#digging in the dark black pearl

[thedawner]

It’s 7:50 am and my brain has ‘Jesse Got Trapped In A Coal Mine’ on repeat.

[shotmrmiller]

i need simon to be the one neighbor with a generator when the light's been out for days and when you shakily ask him if he can let you at least charge your phone he just drags you into his home and tells you that you can stay if you pull your weight ie. feed him and wash his ripe work clothes.

sure. you don't know how to cook but he eats it like gordon ramsey made it, doesn't even leave crumbs on the table.

you mix colors with whites, dark with light, but luckily for you, all he wears is black. (not like it matters. if you stained a wife beater pink, he'd blame it on his girl mixing her red thready knickers in with his own clothes)

it works, you suppose, but then he tells you that yall are about to have company so make plenty of food. it's 3 others but they all eat like a family of four.

and this is where things take a turn. where he always left you alone before, his hands are on your shoulders. waist. hips. curling around your ankle, thumb digging into your foot beneath the table. the scottish one notices and tells you both to keep it PG. ye're in decent company, he grumbles.

he helps pick up the dishes once everyone's happy and full of whatever you threw in the oven. stands so close he's pining you against the sink, counter digging painfully into your skin.

"they like ya," he says. well yes, you rather noticed when they kept complimenting the science experiment you called dinner. you also noticed that they called you missus. or maybe you misheard. their accents are pretty thick.

after a nightcap, he sends them on their merry way. "the missus is tired. off with ya." so you hadn't misheard.

you aren't sure how one thing led to another. how you'd been aimlessly drying dishes with a rag to having his head between your thighs, tongue dragging between your folds, fingers pressed into you up to the knuckle.

what do you know is that where he bit your neck as you came still aches. he'd been talking filth that would have even a sailor apple cheeked as he used his spit slick thumb to rub your stiff pearl in tight little circles, feeling you felt your peak approaching at a speed that almost frightened you when he sunk his crooked teeth into the junction of your neck. hard.

enough to feel a bit of a stinging tearing of skin.

ouch. you'd ask if this is also a part of pulling your weight but he's doing it for you as he drags you toward his bedroom.

[v6quewrlds]

❝ pretty little thing, j. burrow. ❞  ‎ ‎ ┉  

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: it is a rare quiet morning for you and joe. while you plan to sleep in and take it easy, your husband has other more active plans.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: my first joe fic, everybody cheer!! i did not plan for it to be this long but she's fresh, she's cute, i like her. i hope you all like it <333 requests are open for headcanons, texts, blurbs, fics, etc.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, sexual content, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, penetration, very slight praise kink, fingering, joe is pussy drunk fr fr.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: joe burrow x black!wife!reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 6.7k.

You stirred in the bed, the morning light creeping through the blinds. The soft hum of the city outside barely registered in your sleep-laden ears. The bed shifted as Joe's arm snaked around your waist, gently pulling you closer. "Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his playful gaze. "Mornin'," you mumbled, still clinging to the last vestiges of sleep.

Joe leaned in, kissing you gently. "No meetings today?"

You yawned, stretching languidly. "Nope, not a single one."

Joe's grin grew wolfish. "Perfect," he said, his hand sliding down to your thigh. His voice was low, his eyes dark with desire.

You giggled, swatting at him playfully. "What are you doing, you hornball?"

Joe's grin only grew wider. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he replied, his hand continuing its journey under the covers.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. "It's barely seven in the morning, Joe."

"Exactly," Joe said, his hand reaching its destination and squeezing at your ass, causing you to gasp. "We've got all day to do whatever we want."

"And what is it that you want to do?" You asked, your voice teasing as you felt his fingers dance along your skin.

Joe's eyes lit up with mischief. "I want to fuck my gorgeous wife," he said bluntly, his voice thick with lust.

You rolled your eyes again, feigned annoyance lacing your tone. "Always so romantic," you teased, even as your body responded to his touch.

"Well, it's been a while since we had a morning like this," Joe said, his hand moving between your legs, stroking you lightly. "I want to make it count."

Your giggles turned into moans as Joe's fingers found their mark, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body as they danced over your sensitive pearl. "You're insatiable," you murmured, your manicured hands gripping the strands of his blonde hair as your lips found each other again in a heated kiss.

Your foreplay grew more intense, Joe's hand working your body with the precision of a maestro, drawing out your pleasure with every stroke. Your breath hitched as his thumb circled your clit, your legs trembling against his muscular thigh. You could feel him growing hard against you, his arousal pressing into your side.

"Fuck me, Joe," you whispered, your voice needy as the ache between your legs grew.

With a low growl, Joe complied, rolling you onto your back and positioning himself above you. He kissed you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours, as he entered you in one smooth thrust. You arched your back, your nails digging into the bed sheets as Joe began to move. He was rough and unrelenting, your bodies slapping together in a rhythm that filled the room with the sound of passion.

Joe's eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze matching the force of his movements. "You're so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "I can't get enough of you."

Your eyes rolled back in your head as Joe's words sent a jolt of pleasure through you. "You talk too much," you gasped, your own voice laced with desire.

Joe chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, leaning down to nip at your earlobe. He knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you crazy with want. His hips slammed into yours, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady beat that echoed your passion.

You wrapped your legs around Joe's waist, pulling him deeper, urging him faster. You were wet and ready for him, your body responding to his every touch like a finely tuned instrument. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you as he picked up the pace, your bodies moving in a symphony of need.

Your lovemaking was raw and uninhibited, a dance you'd perfected over the years. You knew each other's bodies so well, every curve and dip, every sensitive spot that could send the other spiraling over the edge. As Joe thrust into you, your eyes locked, a silent communication passing between you that was as intimate as your joined bodies.

“Come on, baby, take this dick,” Joe urged, his voice gruff with desire as he pumped into you with a fervor that left you gasping for air. You could feel the tension building within you, your core tightening around him with every powerful stroke. The bed creaked in protest under your combined weight, the sound melding with your moans and gasps.

“You’re going to make me come, Joey,” you panted, your eyes glazed with passion.

“That’s the plan,” he replied with a wicked smile, increasing his pace. He watched your chest rise and fall rapidly, your breaths growing shallower with each thrust.

Your walls tightened around him, your moans turning into a high-pitched whine. Her nails dug into his back, leaving trails of fire on his skin. The sight of your pleasure, the feel of your body clamping down on his, was too much for Joe to resist. He bit his lip, fighting to hold back his own climax. But as your cries grew louder, he lost all control, driving into you with a fierce growl.

“Shit, baby.” Joe groaned as his climax neared, his hips moving erratically. He felt your body tense, your legs quivering around him. “You gonna come for me?” he asked, his voice thick with passion.

“Fuck yes, Joe, I’m coming!” Your moans only served to push Joe further into his trance. “Wanna come for you,” you whined into his ear.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, be a good girl for me, aren’t you baby?” Joe whispered, his eyes gleaming as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. You nodded, your breaths coming in short pants, your eyes fluttering closed.

The tension between you grew palpable, until finally, your back arched off the bed with a scream of pleasure. Joe’s eyes rolled back in his head as he felt you tighten around him, your muscles pulsing in a delicious rhythm that sent him hurtling over the edge. He filled you with his seed, your bodies shuddering in unison as you reached your peak.

You lay there for a moment, panting and spent, your hearts racing in sync. Joe’s chest heaved with the exertion, his body slick with sweat, as he collapsed onto yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, savoring the feeling of his warmth against your skin.

"I love you," Joe murmured, kissing your neck softly.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice still trembling from your orgasm.

As you lay there, Joe’s mind drifted to his morning routine, his thoughts of a hard workout fighting against the post-coital bliss. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you. "You coming to the gym with me?"

You groaned, playing coy. "After that performance, I might need a nap first."

Joe chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Come on," he said, kissing the tip of your nose. "It'll do you good."

You sighed dramatically, but the twinkle in your eye gave you away. "Fine, but you're carrying me there."

With a smirk, Joe didn't need further prompting. He hoisted you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, your squeals of surprise turning into laughter. Her long coils cascaded down his back as he marched towards your closet, his bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. You playfully slapped at his backside, trying to wriggle free, but his grip was firm.

"You're not getting out of this," he said, his voice filled with good-natured determination.

"Put me down, Joe," you giggled, your cheek pressed against his shoulder as you attempted to squirm away.

"Nope, you said you'd come with me, so you're coming," Joe said with a smug grin, his muscles flexing as he set you down in the walk-in closet, turning to find your workout gear.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't deny the thrill of excitement that shot through you. It had been too long since you'd had the energy to keep up with Joe's intense workout routines. You watched him rummage through your neatly organized space, his toned ass on full display in his boxer briefs. Despite your protests, you felt a familiar stirring of excitement.

He pulled out matching sets of black workout clothes, tossing yours onto the bed. "You can thank me later," he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

With a mock pout, you slipped into your gear, your curves hugged tightly by the spandex. You had to admit, it felt good to be out of your business attire and into something that allowed you to move freely. Joe couldn't help but steal glances at you as you made your way to the home gym. You caught him looking and shot him a playful glare, which only made him grin wider.

Once in the gym, Joe turned on his workout playlist, the bass-heavy beats filling the space and setting the mood. You warmed up together, stretching your muscles in a tug of flexibility and strength. You couldn't help but feel a sense of pride as you watched Joe move with such grace and power. He'd always been fit, but his dedication to his career had sculpted him into something truly awe-inspiring.

You began your workout, Joe lifting weights that seemed impossibly heavy while you hit the treadmill. Despite your initial hesitation, you found that your body was responding well to the exertion. You pushed yourself, the endorphins flooding your system as you picked up speed, feeling the burn in your legs. The scent of sweat and effort filled the air, a heady mix that was oddly intoxicating.

Joe caught your eye from across the room, his own workout taking on a more intense edge. You were both so focused on your routines, yet couldn't help but steal glances at each other. The way your breasts bounced with each step on the treadmill, the way Joe's biceps bulged with every curl. You were both aware of the effect you had on each other, the sexual tension building again as the minutes ticked by.

You stepped off the treadmill, your body glistening with sweat. You grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped your face, watching Joe from the corner of your eye. He was doing lunges now, his thighs flexing with each powerful movement. You couldn't help but lick your lips, remembering how those same muscles had felt under your fingertips earlier.

"You okay over there?" Joe called out, a smirk playing on his lips as he caught you ogling him.

You laughed, snapping out of your daze. "Fine, just admiring the view," you said with a wink, grabbing a set of dumbbells.

Joe's smirk grew into a full-blown grin. "Keep that up, and I might have to show you some more of the view," he teased, not missing a beat in his lunges.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. You began your dumbbell routine, the clanking of the weights a metronome to the pounding bass of Joe's playlist. You worked out in tandem, your movements synchronized despite the different exercises. Joe couldn't help but admire your dedication, and the way you pushed yourself despite your initial protests. You'd always been strong, not just physically, but mentally as well. Her resilience was one of the things that had first drawn him to you all those years ago.

The air grew thick with your exertion, the scent of sweat and pheromones a potent cocktail that only added to the tension. As Joe moved to the bench press, he watched your ass dip as you did squats, your toned muscles flexing with each descent. His eyes traced the lines of your body, memorizing every curve, every inch. It was all he could do to focus on his own workout, his thoughts wandering to the delicious ways he'd like to explore your body again once you were done.

You felt his gaze on you, and you couldn't help but push yourself harder, a smirk playing on your lips as you caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. You knew exactly what he was thinking, and it only served to stoke the fire within you. You'd always had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and the idea of Joe watching you, wanting you, was incredibly arousing.

You pushed through your routines, the room echoing with the sound of your breaths and the clank of metal. Your muscles began to burn, but you didn't stop, your eyes never leaving Joe's reflection. You could see his own workout was taking its toll on him, his face a mask of concentration and effort. Yet, you knew he was just as aware of you as you were of him. It was a silent game of seduction played out amidst the grunts and groans of exertion.

As Joe finished his last set of bench presses, he looked over at you, who was now doing some ab work. Her stomach muscles rippled as you worked through the last of your crunches. With the final crunch, you sat up, catching Joe's eye and sticking your tongue out playfully. He chuckled, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. You'd always had this playful, competitive streak in your relationship, and it was clear you was enjoying pushing his buttons as much as he enjoyed pushing yours.

You decided to take a quick break, chugging water and wiping the sweat from your faces. You couldn't help but lean into Joe's side, feeling the heat of his body against yours. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in tightly. "Shower?” he suggested, his voice low and filled with promise.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. "Race you," you said, taking off at a sprint towards the bathroom. Joe chuckled, following close behind. You stumbled into the shower, your laughter echoing off the tiles as you both struggled to get the temperature just right. The water cascaded down your bodies, washing away the grime of your workout and leaving you gleaming.

Under the spray, Joe's hands found your body, his touch gentle, cherishing the casual intimacy as the warm water hit your skin. You leaned into him, your head tilting back to allow the water to run down your neck and over your breasts. The shower was a cocoon of steam and sensuality as you took turns washing each other, your eyes locked, smiles playing on your lips.

