fully booked calendar only highlighted that fact. However, he hadn’t entirely turned away from his criminal past. He would still lend out favours to those he called friends and they weren’t many. Those that did make the exclusive list were some of the most powerful men in the entire country and the majority of their wealth was stained in crimson, not that he cared.

An enforcer, a dangerous presence or sometimes the kindling to spark the flames of a dispute that had taken too long to reach this point. He played the role well, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t enjoy it when he was called upon. His fingers itched for a good fight often, and whilst he could now channel that energy in other, less violent ways, sometimes nothing could quell the bloodlust than a brawl where his knuckles split wide and smears of his opponent's blood covered his golden-hued skin.

Of course, he was still the Reaper. To be feared simply from how he smiled when he entered a room. It didn’t matter who occupied it or how high up the tree they might be, his smile was crazed, a warning and a threat rolled into one. The wolf called in when things were growing arms and legs, when attention was being drawn and a conclusion was needed sooner rather than later.

One flash of his perfectly white and deadly sharp teeth was enough to silence a room and he got off on that feeling. A glance at the stark black ink decorating the backs of his hands was more than ample to strike fear into the most hardened criminals. They all knew the atrocities those hands had committed, the blood that had long been washed away but still evident on the slender fingers by reputation alone.

An animal. A hired thug. A monster.

Except, he wasn’t those things, at least, not to you. He was gentle, a good listener and a whirlwind of his own making. Not always, and he had his moments when he was far from gentle, but you loved those times nearly as much as you coveted the soft times.

He liked the sound of rainstorms and would pull you to bed simply to lay in his arms and talk whilst the heavy thud of raindrops pelted against the roof and lashed the windows. He was a curious creature and often questioned you over things that seemed trivial but somehow were important to him. What had you eaten for lunch in middle school? What had you wanted to be when you were a kid? Which was your favourite ice cream flavour? 

You’d laugh and press your hand against his shoulder in a playful shove, he couldn’t seriously want to know those things but he truly did. His nose rubbed into your hair as warm laughter met your ear, the arm around your waist tightening until you yielded and gifted him the answers he sought. Did he remember them? You weren’t sure and you didn’t test him on it, it was enough that he had asked in the first place.

The man called the Reaper thought about you and not just when he needed something from you. It had taken some time to sink in but the evidence was plain to see as the little trinkets grew on your vanity. He had an uncanny ability to sense you weren’t in the best of moods, perhaps it was a hard week at work or your monthly cycle kicking your ass. It didn’t matter the reason, simply that in these instances he would appear on your doorstep with that wicked grin curving his lips and a small bag or box in hand. It was never a random item either, always something you had previously spoken about like the hobbies and interests he teased you over or an item you had lingered at whilst out together.

Someone considered a monster couldn’t be that sweet, but he was. Perfect he was not but soft, measured when it counted and open with his affection. He didn’t shy away from twining his fingers with yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles while you swung your joined hands happily. What a funny pair you made when out walking, but he didn’t mind one jot when you had a spring in your step or you pulled him to stop over something you had spied. Maybe you couldn’t see the secret smile that he wore only for you but the ghost of it caught your eye now and then.

For everything that made him hard, dominating and the master of his universe, there was a parallel to be drawn. All you had to do was look within the box tucked away beneath his bed to know that to you, he was no monster to be feared. Inside a frayed box that had been opened and closed so many times that the stiff cardboard was now peeling in places, scuffed and overused, was a thick stack of photos. Polaroids and glossy photos sat in a jumble and the subject of every single one… you.

Some only showed the curve of your shoulder as the morning sun streamed through a bedroom window to bounce off your skin and the rumpled white sheets. Others were candid shots that you remembered fondly. Being chased around your apartment whilst he snapped photos that you tried playfully to avoid. Bright smiles and splayed fingers across the lens blurred the surroundings but did nothing to dampen the happiness they exuded. You’d blush at the intimate ones carefully thumbed by long fingers. Hair spread out on pillows like a halo, features twisted in bliss and uncaring for the camera poised above you. 

Yes, there were lewd images of the two of your bodies joined and the decadent mess such a joining resulted in. Streaks of saliva on heated flesh, a pink tongue painted in creamy white, a hand painted with ‘punishment’ wrapped around an eager throat and other things that made you blush to even think of. 

He even kept the photos you had taken, the ones from a lazy Sunday morning when you had grabbed his camera and snapped away at his tousled hair and carefree expression. Capturing the curls of smoke that rose from one of his morning cigarettes and asking him to try and blow smoke rings just to amuse you. The ones where you kissed his cheek and peeked at the camera with a wink and others where you made stupid faces together until you couldn’t breathe from the laughter.