“Alright, what’s going on up there?” You asked as you looked at Joe, your eyes twinkling with loving concern, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You’ve been avoiding having any real conversation all morning, Joe.” Her voice was soft, not accusatory, just curious.

Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he leaned against the shower wall. The hot water beat down on his broad back, the steam obscuring the tension in his face. There was no point in hiding his thoughts from his wife. You knew him better than anyone else, and you’d be the first to call him out on his mood swings. You knew exactly what made him tick.

"It's the team," Joe began, his voice echoing off the tiles. "We're playing like shit." He paused, his eyes closing briefly as the warm spray washed over his face. "The defense is a joke, and the coaching...it's just not there."

Your eyes softened, and you reached out to gently rub his chest. You knew how much the game meant to him, how much he put into it. "You're doing everything you can, Joe," you reassured him, your voice soothing. "Everyone can see that you're playing out of your mind. best QB rating in the league, over 80% completion, anyone with a brain knows you’re not the problem Joe.”

Joe leaned into your touch, his eyes still closed. "It's just...frustrating," he admitted. "I feel like I'm carrying the whole team on my back."

Your hand stilled on his chest, your expression serious. "You know I'm here for you, right?" you said, your voice steady. "Through all of it."

Joe's eyes snapped open, meeting yours. "I do," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I'm sorry for taking it out on you. I know I’m a dickhead sometimes with my moods. It’s just hard not to let it get to me."

"You are a dickhead sometimes," You teased lightly, your fingers tracing the contours of Joe's abs, eliciting a chuckle from him. "But, unfortunately, I love you for it. I love seeing how passionate you are about your work.”

The warm water cascaded over you, mixing with your laughter as Joe leaned in to kiss you. It was a gentle kiss, one that spoke of your deep connection and understanding. It was moments like these that made you realize how much you'd missed in your usually hectic lives. You pulled away slightly, your gaze searching his.

"Thank you," Joe murmured, his eyes meeting yours with a rare vulnerability. "For everything."

You nodded, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Always," you said softly. “I’d do anything just to see you at peace. You know that."

Joe's arms tightened around you, his eyes searching yours. "I know," he murmured. "You’ve stuck by me through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it." He leaned in to kiss you again, his hand sliding down to cup your waist, pulling you closer against him.

“From the minute I touched down at LSU, you were there, pushing me to be better, supporting me when I doubted myself,” Joe said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “You’ve been my rock through all the shit, babe.”

Her own eyes misted over, you leaned into him. “And you were there for me when I needed it most,” you whispered. “When my whole world was falling apart.”

Joe nodded, remembering your darkest days, post-surgery. The pain, the doubt, the fear that you’d never play your sport again. He’d held your hand through it all, encouraging you to keep pushing, to find a new passion. And you had, in him and in the success of his football career.

You stood there, bodies entwined, the water beating down on your skin, sharing a moment of quiet understanding. It was in these moments that you felt closest, stripped of your public personas and your individual ambitions, just two people in love.

"You know," you began, your voice still soft, "You could always talk to someone about it. Maybe it's time to have a sit-down with the coaches?"

Joe sighed, his eyes closing briefly. "It's complicated," he said. "I don't want to be the guy who throws the team under the bus."

You nodded, understanding his dilemma. "But Joe, you're not throwing anyone under the bus," you said, your voice firm. "You're expressing your frustration, and that's okay. It's not about blame, it's about finding a solution."

Joe looked at you, his gaze intense. "I just want to win," he admitted. "For the team, for the city, for us."

"I know," you said, your voice soothing. "But you can't carry the weight of everyone's expectations on your shoulders. It's not fair to you when you’re playing your ass off and they can’t give you some help."

Joe nodded, his grip on you tightening slightly. He knew you were right, but it was hard to let go of the pressure he felt. "I'll talk to them," he said, his voice a little defeated. "But I can't promise anything."

You leaned up to kiss his neck, your teeth grazing his skin. "That's all I'm asking, baby," you murmured. "Just talk to them. Maybe it'll help."

Joe nodded, his resolve strengthening as your lips moved down his body. He knew you were right. He couldn't keep carrying the weight of the team's failures on his own. He had to trust that his voice would be heard and that changes could be made.

You stepped out of the shower, the cool air a stark contrast to the steamy warmth you'd just shared. You reached for a towel, wrapping it around your body and releasing your hair from its confines underneath your shower cap. As Joe toweled off, he couldn't help but appreciate the artistry of your singular tattoo, the way it danced over your muscles as you moved. It was a constant reminder of the fierce strength that lay beneath your softness.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand. "Let's get dressed and order some breakfast. I'm starving."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Fine, but no more distractions," you warned, swatting him playfully on the ass.

"Scout's honor," Joe said with a grin, his eyes lighting up mischievously.

In the bedroom, you quickly dried off and threw on your clothes, your bodies still humming with energy from your workout and the passionate kiss you'd shared in the shower. Your mind wandered to the kitchen, picturing the ingredients you had in mind for a hearty breakfast to fuel Joe for the day ahead. Heading downstairs, you felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of cooking for him. It was a small gesture, but one that you knew meant a lot to Joe, especially when his days were packed with practice and meetings.

Joe followed you, his eyes tracing the way your hips swayed in the oversized LSU Football shirt. Despite his earlier promise to behave, he couldn't resist slipping his hand under the fabric to squeeze your ass as you walked in front of him. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, but your smile gave away your amusement. You knew he was just teasing you, trying to get a rise out of you. It was a dance you'd been doing for years, and you found it both infuriating and endearing.

“Instead of ordering, let me cook for you today," you offered as you descended the stairs, the plush carpet cushioning your bare feet. "It's been too long since I've had the chance to take care of you."

Joe's eyes lit up. "You don't have to, babe," he protested weakly, knowing full well that he'd lost that battle the moment you'd suggested it.

"I know," you said with a smirk. "But I want to make sure my man eats good. You give it to me so good, I wanna reward you. Now sit down, I'll handle it," you instructed as you pushed him onto one of the high-backed chairs at the kitchen island.

Joe obeyed, watching as you tied your hair back in a messy bun, revealing the nape of your neck. He found himself craving another taste of you, but he knew he had to be good for now. He leaned back, his eyes tracing the curves of your body as you moved around the kitchen, pulling out pans and ingredients with the ease of a seasoned chef. The sound of sizzling bacon filled the air, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

You began to prep a feast fit for a king. You whipped up eggs, topped with cheese and chives, crispy bacon, and a side of avocado toast. You knew Joe's diet was strict, but today was a day for indulgence. Plus, you knew he had earned it.

“Ja’Marr’s been complaining about that dinner we had to reschedule last week, says you owe him a home-cooked meal next home game,” Joe said, scrolling through his phone. He watched your expression as you cracked eggs into the sizzling pan, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

You chuckled. “Tell him to wait his turn. I’ve got my hands full cooking for one hornball Bengal today. I don’t need another one begging me for food,” you teased, flipping the eggs with a practiced flick of your wrist. “Matter of fact, tell him to bring his child next time he wants to eat my food. Maybe he’ll learn some manners from his son.”

Joe’s laugh echoed through the kitchen, his eyes never leaving his wife as you worked your magic. You had always been so fiery, so full of passion and sass. It was one of the things he loved most about you. “You’re gonna have to text him that yourself, babe,” Joe said, holding up his phone. “But maybe save the hornball comment for when we’re alone. I don’t need to hear it from him all week at practice.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that played on your lips. You grabbed your phone from the counter and shot a quick text to your friend. “Consider it done,” you said, setting the phone aside to focus on the meal. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of sizzling bacon and the occasional clang of a pan. The smell of breakfast filled the room, a comforting aroma that seemed to melt away the last of Joe’s tension.

As you moved around the kitchen, Joe’s eyes followed you, taking in every movement, every curve. Her body was a testament to your dedication to maintaining your health, your strength and grace evident even in the simple act of cooking. He felt himself growing hard again, his body eager to claim you once more.

"I swear, if you don't stop looking at me like that, this breakfast is going to be ruined," you warned, tossing a piece of bacon at him. He caught it with a grin, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly, his eyes still glued to you.

Joe couldn’t resist. He slid off the chair and approached you, his bare feet silent on the cool kitchen tiles. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you back against him. You giggled, trying to shoo him away with the spatula, but your protests were weak.

"Joseph," you scolded, but your voice was playful, not stern. You could feel his arousal pressing into your backside, and you had to admit, it was tempting.

"Come on, honey," Joe murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Just a little taste," he begged, nibbling at your ear.

Your resolve wavered. You could feel his hands roaming over your hips, his fingers inching closer to the apex of your thighs. "Joe," you warned, your voice laced with amusement. "I'm trying to do something for you."

"And I'm trying to do something for you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He pressed closer, his erection nudging against your backside. "Let me just return the favor."

You felt the heat pool in your belly, the flames of desire flickering back to life. "Baby," you warned again, this time with a hint of a whine.

Joe chuckled, his grip tightening as he kissed your neck. "Please," he whispered, his breath tickling your skin.

You tried to resist, but Joe's hands were already working your magic. He reached around and cupped your breasts, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples. You gasped, dropping the spatula as you leaned back into him. He took that as the invitation it was meant to be and ground his hips against yours, his length pressing into you. "See?" he murmured, his teeth grazing your ear. "I know exactly what you need."

Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. "You're so annoying," you managed to say, but your voice was thick with need.

Joe chuckled, his hands sliding down your body until they found the hem of your, or rather his, t-shirt. He began to lift it, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin as he revealed your stomach. You squirmed, trying to focus on cooking, but it was a futile effort. His touch was intoxicating, his presence overwhelming.

"Joe," you said, your voice a breathy whisper. "The food."

"Fuck the food," he growled, his hands continuing to lift the shirt from your body. He tossed it aside, revealing your bare breasts and a black g-string he didn’t recognize. His cock twitched with approval. "What’s this? New lingerie for me?"

You turned in his arms, your own desire flaring up at his words. You pushed him back playfully, your eyes dark with passion. "If you want to eat, you'll let me cook," you said, your voice a seductive purr.

Joe's smile didn’t reach his full expression. His blue eyes darkened as he took in the sight of his darling wife, half-dressed and flushed with arousal. He stepped back into his position behind you, giving your ass a firm spank before squeezing a toned cheek in his large hand. Your head fell forward with a gasp as you tried to compose yourself, a moan slipping past your lips involuntarily at the sudden roughness.

If he heard your challenge, he paid it no mind. Hand coming up once more to deliver another smack to your ass, he watched the flesh jiggle before bending down to kiss the tender spot he’d just abused. His tongue darted out to taste your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched, the heat between you palpable as Joe’s hands wandered further down, his fingertips tracing the damp fabric that barely covered your sex.

“We can multitask,” Joe murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where his hand last made contact with your ass. His fingertips danced over the fabric of your underwear, teasing the entrance to your warmth.

Your hands tightened around the handle of the spatula as you bit back a moan. "Joe," you protested again, though your voice was less steady this time. You knew he could feel you tremble against him, could see the way your pussy was already growing wet. You tried to push him away, but your legs felt like jelly, your resolve dissolving with every touch.

"Cut the stove off," Joe said, his voice a low growl. "I'm gonna have to eat something else." His hand slipped the g-string to the side, his fingers finding your slick folds. Your knees nearly buckled as he began to circle your entrance, your eyes fluttering shut. You knew you had lost.

Your hands scrambled to turn the stove off, the sizzle of the bacon fading into the background as Joe’s touch grew more insistent. He didn’t wait for permission, sliding the panties down with a groan of appreciation that echoed through the kitchen. Your slick heat was all he could think about, all he wanted to taste. He dropped to his knees behind you, his eyes feasting on your bare ass and the smell of the glistening pussy he could already see fluttering with desire.

“Put your knee on the counter,” Joe whispered, his breath hot against your skin. You looked over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his intense gaze before you complied, your heart racing. You knew where this was heading and you couldn’t wait.

Joe swore to himself as he watched your pussy spread for him. Your hands grasped at the counter for balance as your pussy continued to flutter with anticipation. He hummed in appreciation as his strong hands gripped your ass, pulling you even further apart. His tongue flicked out, tasting the sweetness of your arousal as you gasped, your body taut with need. He took his time, savoring the moment, exploring every inch of you with his mouth.

You couldn’t help but lean further over the counter. Her pretty little pussy was on full display to him, almost begging for his mouth. Joe took full advantage, burying his face in your wetness. He sucked eagerly at your clit while one of his thumbs circled your entrance, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your moans grew louder, echoing through the kitchen as you lost yourself in the sensation. Her hand reached back to grip his hair, pulling him closer, silently demanding more.

Joe was more than happy to oblige. His tongue delved into you, tasting you deep, feeling your muscles tighten around his thumb. Your hips began to rock back into him, your moans turning into cries of pleasure. You were so close, so beautifully close to the edge, and Joe could feel his dick throb with the anticipation of watching you fall over the edge. He picked up the pace, his tongue flicking faster against your clit, his thumb pressing deeper into you.