Despite it all, the violence he was capable of and the times he tested your patience and sanity to the very limit, he had stolen your attention but you had gifted him your love.

They called him the Reaper, but you called him Hanma Shuji.

[luciferlightbringer]

what do you think luci would do finding out val was creepy to reader/charlie?

Let’s see how I do with short pieces! This will be Lucifer responding to hearing about Val being creepy to Charlie (and Angel)

The Moth and The Flame

Word Count: 1.3 k

CW: Mentions of assault, threats, mentions of porn

Charlie and Lucifer were downstairs in the hotel dining room eating breakfast, when Angel and Husk walk in. Husk pulls out a chair for Angel and he flops into it, laying his head on the table with a groan.

Lucifer looks at Angel, then Husk, then Charlie while finishing the bite of cereal that was still in his mouth.

“What uhh… what’s his deal?” Lucifer asked Charlie looking at Angel.

Charlie looked at Husk and sighed, “Val?”

Husk nodded “Val.”

Angel rubbed his face, “It’s always Val!”

Lucifer took another scoop of cereal with his scoop and he looked at the other three in confusion, “Who… is Val?” He shoves the spoon in his mouth.

Husk shook his head “Valentino, Overlord of the Porn Industry.”

“And Angel’s boss,” Charlie added, “The guy is a monster.”

Lucifer thought as he chewed, “Ah! Hmm… sounds familiar. He’s one of those Vee’s right?” Charlie and Husk nodded, “Eh. Overlords are weird, they come and go so often it’s hard to keep track. Wait, Charlie, have you met this guy?”

“Well uhh…” Charlie started.

“If by “met” you mean she showed up to the studio while I was at work and then nearby set the place on fire while trying to get Val to let me off work early… ‘den yes, she has,” Angel rolled his head so that he was looking more at Lucifer.

Lucifer gave Charlie a look, Charlie sputtered “It was a mistake I made one time! It wasn’t a big fire, he put it out like immediately… Plus it…it was… fine… he did ask me if I wanted a job… and he licked my arm… bleh… that was not great.”

“And he hit me, but that’s nothin’ new,” Angel added.

Lucifer put his bowl on the table, “He did… what?” He looked at Charlie and then to Angel, his eyes had gone red demon red.

“Dad, it’s not a big deal…”

“Charlie…” Lucifer said looking at her. Angel sat up more in his seat, seeing Lucifer get more upset and protective, this got Angel a little excited.

Charlie fought with herself for a minute before breaking, “Ok fine! It was really uncomfortable and gross, he was mean to me and Angel and he was just overall not really respectful. Really mean.” She crossed her arms.

Lucifer looked over at Angel with a smug smile on his face, “I can’t break your contract, but I can at least rough him up a bit if you want?”

Angel just smiled and nodded, “As long as you get his reaction on video!”

Lucifer grin widened as he unfurled his wings and opened a portal above him, “I’ll be right back,” and he disappeared into the portal and it closed behind him.

Charlie, Angel, and Husk all looked at each other, Charlie with concern, Angel with excitement, and Husk with intrigue.

Lucifer ended up outside of the entrance to the Vee’s building, and walked inside confidently. People gasped and whispered as he walked inside. The front receptionist sputtered as she saw him walk in, “M-Mr. Morningstar, uhhh, your highness, what an honor… uhhh what can I help you with?”

Lucifer leaned over the counter and smiled “Hello! I am in need of a private audience with Valentino…” his smiled dropped, “now.”

The receptionist panicked, “Yes! Of course! Let me, haha, let me call him really quick.” She picked up the phone and called Val. Up in a smoke and sex filled studio on a further up on a higher floor of the building, Valentino got a call, he rolled his eyes and answered.

“Mindy, darling… this better be fucking important if you are calling me in the middle of a shoot,” Valentino snarled into the phone, before taking a sip of his drink.

The receptionist flinched, “It’s Maddy, and… of course Val. You have a visitor who needs to meet with you now… it’s uhh… it’s Lucifer Morningstar sir.”

Valentino spit out his drink at the name, gaining the attention of the rest of the staff in the studio. What the Hell was Lucifer doing here?! He had never visited or talked to Val before. “Of course, his majesty is welcome! I will be ready for him presently. Send him up.” Valentino ended the call and looked to everyone else in the room, “15 everyone! Get out of my sight, now!” The rest of the room scattered.

Maddy showed Lucifer to the elevator and he thanked her as the doors closed. He headed up the building until the doors opened to reveal a tall moth man in pimp-ish clothing.