Your legs began to wobble as the intensity grew, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the counter. "Baby," you gasped, your voice strained. "You’re so good."

Joe groaned in response, his mouth never leaving you as he felt your orgasm building. He knew your body like the back of his hand, knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you scream his name. And scream you did, your body convulsing as you came, your juices flooding his mouth. He drank you in, loving the taste of you, loving the way you felt as you lost control.

When you finally went still, panting and trembling, Joe stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fuck, you taste good," he murmured, his voice gruff with desire.

You turned to face him, your eyes glazed over with satisfaction. "Are you going to let me cook now?" you asked, though the playfulness in your tone suggested you didn't really mind the interruption.

“Nope. I need you to squirt that goodness all over me again, baby,” Joe said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he stepped closer to you, his own length straining against his sweatpants.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his audacity. But as he stepped closer, you felt your resolve melt away like butter in the pan. You leaned back against the counter, your body still humming from your orgasm. Joe stepped between your legs, his erection pressing against your stomach as he kissed you deeply. He gently lifted you up onto the counter, laying you back as his hands drew your long legs to rest on his broad shoulders.

He slid your thighs apart, revealing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. His cock throbbed in anticipation as he leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue delving into your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hips raising to meet his as he rubbed his clothes cock against your wet folds.

With a groan, Joe reached into his sweatpants and freed his erection, the tip already slick with pre-cum. He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes glued to your pussy. You nodded, your breath coming in ragged pants as you gave him the unspoken permission he needed. With one swift movement, he slid into you, filling you completely. You both gasped as your bodies connected, the heat and friction setting off sparks that seemed to light up the kitchen.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet for me,” Joe growled, his voice thick with need as he began to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your hands reaching for your breasts to pinch and squeeze your nipples as Joe’s rhythm grew more intense. You could feel your orgasm building again, the sensation coiling in your belly like a tight spring.

Joe’s grip on your thighs tightened, his hips moving faster, the slap of your bodies filling the kitchen. He leaned down to whisper dirty words in your ear, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes never leaving yours. "You like that, don’t you? Being fucked like this?"

“Yes, baby, yes,” you moaned, your eyes fluttering closed as Joe’s cock filled you completely, his strokes hitting all the right spots. You felt your climax approaching, your body tightening around him like a vice. “Fuck me.”

Joe’s eyes darkened at your words, his pace quickening as he pounded into you. He could feel your pussy grip him, your walls pulsing with each thrust. The sight of you spread out before him, your legs trembling with pleasure, was almost too much to handle. He leaned in to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin as he whispered more dirty words into your ear.

“Come for me, baby,” Joe urged, his voice strained with his own need. His strokes grew faster, more erratic, as he felt himself approaching the brink. “I wanna feel you come around me again."

Your eyes snapped open, your gaze locking onto Joe’s. You could feel the tension in his arms, the way his muscles flexed with each thrust. You knew he was close, and that knowledge only served to push you closer to the edge. With a cry, you shattered, your pussy clamping down on Joe’s cock as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Joe groaned, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt your orgasm wash over him. He didn’t hold back, giving in to his own need as he thrust into you one final time, his cock pulsing with his release. You held onto each other for a moment, your breathing ragged, your bodies slick with sweat and desire.

Finally, Joe pulled out, his cock glistening with your combined juices. He stepped back, his eyes raking over your flushed body, still sprawled out on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at the sight of you, so beautifully wrecked by his touch. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “You’re so sexy when you come like that, babe."

You couldn’t help the smug smile that curved your lips as you watched Joe try to compose himself. You knew you looked a mess, your hair sticking to your face, your body flushed and trembling, but you felt alive, more alive than you had in a long time.

"You think so?" you asked, your voice teasing. "Maybe I should just stay like this all day."

Joe chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you. "As tempting as that is, we both know we’d never get anything done if you stayed naked all day," he said, his eyes traveling over your body with a mix of admiration and desire. He reached for your hand, helping you hop off the counter. "But I'm not saying we can't revisit the idea another day.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Maybe next time, you can actually let me cook breakfast," you said, though the smile on your face suggested you didn’t mind the detour.

Joe leaned in for a kiss, his lips capturing yours in a passionate embrace. "Deal," he murmured against your mouth. "But only if you promise to let me eat you out again."

Your cheeks flushed, a giggle escaping you as you swatted his shoulder. "You're so horny all the time," you accused, though the spark in your eyes suggested you liked it.

"Can you blame me?" Joe retorted, his gaze roving over your naked body with a hunger that hadn’t been sated. "Look at you”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t keep the smile from your lips as you bent down to pick up your discarded underwear. "You're so annoying," you teased, tossing the garment at him.

Joe caught it in midair, holding it up with a grin. "But you love it," he said, stepping closer to you. He stepped into your space, his own body still flushed from your recent activity. "And I'll never get enough of you."

You couldn't argue with that. You stepped into him, your body fitting against his perfectly as your mouths met in a kiss that was as sweet as it was passionate. You felt the heat of his body, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm as you wrapped your arms around his neck. For a moment, the kitchen and the world outside it faded away, and all that mattered was the two of you, your love and your desire.

When you broke apart, your smile was soft, your eyes warm with affection. "Let's get cleaned up and then eat," you said, your voice still breathless. "I didn’t make this food for nothing."

Joe nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned to help you plate the food. He placed a delicate kiss on your shoulder, the warmth of his breath making you shiver. You ate at the island, leaning into Joe’s muscular body as you stood naked together.

The scent of the crispy bacon and the eggs filled the kitchen, making your stomachs growl. You took your first bites, savoring the flavors that melded together perfectly. Despite your earlier distraction, the breakfast was heavenly, a testament to your culinary skills.

[peachesofteal]

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Alcohol. Praise kink. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends. 

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone. 

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera- 

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.  

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along? 

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this? 

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo. 

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.  

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

 “I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold. 

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods. 

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.  

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.  

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not- 

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.  

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment. 

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone. 

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand. 

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day. 

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core. 

Ungovernable Persephone. 

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.” 

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison. 

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still… 

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling. 

My darling… 

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.  

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort? 

No. 

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself. 

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away? 

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack. 

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?  

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth. 

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld. 

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try. 

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them? 

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you. 

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool. 

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What? 

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck. 

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in a way you expect to die from. 

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic. 

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town? 

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have? 

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway? 

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them? 

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose? 

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.  

Fuck. 

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool. 

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always. 

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him? 

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods. 

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough. 

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more. 

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are. 

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

[merakidoll]

him eating you out.

the rain tapped against the windows harshly, the dark grey skies making the penthouse home dark, candles lit all around you setting a certain comfy mood. the large oversized graphics t clung to your hot skin, legs parted over his firm muscler shoulders, white toes digging into his lower back, and babydoll pink bonnet slipping off to reveal your maine.

“y-you’re s’good- shittt” the soft voice echoed out into the room, hands running through his hair and grabbing a big chunk stuffing his face deeper into your wet cunt. he still maintained eye contact with you, lips sucking against your pearl, white cream dripping out of you and going down to your ass that was quickly licked up and savored into his mouth.

“mm” he hmmed closing his eyes and licking his lips chest flexing, “more” he said it so quickly that you couldn’t register, only feeling when his tongue dipped deep into your hole licking all in it trying to get anything you offered him like a starved man.

he grunted and growled deep into you, cream and slick sticking to his face, your thighs clenching around him quivering profusely, “n-nomoreee” you cried, ears ringing and stars beginning to show in your black eyesight. before you could even say that you were cumming, you had already squirted all over his face creating a mess on the sheet’s and the man, body going limp from the powerful orgasms.

rising from between your legs, he licked his lips, a goofy smile precent on his dripping face that he wouldn’t dear waste on a napkin. “so, how was my first time?”

choso, sukuna, gojo, armin, eren, draken, tengen

[naffeclipse]

I've been musing over a few thoughts inspired by this ask about a mafia-ish style of Apex Polarity without it being too close to Pearl Eye, and after watching a few videos of Orcas hunting their prey (which included dolphins), landed on a sort of Mafia inspired Apex Polarity AU

Also not to add another Y/N to Orclipse's growing collection but this Y/N is a white-beaked dolphin. Look! They're so beautiful!

Sirens are cunning, brutal, and take everything with teeth and claws. The strongest kill and maim at a whim. As a siren who's not particularly strong, though incredibly agile, with a tail streamlined and dark gray with white patches, fins curved and mostly black, you're somewhere at the bottom. You're doing your best to survive and avoid trouble. You pick your battles and you pick your escapes, and most importantly, you stay alive.

But then you do something really stupid: you venture where you shouldn't have.

You don't usually swim so far up north but you're hungry, and the thought of a few tasty squids distracts you from the silent waters and vast, blue emptiness. You realize a bit too late that you're not the only one hunting.

You catch the first orca siren in the distance as a dark figure, and then another. Two who immediately cut through the water, charging straight for you like shadows. Though you turn tail and bolt, you quickly spot them in the corner of your vision. They easily keep pace, their size and strength overwhelming as they flank you on both sides, wide grins flashing their deadly teeth. You can hardly look at the mismatched color of their eyes as you dodge and weave, diving down only to be cut off by one with midnight blue colors at the tip of his flukes, and shooting off to the left just to almost be snatched by the black-bone claws of a siren with bright yellow fins framing his head.

They're toying with you. You know that for a fact in how they just barely keep back, corraling you onwards, draining your already spent energy, and picking at your panicking pulse. You have no choice but to avoid the edges of their jaws and the tips of their talons, and swim in the direction they want.

You near a field of ice floes floating on the water, and though you cut into the jagged structures dipping into the sea, the orca sirens never lose you. A desperate need for air pushes you onward. One small drop of hope still burns in your chest. Despite the aching of your muscles, you steal a gulp of oxygen and dip back down once more, charging away—

Only to run smack into a third orca siren.

This one grabs you, his burning red and orange colors filling your vision. The other two orcas join to help their kin keep you in place long enough for you to truly regret ever venturing here. Between the three of what you can only assume are brothers, hands hooked over you shoulders, claws clutching your wrists, and palms pressing into your hips, you're a fish caught in a net.

You brace for a voilent end. It never arrives. Instead of digging into your sweet meat, the sirens offer you a deal. The tips of sharp fingertips trace your jawline and the soft inside of your arms and down your slick tail while they explain.

You keep watch for human ships and report back when they're getting close, and in exchange, you get the best food you can imagine, the entire Arctic Ocean to swim, and anything else you'd like. The best benefit? You're under their protection. Of course, they expect utter loyalty from you. You are no one else's. Failure to devote yourself to this work and the brothers would mean a grisly fate, but hey, you're nothing if not eager to not be torn apart. So you agree.

You have a few questions about this whole arrangement, struggling to understand why they, powerful orca sirens, bother with a smaller fish like you when they could rip you limb from limb and be done. What's with the human ships? Why task you to this? Are you just fodder so they can keep their fins nice and unscabbed? They reassure you that they'll explain in due time (the sunny one booping your nose, much to your chagrin), but for now, all you know to know is that the human ships are a problem, and you are their solution for it. You've never really encountered humans before, but they've never really encountered sirens, or so you thought.

The burning red one lets you go, but you don't slip away too far before he tugs on your flukes and tells you to follow him. It's not a request. The darker blue one leaves for a moment, jetting away as the other two guide you to a nice resting place on an icy shore. They introduce themselves, and then their brother reappears with a squid in hand, half dead, and an insistence that you eat—they could tell during the chase that you didn't have all your energy.

And that's how you unwittingly join a very powerful pod of orca brothers who may or may not be teasing and taunting you simultaneously.

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Sway The Stars Which Dazzle Like Pearls

Pairing: Din Djarin x female!reader

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Warnings: reader is mute due to trauma that isn't specified and uses sign language taught to her by Din, everything in italics is being signed.

A/N: I feel like I haven't written anything in forever and I was worried about not being able to get this done in time and that if I did that it wouldn't be good enough anyway. But, here it is, good or bad. If I got anything wrong as far as communicating via sign language, let me know so I can do better! My fic for the Summer Lovin' 2024 writing challenge. @pedgito @chaotic-mystery

The planet they land on seems to have an eternal night, a never ending full moon and black sand beaches. Here, the stars reflect perfectly in the still waters, a mirror image of the galaxy spread out above. She walks down the Razor Crest's ramp silently, assessing these surroundings with a sharp eye.

He watches her squat down on her haunches to scoop up a handful of the dark sand, crushing it around between her fingers like she's feeling for the quality of an expensive fabric woven on a far off planet. Her face gives little away of what she is thinking.

Din doesn't know much about her past, about what happened before he found her stowed away on the Crest and petrified of her own shadow after his (first) explosive departure from Nevarro, the tiny green kid in tow.

All he knows is that she can't talk. The words are there, he can see them tumbling around behind her eyes, but they seem to get clogged up in her throat, like a gummed up hyperdrive. So he'd started teaching her to sign.

Her footsteps crunch the gravel-sand as she makes her way over to his side, brushing her hands together to clean off the excess sand but some grains still cling to the creases between her fingers, almost sparkling in the moonlight like jewelry. She pins him with a questioning gaze and signs

'Why?'

"Why what?" he motions backs and she fumbles another word, face scrunched in frustration until she finds her rhythm

'Why are we here? Bounty?"

Din shakes his head, considering what he would call this little excursion between jobs before he replies with

"Pitstop, for fun"

"You do fun?" she pulls her mouth into a smirk, pleased at her little joke.

Din tries not to sigh. He's glad they can communicate so freely now, it's light-years better than their rough early days where any movement to sudden or big had her flinching away violently. But he has no idea how she learned to put so much sarcasm into her gestures. Not that he minds now. Anything is better than seeing that unfiltered terror in her eyes.

"Come" he turns and takes a step toward the gently lapping waters edge but doesn't hear her follow, he turns back with a questioning tilt of his helmet

"What is it?" she asks, expression concerned, still rooted in place

"Something good" he assures

"Promise?"

"Yes."

When they reach the water, the ship and the sleeping green child inside it are only a few yards away, a hulking silhouette jutting out of the otherwise flat landscape.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them safely away, Din crouches down, the toes of his boots touching the water. His companion mimics him, watching carefully as he slowly submerges his hands in the water before carefully feeling around in the wet sand below.

She taps her knuckles into the soft place just below his beskar pauldron, knowing from unfortunate experience not to catch the armor with her bare hands, furrowing her brows when he turns to look at her, seeing her ask

"What are you looking for?"

"Just wait" Din says aloud and she leans back to sit properly on the ground, still curiously watching him dig around, one of her own hands drawing meaningless shapes in the sand beside her.

It takes him a few tries before he finds it, a small orb made and shaped by time and natural forces until it was washed ashore, waiting to be found.

Sitting back beside her, Din holds out his find nestled in the palm of his hand. It stands out stark white and shining in the odd moonlight.

She signs something he doesn't recognize at first, she watches him for a moment, waiting, and then tries again

"Diamond"

"No, pearl" he says out loud and signs it once, twice, then watches her repeat the motion.

The first few times are uncertain as her eyes dart between her hands and his, studying the movement he makes which shapes this new word. Then a couple more times, each with more confidence until

"Pearl" she signs, grinning over at him

"Good" Din smiles beneath his helmet, holding out the pearl to her, an offering.

"Mine?" she quirks a brow at him, still uneasy with receiving things she doesn't feel she has earned.

Din just watches her, hand outstretched and waiting patiently for her to accept this small gratitude.

Eventually, with the barest brush of her fingertips across his naked palm, she takes the pearl. Holding it reverently, worry flashing across her face before she curls her hand around the gifted treasure.

Din had learned to sit with silence long before he met her, so he turns his head out toward the water, then upward just a little, like he's watching the stars.

He isn't. He is giving her the privacy to feel those sometimes tumultuous emotions that come with receiving a gift.

She frowns at her closed fist, lips pulled down in a deep scowl. If her eyes look a bit glossy, she would never admit it. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a roiling feeling that urges her to not accept this. Not to trust.

But she can see the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the stars, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together and smearing the gritty sand there until it sloughs off and back onto the beach.

Her courage feels like a finite thing, urgently flopping around in her chest like a gasping fish on land. She leans over closer to the Mandalorian, sees his helmet shift but not quite turn fully toward her as she wraps her arms around his bicep, the pauldron on his shoulder cold even through her shirt.

Hugging him feels like a monumental leap, her cheek pressed against the mudhorn sigil on his beskar shoulder. Her courage has waned and she feels weak, vulnerable, but the little pearl clutched in her hand reminds her that it isn't gone for good.

That it is okay to lean into her companion, her friend, who seems like a forever sturdy rock in the storm that has eclipsed her life.

Awkwardly, arms still wrapped around her Mandalorian's arm, she tells him

"Thank you."

Din makes a sound of acknowledgement, smiling gently beneath his helmet and watching her from the corner of his eye. Her face seems content and his chest constricts in pride, to see that he has hopefully earned her trust enough for her to relax in his presence.

"You're not even looking at the stars" she softly accuses, leaning forward to fully grab his attention

"Neither are you" he retorts.

She huffs a small laugh, tilting her head and raising a hand slowly toward the smooth metal cheek of his helmet. She guides him so they are face to face. Sort of.

They stare, her watching the reflection of the stars in the visor of his helmet, wondering just a little if his eyes are bright beneath all this beskar. If he's looking at her as gratefully as she is him.

Din watches her face, unsure about the hand she has on his helmet, but far more distracted with trying to decipher her expression. Joy seems too big, maybe contentment?

Either way, neither one of them is watching the stars turn above them, a precious pearl clutched between them, a symbol of more. Of hope.

[sparxwrites]

It’s two in the morning when Gem wakes up to screaming in her castle.

The noise is coming from the entrance hall, and it sounds like neither a wither nor a warden, so she figures she’s good to head down in just her pyjamas and her little silk house-robe. Her sword is a comforting not-weight in her inventory, visible a half-dimension away when she lets her attention slip to the peripheral of her vision. Whatever it is, she’ll be fine. It’s probably some bugged zombie or something – if it’s not just some new god-awful prank from Grian, or Scar, or both. 

(She’s heard that thing under Scar’s base. It’s horrible. If they’ve put one of those in her castle, she’s going to kill both of them. Even if it was just one of them that put it there, she’s going to kill both of them. On principle.)

It’s not a bugged zombie, or a prank. It’s Pearl – also in her pyjamas, red flannel and a button-up shirt – hunched over, pulling at her own hair, howling. Her eyes are huge, wet, the pupils blown so large they’re almost black. There’s dark bags under her eyes, no colour in her skin other than high spots of red in her cheeks, the red of her nose where it’s running.

She’s barefoot – and that shouldn’t be what makes Gem’s heart break in two, but it is.

“Hey, Pearl,” she says, gently, raising her voice to carry over the wounded wailing. “Pearl! Hey. Can you look at me?”

She feels like she should have expected this, really. She’d heard from Mumbo what Grian had been like, after that first game, the one he’d won. She’d not been close enough to experience it first-hand, but she knew it’d been bad. She knows that winning those games is really more of a loss, than anything.

Pearl’s head snaps up. The howling stops, or rather transitions, turns into a choked gurgling, a gasping, this awful and wrenching sobbing like she’s gagging on her own saliva and desperately trying to swallow her screams. Her eyes are hollow, empty, nothing behind them but fear, pain. There’s something else there, too, some kind of deep and welling existential terror that makes Gem want to take a step back. 

She doesn’t, but it’s a close thing. The back of her neck prickles, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end. She swallows, instead, and forces herself to take a step forward, towards the fear.

“That’s good,” she praises, “that’s great, Pearl, good job. Well done. Now. Can you tell me what’s going on? Seems like you’re having a bit of a rough time, huh?”

When Pearl rushes at her – hunched, animal, too-fast and skittering and staggering – she still doesn’t back up. 

She does, however, flinch. Her gaze slides to the peripheral, again, to the sword there. Just for a moment.

Pearl doesn’t seem to notice. “Tilly,” she gasps, grabs at Gem’s wrists. Her nails dig in, overlong, and draw blood. “Where’s– Tilly, what did they–” Her gaze sharpens, but only for a moment, and there’s still no sense in it. “What did you do to Tilly–”

Like this, this close, skin-on-skin contact between them, Gem can feel how hard she’s shaking.

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” says Gem, as calmly as she can. “Can you tell me where you think you are, Pearl?”

Pearl gurgles, an awful noise. and tips forward. She’s still clutching hard enough to draw blood and, when she falls into Gem’s chest, she’s as cold as the night air outside. Her shaking rattles Gem’s ribs.

“He left,” she says, wet, like a child. “He left, he– he killed, he died, he killed himself, rather than– than be with me. He hates me. He wanted to get away from me so bad that he, he, he–”

She howls again, then, a noise of raw and ragged pain that seems to tear its way out of her like a living thing. 

There are tears soaking through Gem’s pyjamas, and her heart breaks a little with it as she carefully, carefully, shifts a hand to cradle the back of Pearl’s head. Her wrists are bloody with nail marks, and some of it catches, smears in Pearl’s wild hair. She tries not to worry about it. They can wash it out later.

“Shh, shh,” she murmurs, pets at the tangled mess beneath her hand, holds Pearl close while she works through another bout of screaming. “Shh, shh, shh.” She takes them both to the floor, slowly, legs going out from under them as Gem lowers them down. “I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“He hated me,” moans Pearl, between sobs, when the wailing has passed. The shaking is slowing, easing a little, the agony giving way to a slower, bone-deep hurt, the madness passing into grief. “He wanted to die rather than stay.”

That’s not true, Gem thinks, and she thinks Pearl knows that too. But she doesn’t say that. Now is not the time for saying that.

What she says, instead, is just, “I’m here. And I don’t hate you.” She hesitates, for a moment, and then leans forward, curls over Pearl where they’re sat tangled together on the floor. Presses her lips to the top of Pearl’s head. “I’m here,” she says, and means it, “and I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

[neteyamslovrr]

WRONG TO WANT YOU - PT 3

summary: ever since you stepped foot onto the land of his clan he couldn't help but feel drawn to you. everything about you he craved. but he couldn't have you. not while his son called you his.

contents: violence, swearing, suggestive stuff 16+, age gap, fem!sullyreader

authors note: part three!! we have finally got them!!! lowkey a filler but it IS VERY IMPORTANT

(reader is 21 and tonowari is around 40. when they came to the clan she was 20 so they've only been there a year!! all characters aged up)

previous / next

Ao’nung’s face screwed up in confusion. Fists tight as he loomed over you. His frame was still taller than you, intimidating the way he seethed.

“What did you just say?” His tone was sharp and rough. As if his words were piercing daggers through your skin.

“Nothing.” You whispered out. Avoiding eye contact with Ao’nung at all costs. You wouldn’t dare look into the eyes of that angry beast.

“No, no. Speak up.” He chuckled darkly, his fingers roughly holding your chin so that you were forced to stare into his crazed eyes. “You dare speak about my father?! Have you gone mad, little forest freak?”

“I didn’t. Let go of me.” A rough his erupts out of his throat as he holds you tighter. His hand squishing your face together so he could scoff at your stupid look. Fingers digging into your cheeks forming bruises under them.

He moved your face around with ease. “No. You did. You little bitch, never talk about my father again. You hear me?” He hissed, leaving spit in your face in the most degrading way possible.

You said nothing but a little whimper leaving your mouth. It was pathetic how terrified you were right now. To think the man holding you like this right now was once a man you trusted, one you loved.

“Do. You. Hear. Me?!” Ao’nung shouted ears flat against his skull, baring his teeth in your face.

“Yes! I’m sorry!” You cried out tears falling down your bruised cheeks. The mark on Ao’nung’s face was nothing compared to the dark purple and black marks now on you.

Ao’nung scoffed and threw you to the ground. Harshly, you plummeted to the harsh sand, landing on rough shells that left stinging cuts on your thighs. “Demons like you should never have been allowed here.” He spat once again. Kicking sand before he left with a stomp.

It was as if you could feel nothing and everything at the same time. The pain across your body thumped beneath you skin as you just stared. Not a sob, no more tear drops. You were frozen.

Getting up was painful. Blood dripping down your legs as you rubbed your cheeks to try and soothe some of the pain. You weren’t thinking as you walked, hiding away from the village. Taking a route you knew no one else could see you.

Your face had unfrozen now, as tears rolled down your cheek like a majestic waterfall. Soft whimpers every couple steps as the pain from the cuts ran through your entire body. You were tired, wanted nothing more than to collapse into your bed and sob.

“What has happened?!” The loud voice brought you out of your distracted state.

Tonowari rushed over to his front door where you stood battered and bruised. His heart thumped with his protective instincts. He was immediately there examining your injuries. “Great mother…what happened to you?”

You barely even realised you were at the chiefs marui. Shivering in the cool night air as you sniffled away the snot that ran down your face. Looking up to see Tonowari’s wide eyes, boring into you with nothing but love and worry.

It made you want to sob. Because just before those eyes. Eyes that looked so similar had stared at you with nothing but contempt. So when soft whimpers and tears flowed down your cheeks once again, Tonowari gasped and immediately brought you into his home. Sitting you down on the cot you had woke up in that morning.

All worry about being too close to you was replaced with worry for you. He sat down next to you, a soothing hand on your shoulder as he watched you sob. “My sweet pearl…please tell me what is going on?”

You shook your head softly, only being able to scoot closer to Tonowari. He pulled you close. His muscular arms securing you in his lap as you cried into his chest. His heart ached seeing you like this. So upset, and he could still see the bleeding wounds on you. “Please…” He whispered slowly patting down your hair.