Valentino took a deep bow as Lucifer stepped off the elevator “Your majesty, what an honor to make your acquaintance. What brings you to my humble chamber of sin today?” His words dripping with a sultry tone.

Lucifer looked Valentino up and down, “Are you Valentino?”

Valentino bit his tongue, “Yes of course! Valentino, Overlord of the Porn Industry, at your service.”

Lucifer made a face, “Ah, ok well I will make this quick. It was recently made aware to me that you… how do I put this… violated and disrespected my daughter, Charolette Morningstar?”

Val’s eyes went wide thinking back to when the Princess broke into his studio several months prior asking for Angel to have some time off from work.

“Oh I do remember her coming by a while ago, did she also tell you that she almost set my studio ablaze during her visit?” Val responded trying not to lose his temper.

“Yes we have discussed that, and I’d be happy to pay for any damages she may have caused. What I fail to understand,” Lucifer starts walking toward Val, eyes going red with horns and tail emerging “Is how you think it is ok to proposition the Princess of Hell, my daughter for a job and then violate her skin with your tongue? Would you dare the same moves with me, Valentino?!” Lucifer was up in Val’s face by thing point, and Val was starting to shake.

“N-no… your highness… I suppose not…”

“So… do we understand why I might be a little upset to hear about this? She may not be me, but she is my daughter and your Princess. She has too kind of a heart to kill you where you stand, but she could if she wanted to. I however, have no such qualms.”

Val’s eyes went wider as he started to shake harder in fear, he dropped to his knees and bowed to Lucifer, “Please, please spare me your highness! I’m sorry, I was stupid. I have this uhh… this temper sometimes and uhh… things just get away from me. I was on edge and wasn’t thinking clearly. Please, I’ll never disrespect her or you ever again, I’ll do anything!”

Lucifer grinned widely, “Anything?”

Val nodded.

Lucifer quickly reverted back to his usual self. “Great! Never disrespect anyone in my family ever again, ok?” He gave a wild prideful smile.

“Uhh… ok,” Val blinked.

“Great! Well I’m glad we got that settled,” Lucifer went to prep himself to teleport out, “Oh! And one more thing.”

Val had started to stand up and looked at Lucifer nervously, “Yes?”

“I understand that you have a contract with Angel Dust and own his soul, but he lives under the protections of me and my family now. So if I EVER hear of you physically abusing him ever again, even a rumor of it,” Lucifer’s demon form came out again “I’ll be skipping the front desk and come right for your neck, got it?”

Val nodded again frantically.

Lucifer reverted again, “Wonderful! That’s all I had. Have a great reset of your day Valentino.” Lucifer tipped his hat and returned to the hotel through a swirl of red smoke.

Val stood shaking for a minute, an assistant peaked out at him.

“Uhh Mr. Valentino, sir? Are you ready to continue?”

Val continued to shake and stare at the spot where Lucifer just disappeared from.

“I-I… I think we need to wrap for the day…” Val said before walking off to his room to call Vox.

[mswyrr]

(Source)

Agatha was always meant to die and end up Billy's ghost mentor/sidekick on his journey. Okay. So, title the show Coven of Chaos (a cute reference to his chaos magic that makes it clear Agatha isn't the lead) and play fair with the audience instead of focusing on constantly subverting expectations. There still would have been twists and surprises, which I know mcu loves. But it wouldn't have the element of it feeling like a con was pulled on the audience for thinking the story was about these women instead of them being there to serve a guy's story.

The obsession with twists and subverting expectations and misdirects and switcheroos consumes the narrative until they don't have enough space to actually build and accomplish much. In that interview Jac even outright admits emotional beats hit wrong because the structuring was off.

Can people please stop treating disappointed viewers like we're monsters when the showrunner herself owns that the writing was off at key points? Probably due to studio notes and interference re: the importance of this launching a marketable Young Avengers character, and I'm sure Jac et al did all they could, but it also stings.

[lawsvalentine]

Iconic Romantic Movie Moments They Do • OP Men HC • (SFW)

Fem!reader

Charcters: Monster Trio, Usopp, Law, Ace, Sabo, Marco

CW: None. Pure Fluff

Cee’s Note: Soooo this idea came to me when I was watching Tangled and the lantern scene happened and then I just started thinking about my favorite romantic scenes from movies. Hope y’all enjoy 😉

Luffy- Spider Man Kiss

One day Luffy was feeling a bit mischievous and decided to use his stretchy legs to hang from the top of one of the rails of the Sunny to scare you. He saw you turning a corner and positioned himself before springing down in front of you causing you to let out a high pitched scream. Luffy started to laugh hysterically at your reaction, causing you to pout and whine his name.