You sniffled hugging him close. All shame you had being this close to him erased. He was your one sense of comfort in this moment. Feeling safe in his embrace. “Nothing…it…it hurts ‘Wari”

He couldn’t deny how his heart fluttered slightly as you called him by a nickname. But not enough to make the sinking feeling in his chest go away as you whimpered in his embrace. This wasn’t the type of whimpering he wanted you to do.

“Shh…it’s okay. I’ll take care of you.” He brought you close, stopping himself from leaving a kiss on your forehead. “Tell me where it hurts okay? Then I’ll fix it.”

You nodded, pointing down at the dripping crimson on your leg. That had smeared against both you and Tonowari’s thighs. “A shell…cut me”

Tonowari squinted his eyes. “Is that right? Just a shell?” Tonowari had his suspicions, but he wouldn’t try and get anything out of you. Not in this state. He did however wish he knew what had happened, but that was just pure curiosity and concern.

“Mhm.” You mumbled out looking aware from his stare. Being so close made you feel bubbly inside. Even if Ao’nung had just burst all of them. It didn’t feel wrong like you thought it would have been.

Tonowari was gentle with his touches. Sliding out from under you so that he could stand above and examine your leg. His soft yet huge hands spread your legs apart as you hissed at the sting of the cut.

If it weren’t for the pain you were in, this compromising position would have you blushing like crazy. However, Tonowari was incredible aware of where he was touching you. How you were laying back on your elbows, head flung back as you hissed in pain.

He couldn’t deny the fact that the more he ‘examined’ the cut it was just so he could trace your inner thighs for a bit longer before he got to carried away. “This is deep pearl, how did you manage such a wound.”

Tonowari was slowly putting medicinal paste on your leg, but you only whimpered at the memory of Ao’nung shoving you to the ground. “I fell” Was all you could muster out.

“Hm, you’re a clumsy little one.” Tonowari said chuckling hiding his suspicion. He could see the bruises on your face, he saw the pained look in your eyes. He wasn’t an idiot.  

Tonowari continued to patch all of the shell cuts on your thighs. His large hands occasionally lingering too long on one spot.

“It is getting late. Should I walk you home?” Tonowari asked. Though he wanted nothing more than to keep you in his hut. He would always offer.

You sat there and pondered. Looking at the large man in front of you. You didn’t want to leave yet. You couldn’t bare being alone as the memories of your prior…confrontation lingered loudly in your mind.

“Do I have to go?” You said softly, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

Tonowari frowned shaking his head. “Of course you don’t have to pearl.” He whispered sitting in bed next to you. The both of you getting back into the position of you situated comfortably in his lap. “Would you like to lay down?”

“Wanna be here” You’d mumble into his chest. He rumbled and laid back onto the bedhead of his cot and let his hands tilt your face back so he could see you.

You flinched slightly from the previous bruises, but he was so gentle so tender. He noticed you flinch, he kept that in mind. “You can stay here as long as you like.” He whispered, his thumb caressing your cheek.

You melted into his touch, not being able to tear yourself away from his eyes now. You felt his hands start to move. So that his thumb started to play with your bottom lip, moving it slowly along the smooth surface.

Your breath was ridged against his fingers. He couldn’t stop himself. You were so small, so soft in his arms. His other hand wrapped around your waist, squeezing it gently.

“Wari…” You said breathily, hands laying on his chest.

“Yes? What is it?” He was alert. Staring you right in the eyes. Hands still lingering.

“…I want you…” It was a soft confession. One that you had to build up the courage for.

“Me?” He was surprised…was this wrong? What father would he be? But you were so beautiful, so gorgeous in his arms.

“Please.” It was a desperate whisper. Eywa you could cry if you didn’t feel more of him on you. You were desperate and hurting. And he was desperate and nothing but loving.

“Shh…its okay beautiful. I’m here.” It wasn’t long till he let his hands roam on your body, laying you down onto the plush mattress.

“Wari…please” You whimpered out as his hands ghosted your waist. Bringing you closer to him. You didn’t even know what you were begging for. You just needed him.

“I’m here my sweetness…shh its okay.” He peppered kisses down your chest and up your neck. His mind was foggy. He knew he’d regret this in the morning. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He didn’t care right now. He just wanted you to feel good. Needed you to feel good. “Look at me.” He whispered softly.

You looked up to meet his blue eyes as he smiled down at you. Soft kisses left on the bruises on his face. If only he knew he was kissing away the pain that his son inflicted.

plz tell me what u think lolol, reblogs super duper appreciated!!!!!!!!!!

tags: @avatarkv@jakesullyfatjuicypeen@cyberfreaky@cinetrix@supercoolusernamesblog@gabrijelasworld @rebeccao03@sakura-onesan@neteyamsluvts @reinap06@totesnothere04 @imakms @thaliathewriter @rengokusmyboy @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @whereireid @laylasbunbunny

everything taglist: @8resa @ilovejakesullysdick @neteyamsblog @live-laugh-neteyam @reyalvr @trashfox @darkacademictrash @scntfrhs @dreamyescapesfromreality @fanboyluvr @neteyamzmate @neteyamyawne @neteyamssbaby

[mxnson13]

“was that weird?”

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: smut, perv!eddie, perv!reader, daddy kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, both are switches

summary: you catch eddie panty sniffing

you catch your boyfriend out of the corner of your eye reaching into your laundry basket. you hide behind the book you were previously engrossed in as he searched for something. you tried to think of he’d left a shirt or something at your place, and while you did have many of his clothes there, you knew it was just your laundry in that basket.

he lets out a satisfied noise as he found what he was looking for. it was the black lace panties you’d worn the night before. you watch in surprise as he brings them to his face, burying his nose and mouth into the lace.

your mouth opened in disbelief. to your surprise you feel your core start to throb. he must think you’re really into your book the way he takes a deep breath.

‘what a pervert.’ you think to yourself as you clench your thighs together. you can’t help but giggle at the thought.

eddie’s eyes snap to you and he groans into your panties, caught.

“of course you saw that.” he says with only minimal shame, a small smile on his face as he pulls the panties away.

“i mean you did it right in front of me.” you giggle setting your book down.

“was that weird?” he asks but he doesn’t bother to look embarrassed.

“kinda,” you shrug, “but it was also kinda hot.”

“perv.” he jokes. you gasp in fake shock, clutching fake pearls around your neck. he laughs loudly. “takes one to know one i guess.”

“so are you gonna come over here and fuck me or what?” you cut to the chase pulling your legs apart so he can slip seamlessly between them. you’re wearing only an oversized tshirt and no panties. he takes full advantage of that and brings his mouth straight to your clit.

“you’re already soaked.” he moans as he slurps up your juices. you thread your fingers through his thick hair, grasping it as you relish in him tongue fucking you.

“eddie,” you whine digging your finger nails into his scalp. he groans but his onslaught doesn’t cease. “come on eddie, fuck me already!”

he pulls away only to replace his mouth with his fingers. you threw your head back in frustration. at least his fingers were thick.

“call me what you did the other night and i will.” he teases. slowly his thumb rolls over your clit driving you fucking crazy.

you almost give in but two can play this game. “are you sure you’ve been a good enough boy for that?”

his eyes, dark and intense, soften a little but his smirk holds firm. he slides his fingers out slowly, tracing lightly around your folds. your knees are weak and your resolve much weaker.

“fuck,” you gasp as his fingers dip back inside quickly and right back out. you had to give him what you wanted. “daddy!”

eddie fully pulls away from your dripping core to kiss you. his tongue dipped into your mouth immediately. you could taste yourself on him.

“what is it, princess?” he leaves a sloppy kiss to the tip of your nose.

“daddy,” you can’t help but whine. “fuck me, please?”

“well,” eddie bit his tongue to stop from laughing gleefully. “since you asked so nicely.”

he’s out of his pants as quickly as possible. you whip your shirt off, nipples hardening from the slight chill in the room. eddie reaches out and tweaks one causing you to squeak.

“come on,” you pout squeezing your thighs around his waist. “daddy, please i need your cock.”

eddie has to close his eyes and count to ten to keep himself from busting right then. he thought he had total control of this situation. he should have never doubted that you’d beat him at his own game.

he doesn’t waste any more time. slowly, almost too slowly, he eases his cock into you. you can never get over the feeling for yourself stretching around him.

eddie’s movements are erratic, he’s already worked himself up too much to be careful. his hips snap into yours, his cock rubbing against your gspot. his nimble fingers playing with your clit bringing you closer to the edge every second.

finally he cums, filling you up with a loud grunt. he pulls out slowly. you can feel his cum drip out of your pussy. he backs up to watch it slide out from between your folds. eddie dips his fingers and in, gathering his mess and fucking it back into you.

“jesus,” you gasp feeling throughly fucked out. “you’re insatiable.”

eddie laughs in agreement. “i could play with your pussy all day.”

you squirm, overstimulated as he keeps toying with your clit. he presses one last kiss to your cunt before finally relenting. he gives your thigh a playful slap as he stands.

“where are you going?” you whine reaching out for him as he retreats to the door.

“i’m gonna take a shower.” he turns with a smirk. “wanna join me?”

“hell yeah!”

[tunastime]

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings. 

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs. 

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does. 

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him. 

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause. 

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand. 

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world. 

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut. 

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it. 

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else. 

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.” 

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light. 

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them. 

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump. 

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself. 

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm. 

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

[colourstreakgryffin]

May I request smut with urogi, karaku, and sekido with a demon hybrid hashira? (Basically human mother, demon father)

Hashira was sent to kill them, but they realised shes a hybrid and they decide to have some fun instead

Hashira is female

Thank you for reading ;×;

Hmmm! This time I get three Upper Moons for smut, than Hashira! The infamous emotion/Hantengu clones as suspected! Damn! I’ll do it! I haven’t written for Karaku yet so hoping I can do him well!

Urogi

Wrangling the katana out of your hands and tossing it to the side, Urogi’s eagle-like claws dug into your hips as it drew out a interesting smell of both demon blood and human blood mixed together, the demon slayer uniform shredded neither his grasp. He could tell you weren’t exactly a human nor a demon, a hybrid but you were also a Hashira. Were you his enemy? Urogi couldn’t tell

Thanks to his overwhelming strength over you, he could force you down onto your back as his dangerously sharp claws torn apart your uniform from the top to the bottom till the destroyed remains of black fabric laid over and besides your hot bare body, his dark eyes filled over in lust at the delicious sight before him. He digs his fangs into your neck, hand fondling your now nude breast

Urogi never stopped smirking down at you, purely gleeful and joyful at the situation as his fingers drew down your visible soaked clit, making you shiver in pleasure at his touch. “Oooh, yeah~!” Urogi rolled out delighted with a deep purr, his free claws yanked down his fur-like Hakama pants as the big pearl belt cling to his hips. You clenched around nothing, the second his thick cock bounced out from its restraints as he sighs in relief and excitement

Urogi’s golden yellows scanned over you like a predator stalked it’s prey, you had the strangest smell to him but it was so enticing. Rubbing his bulbous tip over your entrance as his raptor-like claws trailed over your hips at the delicious curves until he begun to push in with a joyous chuckle, your whine of pleasure at his shaft stretching you open. Once he finally bottoms out, Urogi hangs his tongue in a playful smirk as you throw your head back with whines of pleasure and encouragement, in sync with him beginning to roll his hips against yours

“You’re a naughty girl, stay still~!”

Karaku

Karaku roughly swung his fatsia leaf-shaped Uchiwa to blow your signature Nichirin Katana out of your grasp, the overwhelmingly powerful winds made you tumble back at immense pressure and forcing you to use your demon-like claws to try stop your flinging body screech to a stop. Karaku was rather amused by your reaction, a Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps struggling to stay upright all because of his single attack as he lowered down his trusty handy-dandy Uchiwa

Karaku was very enlightened and pleased at his little so-called enemy as he scanned over your frame, emerald greens boring. Your uniform slightly torn from the explosive breeze barrel he shot at you and revealing clumps of your hot human-mixed-human body. He wasn’t going to deny, he had been eyeing you ever since you attacked him and his clone brothers to fend them off from all these pathetic swordsmiths. Such pathetic lives… except yours

In that moment, he decided he didn’t want to kill you. You weren’t a mere human like the ones he killed, ate nor battled. You’re a hybrid… he could sense it off you from a mile away and it made him even more attracted to you as he, before you could even blink, leaps onto you and pins down all four of your limbs effortlessly with just three of his. Overpowered in a instant, you could only gaze up at Karaku as he shedded up your soaked bottom undergarments, alongside parts of your uniform so he had easier access

Karaku quickly yanked off his thin pair of Hakama pants as his thick hot cock drooled at the sight of your bare wet pussy. He may not have expressed the amount of excitement as he felt but he was over the moon, sticking out his kanji-marked tongue that read ‘Pleasure’ whilst he practically threw your legs over your shoulders to push in his mighty girth as deep as he can. He was ready to have fun and with that carefree grin of his, he wasn’t going to stop at anything

“So cute~! Do you like this, Angel~?”