Despite his prank, you couldn’t stay mad at your silly boyfriend. You also couldn’t deny how cute he looked hanging upside down so you approached him and decided to lay one on him. You gently held his cheeks, as your lips continued to move against each others. As you pulled away, Luffy had his signature grin plastered on his face making you giggle. From that day forward, Luffy decided to surprise you like that more often just to receive your kisses.

Zoro- Ghost Clay Scene

One of the activities you liked to do in your spare time is pottery. After asking Franky to build you a pottery studio (which he happily obliged) that became your favorite place to be on the ship. Zoro had been looking for you when he noticed you didn’t show up during his training to bug him. When he finally found you, he smirked as a bright idea came to his mind.

Next thing you knew, your back was pressed against Zoro’s bare chest, his muscular arms wrapped around you, fingers interwined with yours as you both molded the clay in front of you. He pressed soft kisses to your neck making you squeal and turn your head. Let’s just say, Zoro made a mental note to do this more often with you.

Sanji- Lady and the Tramp Spaghetti Scene

Sanji wanted to take you to a restaurant for a date once you guys docked the Sunny. You told him if he could woo you on the date, you would give him a kiss at the end of it. He got a nose bleed just thinking about the challenge and he was determined to win it. You guys were at this fancy Italian restaurant where he ordered the couple’s spaghetti special on the menu that could be shared with two people. Sanji knew he was close to wooing you after the gentlemen like charm he was giving you throughout the date.

When the food came, you both gawked at how huge the plate was. You were slurping up a noodle and you couldn’t help but notice how long it was but that didn’t stop you. Little did you know Sanji was also slurping the same noodle and before you knew it, your lips met in middle. You pulled away, eyes widened and cheeks heating up from the kiss. Sanji with heart filled eyes was babbling on about how soft your lips were and how he knew he would win a kiss from you. You roll your eyes and press your lips against his again to shut him up.

Usopp- 10 things I hate about you serenade

You were chatting with Nami and Robin when you mentioned how romantic it would be to be serenaded in public. Usopp overheard the conversation and although he was nervous of the thought of publicly singing and dancing in front of other people, he was determined to impress you. With the help from brook with the song (lets just pretend that can’t take my eyes off you existed during that time) and Franky and Luffy with the choreography, Usopp was ready for his performance.

You guys were in the middle of a town when Usopp started performing his serenade. He was on top of high ledges of a building, prancing around, singing his heart out to you. He would occasionally wink and point to you during his song, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t swooning. You and the crew were cheering and hyping him up as he continued his serenade. In the middle of his song, a couple of marines spotted him and started to chase him. But the show must go on, because Usopp didn’t stop his serenade despite him being chased. You were a giggling blushing mess throughout the entire song but you loved every second of it

Law- Love, Actually Card Scene

Law has had a crush on you for a while but didn’t know how to tell you because he was afraid he would say the wrong thing and mess it all up. He isn’t good with expressing his emotions, let alone being romantic. Bepo, Penguin, and Sachi knew about Law’s dilemma and came up with a great idea. At first, Law refused but after penguin and Sacchi’s begging and Bepo’s puppy eyes, Law decided to give it a try. But he threatened to shambles them off the Polar Tang if it didn’t work.

You heard a knock from your door, causing you to get up and open it, revealing your nervous captain. He was holding some big cards with his usual serious face. You read card after card, him flipping one over the other. The last card he hesitated for a moment, cheeks starting to tint pink, as he revealed the card. It read “will you be mine?”. Your eyes widened and mouth opened in shock before changing into a beaming smile as you wrap your arms around him and kissed him. Bepo, Penguin, and Sacchi, who were hiding in the hallway watching the whole thing, quietly celebrated and high fived each other.

Ace- Tangled Lantern Scene

Ace had an idea for a date night for you but he needed some assistance from Marco to make it happen. Ace was leading you on the beach, blindfold over your eyes to the spot. Once you two reached the spot, he removed your blindfold revealing a small boat with two lanterns in the middle of it. You were confused yet intrigued for what was to come.

As you two set out, you were both holding the lantern in your hands. With a countdown, you both released your lanterns into the sky. Your face was in awe as more lanterns started to float around the air. Marco was flying around above you two dropping the lanterns around you guys. You reach out to catch one before releasing it back out. Ace just sat and admired how the lights illuminated your features. You commented on how beautiful the lights were, which Ace responded saying it didn’t compare to how beautiful you were. You blushed at his words before leaning in to kiss him.