Sekido

Cornering you up against a thick tree trunk of the deep dark forest guarding the Swordsmith Village, you rose your Nichirin Katana defensively in preparation to unleash a another form of your signature Breathing Style, the Anger clone of the one and only Upper Moon 4 with his silky fancy kimono and blood reds full of fury and irritation at you, Sekido’s Khakkhara coursed with thin streams of hyperactive light blue electricity as he, full-power, swings the long rod of his Khakkhara against your katana and effectively shattered it into two as the pieces fell to your floor

Shit… you panicked hysterically as Sekido’s interested marked eyes scanned over your visible demon-like fangs, despite the fact your blood kinda smelled like a human’s. You must be a special one and you truly were, belonging to a human mother and a demon father so you were truly a anomaly but you were accepted as a Hashira, a relief combatant to eradicate the demon race for good. Despite the fact you shared blood with the demons, you wanted them gone for good and you racked your brain to try get this demon to back off

Sekido wasn’t planning on giving mercy to you as he stamped his Khakkhara onto the ground in a hard thump. Like a invisible lightning bolt struck you, your body seized at suddenly appearing electric strikes as Sekido’s claws ripped apart your slayer uniform as you were continuing to practically fry under the intense electrical surge, picking you up after sticking his weapon into the ground to push you up against the wood with his own physical strength, his hand grips your wrists as his free palm rips open your thighs

His hips grazed his very pitched-up erection against your open ready pussylips as his hot breath platter over your boiling skin when he lets go of your plump skin to shred off his hidden Hakama pants, his roaring vein-covered cock stood proudly before you. Your brain was rather melted down, trying its best to process the ravenous aggressive lustful desire as he pressed his head through your walls, he continued stared you down as you huffed out in pleasure

“You’re a naughty girl, stay still~!”

[actual-changeling]

listen i love snake crowley so much and it's perfect in so many ways but i cannot stop thinking about crowley as a black cat.

he still sprawls and inconveniences everyone trying to walk past him even when sitting on a chair. obviously he has the same eyes—his eyes—that glint like a sky full of stars in the dark. a tiny, pink, distantly heart-shaped spot on his otherwise dark nose. short, sleek fur that is soft and shimmers in the sun, and his claws are sharp as anything and a pearling white.

crowley keeps his tattoo, more or less, but instead of a snake it's the tail of a little cat that likes to lounge on top of his ear.

he loves sunbathing in the bookshop or finding small spaces on the shelves to squish himself into, and if you think he cannot scare away customers as a cat—he absolutely can. someone tries to buy a book and next thing they know a cat that really should not be that big is threatening to sink their claws into their hand and growling loud enough to feel it in your chest. (it's also easier to follow aziraphale around outside as a cat, it draws significantly less attention than a big snake slithering on the sidewalk)

sometimes he hangs around aziraphale's neck like a shawl and his angel has to make sure he balances him out at all times or he will get four paws clinging to him and digging their claws into his clothes so he doesn't fall. but he also gets crowley curling up in his lap while he reads, one hand holding the book, the other lazily stroking and petting him.

when he loses control a little while in human form he purrs (usually around aziraphale and boy is that embarrassing) or hisses, gets incredibly sharp nails, fangs, etc. he always walks super quietly and aziraphale threatens to put a bell on him when one time he unintentionally sneaks up on him and makes him spill his cocoa.

just. ngk. crowley as a cat relaxing on aziraphale's lap and pressing his head into his hand just to spontaneously switch back and suddenly there's a demon demanding attention and gently nuzzling into his neck.

[heavymachinebun]

Frye is the new Marina: Exploring Frye and Minority Anxiety (An essay by @Terminatorbuns)

I'm gonna preface this with something very important: Frye is best girl. Fight me, I write lore essays. I wrote that other essay on Deep Cut and I've continued to obsess over them since, especially on Frye, who's been an extremely interesting character for me to analyze.

We know Frye, she's the chipper Inkling idol partner to the more sophisticated Octoling Shiver. There's obvious parallels to be made with the previous idol group, Off the Hook, since Frye is like the energetic Pearl and Shiver is like the cool Marina. And uhh .. that's probably all there is to it, essay's over, everyone go home.

No but seriously, what I want to share instead today is the personal, alternative interpretation I arrived at after obsessively overthinking the situation since release. It's not fully supported by canon, but this is a reading of Frye constructed from the most subtle lore details a Frye-obsessed lore nerd could find, and I hope to at least highlight some lore elements the community might have missed. I want to demonstrate the layers upon layers of complexity that can be read into Frye as a character, and why I care so fucking much.

Frye isn't the new Pearl, she was the new MARINA this whole time and it took me months to see it. Yes, it has absolutely everything to do with their skin color. Splatoon's world is designed with real life racial diversity in mind and, intentionally or not, are also influenced by real life racial dynamics in turn. Like Marina, the analysis of Frye absolutely OPENS UP if we examine her through the lens of her real life racial status, we start to infer stuff about her motivations, her fears, her secret needs and wants, EVERYTHING is on the table. Good news for Shiver fans, I can't talk about Frye without digging into her relationship with Shiver (platonic or otherwise) so that's going to happen too. We need to talk about our precious brown baby.

1. Frye the Minority

To state the obvious, Frye's ethnicity is South Asian, probably India. The Splatoon world doesn't really have a Squid India in it but it's clear what her real life inspirations are. She's very brown, she wears Aladdin pants and mango chutney on her head. She's got a snake charmer flute thing going on and all her musical motifs are played with South Asian instruments. It's a bit on the nose.

Thing is, Splatsville is a Japanese city in design. Splatsville is called Bankara city in Japanese, it's named after a literal Japanese fashion movement and the visual design elements of Splatsville are reminiscent of a rural Japanese city. Splatsville takes little visual inspiration from South Asia, and that makes sense since Splatoon is made by Japanese devs who would be most familiar with Japan.

The consequence of this is that Frye stands out as a uniquely brown-coded person in a world where nobody else looks like her. Not even playable inklings with dark skin look like her, what with her teeth and her pointy mask and her big forehead. It's worth noting that the Octoling narrative in Splatoon 2 takes inspiration from the experience of Black Americans, and the dark skinned Octolings of Inkopolis are mostly coded black, not South Asian. Even if the racial identities of squids don't necessarily match real world racial identities, Frye is recognizably a minority both visually and culturally in-universe. This is reminiscent of Marina, who was one of the only visible Octolings in Inkopolis until playable Octolings were formally implemented.

It's worth noting now that Shiver, in contrast, fits in perfectly: she's a traditionally attractive Japanese girl (we're talking about fem Shiver right now, bear with me) in a Japanese city. Even though Octolings should be an in-universe minority, and even though she too has somewhat unconventional features, the idea that she's a minority just doesn't track visually. We'll circle back to this and discuss why it doesn't really work for her character narratively either.

2. Frye the Villain

I've covered this in my previous essay but Frye is a stage villain by trade, and her style of performance is inspired by Kabuki. The Japanese inspiration makes sense, even though she's an ethnic minority her sunken scrolls suggests that her family is well established in the region, meaning they immigrated a long time ago and Frye's grown up in Splatsville. Frye is a Japanese national with roots in South Asian culture, it's understandable that she has adopted mannerisms of both cultures.

But like, why a villain? And what's the deal with Marina also representing Team Villain in the heroes vs villains Splatfest? I was wondering if there was a connection there until it hit me, Frye's TOO BROWN to apply for hero roles. In real life, the Japanese entertainment industry famously has problems with colorism and racial representation. Even darker skinned Japanese people have trouble landing gigs as leading heroes because the industry favors light skin, and Frye is both very brown and not conventionally attractive by Japanese standards. Film industries in the West have very similar problems with colorism so it's a recognizable problem to western audiences, also. Frye's career choice as a professional villain is informed by the fact that people like her literally cannot land jobs as heroes.

That's not to say Frye resents her role, Frye loves being a villain. Her poses are dynamic, her speeches are charismatic, she's at her happiest when she is playing an antagonist. If you look at her blasting off with her smoke bomb, she has the happiest smile on in direct contrast to Shiver who's comically losing her shit. Thing is, Frye identifies with the underdog villains who never win, because Frye herself struggles in an industry that does not favor her. This also explains her sympathies for the underprivileged, and why she's made it a personal mission to raise money for the poor. Looking back at Splatoon 2, Marina was sympathetic to villains for the same reasons, as an Octoling (and as a black person) that was villainized by the society she lives in.

Frye brings her cultural identity into her performance, where she incorporates traditional South Asian dance and snake/eel charming into her fighting style. She takes her heritage seriously too: where Frye comes off as a clown elsewhere, she's deadly serious when using her culturally inspired techniques in a fight. The fact that she has named choreography for each phase of her fight is proof enough of that. Deep Cut's boss fight theme also opens with South Asian instruments and they are the most prominent thematic element throughout, highlighting the fact that villainy is Frye's domain of expertise, not Shiver's. Frye sees both villainy and her cultural background as core parts of her identity and expresses herself with a combination of both.

3. Frye the loner

Thinking back to Splatoon 2, Marina and Pearl had a very clear extrovert vs Introvert dynamic: Pearl likes networking and building musical connections, and Marina is shy and prefers to hole up in a comfy chair and write music all day. We do in fact see this again in Deep Cut, except Shiver is the extrovert who flourishes in front of an audience or a camera. She's eager to play tableturf with agent 3 because she just likes social interaction and competition. The Anarchy Splatcast version of the Deep Cut theme instead features Japanese instruments, signaling that newscasting in front of a camera is Shiver's area of expertise. Shiver's design and mannerisms also visually invoke that of a Geisha, who are professional entertainers trained in hospitality.

You see where I'm going with this, I hope. In a wild fucking twist, the cheerful energetic Frye is secretly an INTROVERT. Frye's area of expertise is the desert wastelands, she's at her most comfortable when there's almost nobody around. She's happy to be on camera with her friends but she also squirms in her seat, being not completely comfortable. Her go-to stress reliever is fighting salmonids who do not speak, and Shiver tells us that Frye runs away from the group during a Salmon Run shift to fight the bosses. Also, Frye's villain specialty isn't well suited to making friends when she kinda attacks strangers on sight.

Frye's tableturf habits are most revealing because she does not make eye contact with Agent 3 sitting across a table from 3. Frye's zoned out thinking about Big Man and Shiver, her closest friends and the people she's most comfortable around. In the news room Frye's attention is also focused on her friends and rarely makes eye contact with the camera. Without her friends nearby, Frye can actually get a bit lost in a social setting.

This reminds us of Marina who's also shy around people, except Marina's anxieties come from being a literal enemy of the state. Marina actually has quite a few contacts in the Octoling community despite being nervous around Inklings for good reasons. Frye has habits that ACTIVELY avoid people, and currently we're not sure she has ANY friends outside of Deep Cut. There's likely a racial aspect to this, of course, the same cultural biases that prevent Frye from playing hero roles are also likely affecting her ability to connect with new people, and it's not a big stretch to guess how it affects her personal habits. Frye doesn't have Shiver's conventionally good looks, she makes a poor first impression as a pointy big headed brown girl in a Japanese-coded world. This might feel a bit familiar as we've seen a similar process play out in real life since Shiver was a lot more well received at launch and Frye took more time to grow on the fandom.

4. Marina and minority excellence

So we've established some similarities between Frye and Marina in that they are likely both introverts affected by racial anxieties, but it's also worth discussing the ways in which they differ. I feel that Frye and Marina take two different approaches to address their racial anxieties, and this accounts for their very different personalities as characters.

Marina represents a picture perfect image of black excellence on an Octopus. She's a prodigy composer that knows every fucking black music style and a genius engineer and she can even draw manga; girl works three jobs. Marina's approach to her minority status is to work hard to be an exceptional representative of her people in the hopes that it will help them be accepted in Inkling society. She's determined to be presentable to the degree that she will hide some parts of her past (although those parts involved a lot of weapons engineering so maybe it's for the best that she's not proud of that). Also, and this is a very lukewarm take, Marina is hot.

Frye has to take a different approach out of necessity, because Frye is not a genius. As talented as she is, Frye is a more average person with anxieties and flaws that she can't hide, and she doesn't have the talent to excel in multiple fields of expertise or the patience to learn how to present herself in polite society. Rather, Frye channels her flaws into her art: her violent tendencies and her social anxieties both inform her villain performance, giving her a distinct edge and charisma that suits her chosen art form. In Japanese, Frye also speaks with distinct country bumpkin mannerisms which are also associated with low societal status. Thing is, Frye embodies Splatoon 3's theme of Chaos as a non-conformist: she can't succeed by conforming to polite societal standards, so she chooses to promote her own, rough around the edges style as a viable art form.

I'm fascinated with this particular interpretation of Frye, whether or not it was intentional by the original designers at Nintendo, because of how much depth it gives Frye's personality. Not only that, but this version of Frye also creates some interesting implications for her contrasting partner, Shiver.

5. Making sense of Shiver

Shiver's role in Splatoon 3 is rather mysterious when you think about it. Our previous understanding was that Octolings was an oppressed racial underclass that come from the military dictatorship in Octo Canyon and have only been integrated into Inkling society for 2-4 years. And yet, Shiver's family history goes back pretty far with very specific artistic traditions that they've preserved, and she has distinctly different visual features than the Octolings of Octo Canyon. I should also point out that the systematic oppression of Octolings draws heavy parallels to the experiences of Black people in America and Japan, and Shiver is… very not black.

Shiver doesn't really work as an Octoling from Octo Canyon, but she also doesn't have to. The Splatlands is a new region with new history and racial politics, Shiver starts making more sense if we assume that she's been in Splatsville this whole time, and her family simply wasn't living under DJ Octavio's rule. If Shiver's history isn't tied to the Octo Canyon narrative, then we have some very interesting angles to explore through the lens of her IRL racial identity as a Japanese girl and how that effects her design and personality. If we follow this line of logic to its conclusion, we'll start to understand how Shiver is actually the new Pearl.

Shiver as a character design is defined by privilege, or at least, the ILLUSION of privilege (more on this later). She's conventionally attractive by Japanese standards in a Japanese setting, so she has the natural advantages of being a member of the racial majority where Frye does not. Shiver's Japanese dialogue speaks in a very formal theatrical tongue which is… fucking weird admittedly but also a clear allusion to high social status, in the same way people use Shakespearen English to sound fancy as shit. Shiver has the looks and mannerisms of a highly presentable racial default Japanese entertainer and she takes advantage of that to achieve her personal goals.

Shiver's goal is to be on TV. Shiver is Deep Cut's newsroom specialist, she wants to be on camera and to be seen by everyone, she's a little obsessive about attention really. Shiver knows her looks are naturally appealing and wants to be in a format where people can see her face, and she uses stage makeup to accentuate her strengths. This is in direct contrast to Frye who prefers stage performance for smaller, curated audience's, and even then Frye uses a mask to hide her face in battle.

This is where Shiver's relationship with Frye starts to resemble Pearl and Marina. Shiver is perfectly aware of her natural advantages as a fair skinned person and has extended that privilege to include her dark skinned partner. This is similar to the same that light skinned Pearl makes it a mission to promote Marina as a minority artist (Pearl's privilege in this case being mountains of money rather than attractiveness). Even though TV is not Frye's specialty, Shiver insists that Frye (and Big Man) be included because Shiver thinks they deserve a spotlight.

That being said, Shiver's style of partnership differs greatly from Pearl. Pearl has a partner with confidence problems, so Pearl takes a very hands on approach to push Marina to seek out new artistic styles and opportunities because Marina is directionless without guidance. Pearl has high expectations for Marina because Marina is a prodigy who will rise to meet those expectations, and Marina appreciates Pearl's involvement greatly. Marina in turn helps Pearl with her destructive vocals, they fill in each other's weaknesses while working towards a similar goal.

In contrast Shiver takes a hands off approach to Frye. Both Shiver and Frye are confident entertainers in different fields of expertise and do not need external motivation, so they do not need to push each other in the same way Pearl and Marina do. What they instead do for each other is provide safe spaces to participate in each other's art forms without judgment: Frye comes to the TV studio despite being awkward on camera, and Shiver gets to play a villain despite being clumsy and manic on stage. Big Man gets to show up to both despite having little ability in either field.

6. Shiver x Frye

I'm not saying Shiver and Frye have to be a romantic couple, they form an excellent platonic duo dynamic that is just as narratively valuable to the world of Splatoon. I would never be so crass as to suggest that Shiver and Frye should kiss passionately on the mouth. But like, with the information we now have we can dive a little deeper and make some educated guesses on the inner workings of this particular pairing.

Shiver and Frye directly influence each other's personalities, each member of the duo changes when the other is around. Frye becomes softer around Shiver: Frye on her own is tough from a life informed by adversity, she's focused and takes losses with dignity. However, Shiver is using her personal privileges as a light skinned, presentable Japanese girl as a shield for Frye's racial disadvantages to get Frye TV opportunities that Frye would not have had access to alone, and I think Frye appreciates the protection. Frye feels safe enough around Shiver to let her guard down, she feels less pressure to be strong and competent and has an opportunity to be goofier and more vulnerable. This is the Frye we see most often on screen.

Shiver becomes edgier around Frye: Shiver gets to play a villain when treasure hunting with Frye, And we discover that her villain performance is BUCK WILD. This is the second layer of Shiver's personality that I've only alluded to so far, but it's very important to discuss what Shiver gets out of her relationship with Frye.

Shiver's character is about presentation; she has gone to great lengths to learn the behaviors of a traditionally feminine, high class entertainer. She's polite to a fault and extremely particular about her movements both on TV and on a dance stage. There's no reason to believe this is a facade, Shiver has put so much energy into her act that it's more likely that this is Shiver's idealized self, the image she actually wants to present to the world.

What is simultaneously true is that Shiver DOESN'T perfectly conform to her own idealized self image. There's a messier side to Shiver's personality that she tries very hard to hide: she's competitive, petty, and vindictive under specific circumstances, all traditionally unfeminine traits. She's not doing a great job at hiding them either, these traits are part of her personality and slip out despite her best efforts. It's important to consider that Shiver likely also grew up in Splatsville, making her a country girl too with the same rough rural upbringing as Frye. This just makes her attempt to present as high-class even funnier.

My personal interpretation of the dynamic of Frye's relationship to Shiver is that Frye accepts all of Shiver's messier personality traits, enjoys them, even. Frye is a deliquent that stands for conflict and non-conformity to begin with, so Frye offers a safe space where Shiver can both embrace her messier side and be celebrated for it. Shiver can take nasty verbal jabs at Frye and Frye will fire back cheerfully. This is why Shiver is so wild as a villain, the repressed parts of her personality comes out in full display when she's in a space with only Frye and Big Man, and Frye in particular seems to know all of Shiver's secrets to a level that Big Man does not. This way, Shiver feels no need to erase the messier parts of her personality, she simply saves it for the people she trusts. And Frye is the person Shiver trusts the most.

7. Shiver's Gender

I saved this for last because we have little evidential support for it in canon, but the Shiver character analysis really isn't complete without it. Up to this point I have referred to Shiver with She/Her pronouns because that is Nintendo NA's current official stance on the matter (I'm going to keep doing it for consistency but I really don't feel strongly about this), and my analysis is written with the assumption that Shiver is a cisgendered woman. BUT. I actually see no reason that an alternative interpretation cannot be true.

The overall art community has already figured out that there's a VERY potent TRANS narrative that can be told with Shiver. Shiver's narrative is about presenting as a traditional cisgendered girl while struggling with all the ways she does not conform to tradition, but there's an entirely new layer of meaning to this if Shiver is not, in fact, cisgendered in some way. There's a lot of visual information that initially led the community to this interpretation, Shiver's features are more androgynous than feminine, she wears a Sarashi wrap that has cultural connotations of being a binder, and she has a half shaved punk hair cut which is traditionally considered to be very unfeminine. Shiver's art form itself is gendered, as she has the design elements of a Geisha which is a feminine job, but the gender she presents on the job doesn't have to match her personal gender identity: drag queens exist, for example. I'd also like to point out that historically, there were in fact, MALE geishas that went by the title of Taikomochi, they are just less common in modern days.

In practice, Shiver's gender expression is so complicated that ANY interpretation is viable. Not only that but the various trans interpretations have VERY interesting implications. This would recontextualize Shiver's advantages not as majority privilege, but PASSING privilege, or the ability to LOOK heteronormative while not actually being that. It adds a lot of meaning to Shiver's focus on presentation, and her desire to be validated by a lot of people on TV.

Additionally, this would reinforce the idea that Shiver needs an outlet to address her gender nonconformity off screen, and trusted, accepting friends to keep her secrets while she perfects her preferred forms of gender expression. It's the exact sort of thing that would draw her to the delinquent Frye who has no respect for tradition, and who would encourage Shiver to embrace the most literal interpretation of "be gay, do crimes". It would connect Frye and Shiver as two parallel interpretations of minority anxiety in the same game: one who passes for "normal" and one who does not, and how differently they see the world. And that's… kinda beautiful?

At this point I don't have the relevant personal experience to dive any deeper into possible trans interpretations of Shiver, I think there are other artists with more relevant backgrounds that are already exploring this topic. Just know that I've seen the art that depicts Shiver with top surgery scars and they are my favorite.

8. Conclusion

Deep Cut's only been out three months and I've already written this much about their lore, good lord. I'm an artist who works on Splatoon fan fiction so the story and themes of Splatoon matter a lot to me as they influence the direction of my work, but my god, does Deep Cut give me a lot to work with. Some of this will have to be retracted as we learn more about Deep Cut's lore, there's lots of ways Nintendo can introduce canon to contradict my take, and that's fine GIVE US THE LORE. Regardless I plan to be making more Deep Cut fan content in the future and I really wanted to share the information that my future work will be based on.

[some-pers0n]

Memoir of an Albatross

Chapter 2 - Blood in the Water

[1] [2] [3] [4]

(Art by Loquatic)

Chapter Description: Albatross, a lonely and ostracized dragonet, finds himself on the Sunset Beach. To entertain himself, he chases a seagull, only to then be interrupted by his two sisters.

[CW: Blood, gore, derealization, verbal abuse, bullying]

Albatross was the type of dragon you wouldn't want to be seen around. He was a dragon that others would make up wild rumours about to explain their natural repulsion to him. The kind of dragon that they would whisper about behind his back, yet put on a face of false kindness to try and hide their disdain. There was something fundamentally different about Albatross. Something that made him undesirable.

He understood this from the moment he hatched. He had vague memories of that day. Distant, fuzzy recollections of the looks given to him by the surrounding dragons. How could there not be some discussion? The newest prince of the SeaWings turning out in such a repugnant way? Why did this happen? Was this the result of some secret affair that the queen had with an IceWing? From his unnaturally pale scales and nearly pitch-black eyes, that wouldn't be such a far-fetched assumption. Maybe a curse had been placed on this egg by a rogue IceWing animus, or perhaps it was some genetic mutation.

Whatever the cause may be, Albatross was not seen as the same in the eyes of many. His sisters, Sapphire and Lagoon, were perfect examples of what a SeaWing should be. Rich, royal blue scales with gorgeous wing patterns. They were naturally gifted with those looks. They were the sorts of dragons that artists in the future would look back on, painting their lavish features and gushing about them and their beauty.

Comparatively? Albatross was a freakshow. His scales were a ghastly grey, looking almost entirely snow-white in certain lighting. His eyes were a deep, dark blue that one could easily mistake for being entirely black. His neck was too long and his wings were too big for his body. His snout was hooked and his teeth seemed far too small, even for his relatively young age. His tail was pointy and whip-like. He smelt vaguely of rotting fish no matter what he tried. Not exactly a great sight for the eyes.

Because of his outward appearance, the others judged him. Something beyond his control or will made him into a circus act for others to gawk at. They look at him and either laugh at his features or worse, pity. Show condescending compassion. Say "I'm so sorry for you" or apologize for something he was hatched with.

He wasn't a tragedy. He didn't want to be remembered as a dragon to pity or be seen as some lost cause. He wanted to be seen for who he was. He would do great things one day. He doesn't want his looks or how others treat him to get in the way of that perception. He wanted to be known as Prince Albatross, a SeaWing who did...something. What that would be was still unclear, but he wanted it to be grand. Important. He wanted to be remembered for years to come for what he did during his life.

For now though? He was alone. Better to be ignored and out of sight from the others than to be acknowledged and seen.

It was peaceful at the Sunset Beach. The Island Palace was a quiet place he liked going to whenever he felt stressed or wanted some time to himself. It was only ever used for visiting diplomats to stay, so it was empty most days. The Sunset Beach was a large stretch of pearl-white sand right next to the beautiful ocean. The waves were foamy and the water was crystal blue. Dotted around were small pavilions covered in decorative lanterns.

Albatross found himself sitting on the sand, just a fair bit away from the waves. He had been digging around in the sand, entertained by playing around with the driftwood and whatever else floated onto the shore. Alone with nothing more than himself and the gentle, yet nevertheless powerful calmness of the ocean.

Until...a seagull came down. From a nearby palm tree. It swooped from on high, landing gracefully onto the shores. It stood there, beak digging around for whatever fish or creature the ocean had spat onto the beach. Albatross watched it intently. He was content with simply seeing it pick the grains and scavenge for remains. Yet, as he did so, he couldn't help but feel a small thought worm its way into him.

Chase it.

He didn't know why he wanted to do it. It simply felt right. He had seen Lagoon and Sapphire do the same with their prey. Albatross could never swim fast enough to catch his own food. Too slow. Too weak. Perhaps now would be his time. He could sneak up on the seagull. Grasp it. Feel it writhe and struggle to break free. Feel the fear course through its body as it tries desperately to live on. Feel some semblance of control and power.

The thought disturbed him though. The other dragons seemed just fine with it. They would tear into sharks, whales; for moon's sake,  his fellow peers would cheer and holler in joy upon seeing a prisoner of war be gutted. Was there something odd about him? Perhaps others simply never talked about that part. Kept it under a rug. It was shameful. Some sort of animalistic desire for violence and bloodshed. For dominance. To be a dragon.