Sabo - Enchanted Ballroom Scene

You and Sabo were assigned a mission to go undercover to gather information from a ball thrown by one of the celestial dragons. You guys had to blend in so you both were in expensive ballroom wear. Sabo thought you looked gorgeous in your gown. A slow song started playing(again lets pretend this song existed in their time) and sabo asked for your hand to dance.

You were shocked considering he had been previously complaining about how he “doesn’t dance”. So you accepted his offer and you two made your way towards the dance floor. From the way he gently held you as you both swayed to the way he was looking at you, you couldn’t help but get lost in him completely forgetting about the mission

Marco- Titanic Deck Scene

You had always expressed to Marco how cool you thought his devil fruit power was. Especially the flying, wishing you could fly like he does. Marco had offered to take you with him into the sky but you weren’t sure if you were brave enough to go that high. So he got the bright idea on how to ease you into it.

He held out his hand that you hesitantly took as he lifted you up at the edge of the ship. It was a bit high but not a bad place to start. Marco brought his arms around yours, intertwining your hands as he slowly brought your arms out wide, mimicking his wings. He slowly removed his arms without you realizing it, and you felt amazing as the wind blew under your arms making you feel like you really were flying. He chuckled at your excited expression, as he brought his arms to wrap around your waist and hold you.

[canmom]

So the Tie Fighter guy, Paul 'OtaKing' Johnson, dropped his latest magnum opus: this time, Alien in the same 80s-anime inspired style! Six years to make, which I can well believe looking at every frame of this.

I have mixed feelings about it as a film, but it's definitely worth a watch before you read my words below.

As ever, it's a retro pastiche fan film - this time a tribute to Alien. The animation is, as before, largely 2D-on-3D with a bit of 3D-roto assistance here and there - there's a process video from a couple years back here.

How do I even comment on something like this? The man is a shape rotator nonpareil, drawing complex perspective shots with an ease that makes me envious. At the same time... do you notice how the movement is just... kinda off throughout this film? So many shots feel too evenly spaced, lacking weight, or with odd unmotivated choices in the character acting. It seems churlish to make such a criticism when this guy is singlehandedly drawing animation at a level of detail that would be out of reach for most full-fledged studios, but it feels like the same problem as Umetsu's animation in Megazone 23 Part 2, where they pursued such a level of detail that nothing moved naturally. It's like this guy is some kinda animation minmax build.

Like Tie Fighter, it's a side story that leans heavily on the visual language of the original. It's not as heavily referential of anime shots this time - no Itano Circus or that one shot where the camera flies over the decks of a ship up to the bridge (where did that come from, Yamato?). But it's still got a lot of flashy rotating camerawork and unusual angles and complex character rotations.

Despite this technical complexity, though, there is little of the tension that suffused the original film. Here the alien is in plain sight throughout, somehow feeling more like a guy in a rubber suit than it did in the original movie. This is, I think, largely down to how it moves, and how much the camera wants you to see everything.

It's a tricky balance: on the one hand, the whole thrust of this short is to wow you with its drawings, so it really needs to show you just how shiny the alien is in Johnson's style. But Alien was very much a 'never fully show the monster' kind of movie, letting the alien blend into the dark mechanical environments of the Nostromo as a constant 'could be anywhere' menace. Here everything is brightly lit, the better to show off those delightful anime highlights, so you'll never miss the alien walking down a corridor.

It was also a much slower movie, with waves of 'worse shit happening' washing over you - the escalating ladder of tension and brief relief before the alien does something more fucked up. Here there's no mystery, we know the alien's life cycle already. So in the end this feels like something of a speedrun of the original's beats, to its detriment - when the MC decides to scuttle her ship, you don't get the same sense of a desperate last resort against a relentless enemy, such that destroying the ship is the only option. (In fact it seems rather like she could have escaped the alien once it was floating around in space near the ship...)

Creating a fan film like this, much like franchise media, is a pretty tricky problem! Devotion to the original is kind of its whole raison d'être, so it can't do anything that would really extend or contradict the canon, or really touch the canon characters. But it still wants to hit the images that people associate with Alien! So not!Ripley on the not!Nostromo confronts an alien, as if this is something of a regular occurrence. But the alien must not escape, or it would undercut the original movie. So it's like an echo; it can't mix up the formula.

I don't want to complain too much tho. It's not every day you get something like this drop. More just that I want to learn from it... that 80s shading style still has that power, flat colours and strong shapes beat all the gradients in the world. But if you neglect those animation principles... it won't save you!