They were civilized. They had palaces and kingdoms. Complicated societies and systems put in place to keep a gentle balance. A semblance that they were above the likes of wolf packs. Albatross wasn't an animal. He was a prince of the SeaWings.

...but maybe, for just a moment, he could live a little.

He dug his claws into the sand and pounced. He dove where the seagull was, only to be met with a cloud of dust and debris. It flew away.

"No, come back!" Albatross yelled, spitting out all the sand in his mouth. "Please?"

Miraculously, the seagull seemed to listen. It turned back to him. Eventually, it landed back on the beach. It was entertaining him.

He smiled back. He was about to fling himself at the seagull once more, when he felt something brush against his claws. It was a clamshell. Big one. One of the halves was as big as his talons. It was a dusty white colour, blending in with the rest of the beach.

He grabbed it. "I'm gonna eat you!" he giggled, pointing the shell at the seagull. He imagined it as though it was a dragon's mouth. That it could open up and snap at the bird just like any other set of razor-sharp fangs.

The two continued their dance. Albatross wanted to get it, but at this point, he had more fun playing around. He would leap towards it, the seagull hopping away right in time, and once both parties recovered they'd go again. It was fun. Simple, extraordinary fun. Much better than boring lessons or whatever else his tutors had in store for him. He didn't want it to end.

But, of course, things had to take a turn for the worse, didn't they?

After a couple minutes, Albatross became aware of something. A shift in the air. It wasn't sudden, but it was certainly different. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was most definitely another being present. Watching him. Judging him.

He looked to the ocean. Under the waves were two pairs of glistening blue eyes, glaring at him.

He felt a drop in his stomach as the two dragons rose out of the water, their laughter an ear-splintering chorus of noise. What was once a peaceful and tranquil afternoon on the beach became a playground for them. His sisters.

"Finally! I thought you'd gone blind or something," Sapphire giggled. "I was wondering when you would look over and see us."

"Really? I was enjoying watching him. I didn't think you were actually capable of running." Lagoon teased.

"Why are you here?" Albatross asked. "I thought you both had queen lessons."

"We finished early. Apparently, something happened with Mother, needing to call over all of her advisors. Thank the moons for that. So boring having to learn how to be a queen and to, well, rule over everyone," Lagoon said, passively looking at her claws.

His sisters weren't exactly the greatest of dragons, especially towards Albatross. They made it clear that they didn't like him. He was their weird brother who came out wrong. Who was a blemish on the otherwise perfect royal family. A pathetic good-for-nothing blob that should've been strangled the moment he crawled out of his egg.

Sapphire, despite being the middle dragonet, bossed around everyone. She was next in line for the throne. Even though that'd be years away from now, she acted as though she was on top of the world. Queen of everything. Most of their antics against him were her ideas, with Lagoon tagging along just because she found it funny.

Of course, right when he was having a bit of fun by himself, they'd have to ruin it all.

"So you came over to annoy me?" he asked.

"Annoy you? Why would you think we would do that?" Sapphire gasped. "No, no, we were very interested in talking with you. Seeing what our precious brother is up to! We were so worried about you. We thought you ran off."

Her words were sickening to hear. That fake sympathy and compassion that made his stomach churn. "I was doing just fine before you got here." He swiped at the sand.

"You don't like us?" Lagoon crooned. "I thought you cared about us. Aren't we your sisters? I mean, we could always treat you worse." They walked up onto the shore. They were far bigger than him, perhaps another head taller. "I don't think you'd like that. You're already so weak."

"I am not weak!" he snapped back.

Sapphire let out a squawk of a laugh. "You couldn't even catch a seagull! You just kept jumping around it. Great reefs, that's sad to see."

Albatross turned around and tried to get away, only to trip and fall. His tail was caught under their talons. His chin hit the sand with a distinct thump.

"Where are you going?" They both said in an eerie harmony. "We just got here!"

"Just leave me alone..." Albatross grabbed at his ears, pulling them down to try and block their words out. But, to no avail.

"What? Can't handle a little light teasing? Moons above, that's so sad." Sapphire walked in front of him, looking him up and down. Her eyes landed on the seashell clutched to his chest.

A wicked grin cracked across her snout as she said, "ooh, what's that you've got there?" Her voice was grating, like claws against metal.

"It's mine!" he yelled back. He tried to sound intimidating, but it came out as a mere squak.

"Give it." Sapphire grabbed at it, tugging the shell.

"No! Please, Sapphire..." He held onto it tighter, pulling it back.

"Why do you care so much about this stupid thing?" she laughed. "Do you really not have anything else to care about."

Albatross tried to speak, but the words never found their footing. He stammered and stuttered, choking back tears. Yet, he kept holding on. He couldn't let them take another thing from him. Even if it was as small as a shell, he wanted something to call his own.

"What, are you going to cry?" Sapphire mocked. "Boo hoo, my mean ol' sister took my stupid shell." She whacked him in the stomach with her tail.

He recoiled, letting go. The pain shot through his system, taking the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath as he looked up to her.

She stood there, absently inspecting the shell. "Stupid shell," she said, "I can't believe you fought so much over it. Besides, it'll be mine anyway. Everything here will be mine. I'm the eldest daughter, right? So, obviously, I'll be queen. And when I'm queen, I own everything. You're just a prince."

She tilted her head to the side, mocking his mannerisms. "But, nobody will care. Nobody loves you. We just have to put up with you and your weird, ugly self."

Albatross dug into the sand. Tears welled in his eyes. "That's...not true." He mumbled.

"What's that?" Lagoon asked. "What did you say? Say it again!" She grabbed him by the neck.

"I said it's not true!"

The both of them cackled like a flock of seagulls. "What?! Of course it is! Who even likes you?" Sapphire flicked her tail at him. "You could die right here and nobody would cry. Nobody would care."

Then, a shift in Sapphire's eyes. "You know, that won't be the worst thing in the world. Mother wouldn't even be upset. Princes are only meant to be married off, but who could even stand to be with you." She raised her talons, claws still on the shell. "Wouldn't you like that, brother?"

Albatross's stomach dropped. "No...no, no, no please, Sapphire, no..."

"Sapphire?" Lagoon said, "I'm not...I don't think that's a good idea." She sounded genuine.

"Why not? What has he ever done to us? For anybody? He just makes everything worse." She brandished her claws. "It'd be better for everyone."

Fear took hold of his body. He flailed in all directions, yet he could not free himself from Lagoon's hold. The only free thing was his mouth.

He looked up. He saw the shell. Then, as though instinct itself was speaking through him, he screamed. He could barely comprehend it before the words left his mouth.

"BITE HER!" he yelled, crying louder than he ever had before. "TEAR HER CLAWS OFF!"

The next moment was painted in scarlet. A splatter of ruby liquid on the sand. It pooled and grew larger, dripping down from above.

Albatross didn't feel like himself. There was a loud, piercing ring in his ears that drowned the world out. His body felt cold and numb. His brain was full of fog and he could barely think. He felt detached from reality, like an observer of the chaos.

The pressure that was on him– Lagoon, definitely– released. He pushed himself upwards, staggering to his talons. He looked blankly ahead.

She was thrashing. Her mouth was unhinged as though she was screaming, but Albatross couldn't hear a thing through the ring. Her wails and cries, while inaudible, were full of agony. Her face was painted with horror.

Lagoon was by her side, similarly in shock. She was trying to stop Sapphire, keep her still. Eventually, she tore something from Sapphire's claws. It landed by Albatross's talons, splashing in the puddle of blood. It splattered onto him, his talons, everything.

It was the clamshell. Its jaws held bits and pieces of flesh and gore in them.

He looked back at Sapphire. She held her talons up. Where her claws should have been were fountains of viscera. They were both screaming. Lagoon turned to him, yet he couldn't hear a word. He felt hollow. Absent. There should have been emotion, but instead, everything was muted. 

This...couldn't be real. Why was this happening? He didn't mean to hurt her. He didn't want to hurt her. Whatever it was, he knew it was his fault.

He looked at his talons, and for the first time in his life, he became aware of the slight burning sensation within his claws.

Rapidly, he gained feeling all over his body, as if suddenly pulled back into reality. His knees gave way and he fell to the ground. He shook, trying desperately to make so much as a squeak, yet nothing came out. His eyes were wide with fear.

The screams. By the tides the screaming. It was unlike anything he could properly fathom. A shrill shriek that made his blood run cold. He couldn't properly think of what else to compare it to. He had never heard somebody in so much pain before. 

Lagoon quivered, tears rolling down her face. She looked back at Albatross, her expression shifting to one of hatred and anger. "YOU KILLED HER!" she snapped. "How could you do this?! You- you monster!"

"I didn't mean to-"

"You did! You killed her! She's going to die!"

Albatross tried choking out another response, but he couldn't. He backed away. The sands were stained with Sapphire's blood. Everywhere he stepped his talons became soaked in it. 

It was his fault. Everything. He's to blame. Sapphire is dying. All that happened was a little squabble. She probably didn't mean it when she said she was going to kill him. 

But how? How could he do this? He was just a SeaWing. A normal, typical dragon.

He felt sick to stand there. Slimy and disgusting. A passive observer while watching her sister bleed out and die. She didn't deserve this.

He stared at Sapphire's stubby talons. They gushed blood. He held out his claws, pointing to it. He didn't know why. It felt right. That same instinct rushed through him. This deep-rooted knowledge that he never knew he had.

"Stop bleeding!" he cried out. The words were loud and clear, as if he was ordering Sapphire.

Then, stillness. Sapphire held up her claws. The three stood in silence as the scales began to heal. They did not regrow the talons but left them as is. They were healed.

Sapphire stared blankly at her talons, eyes wide and transfixed on them. Then, she promptly fainted. Not dead, but simply overwhelmed. She wasn't going to die. He saved her.

"It's...healed?" Albatross muttered. "How? Why? There can't be any-"

"Magic."

A pang in his heart. He turned back to Lagoon. "What?"

"Animus magic." She looked at him, her eyes piercing his very soul. "That was magic. You're an animus."

[mysticstarlightduck]

Writing Share Tag!

I just started writing the first (out of three) main chapter of Kye Thalax's backstory and I am so sorry for my boi 😭. I don't wanna suffer alone writing these chapters - and they are important for his character arc as a grown-up later on - so I'm posting a snippet of his backstory Ch.1 for feedback and whatnot here!

BUT MAN I AM SAD. I cannot wait for Kye's Revenge Arc after writing these backstory chapters 🔥

(Also it is a pretty dark Backstory snippet so, TW for - Dark themes, Abuse/Domestic Abuse, and Lady Eldora being the shittiest mother and wife in the entire galaxy. Though I'm being honest that whole villain is TW in her own right.)

Kye peeked into the war room, standing on his tip-toes to peek behind the obsidian black stone doors, watching the conversation unfolding within with anxious, flitting eyes.

"You are seriously the most worthless man I have ever met," Came Eldora's voice, his Mother's voice, condescending and sharp like a razor, "I gave you one simple task at the gala last night. All you had to do, was look pretty and convince those stupid diplomats to bend the knee."

She chuckled, dark and bitter, and Kye hated how the sound made his Dad's shoulders curl in on themselves as the young man stood before her. After the short, pause, Eldora continues, rage visibly building up within her, as she tilts her head, "And somehow you manage to make a scene and embarrass me in front of all those people!"

She ends her sentence with a yell, shoving the young man with such force he is basically thrown across the room, toppling some chairs and a vase, before hitting the wall. There was a yelp of pain as he watched his Dad push himself off the wall with some difficulty, and, even though hidden by the doors, five-year-old Kye could see Damen's hands beginning to shake.

"I'm sorry Milady," His Dad's voice is flat and pained, and despite the fire in his eyes, he does not rise from the ground as he speaks, keeping his head bowed. "Y-You're right. I have failed you. I… I am sorry."

Kye felt his heart sink as if drawn to the furthest reaches of the planet's core. He willed his small, kid legs to move, but yet, he remained rooted in place, fear - or some sort of innate self-preservation wisdom - keeping him from trying to intervene.

Eldora growls, striding forward with thundering steps that send a shiver down Kye's spine until she's standing over Damen. "Y'know, one day that 'I'm sorry', isn't going to cut it." She grasps his chin, claws digging into his pearl-white skin, "You're lucky you are my consort and you need to look presentable. Though you'd better know how to act like it, or there'll be worse consequences. Understand?"

Kye saw as his father nodded fervently, the young man's bright blue eyes staring emptily at the warlord, fearful "Yes, Lady Eldora. Forgive me."

Tagging: @winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling @agirlandherquill, @anoelleart @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers @i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid, @finickyfelix

And I'm also gonna leave this an OPEN TAG!

Supernova Initiative Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites, @lassiesandiego, @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cauliflowermaterial, @clairelsonao3, @sleepy-night-child

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild @anyablackwood, @amaiguri,

@lyutenw, @finickyfelix, @elshells, @thecomfywriter

Let me know if you'd like to be added!