#grouse grind

[tinylittlelilac]

Thank you guys for the love always . constantly nervous abt what I’m posting but you all always make it worth it 🫶🫶 my love to u!!!!!!!!

comes on here to drop you this ..

thinking about Yuzuru becoming more and more enamored and he doesn’t even realize it 🗣️🗣️ can anyone in the crowd hear me 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

I will be back on to browse enjoy and repost later. Rn I’m going to snooze ^^ good night to all hokuto enjoyers specifically

[thisreallyrattlesmybones]

skully p characters as stock photos part ???

the council of elders:

the monster fuckers hunters:

cassandra pharos:

skulduggery's fucking disguise:

kenspeckle:

clarabelle:

omen:

[three-headed-monster]

noted cross country star luke hughes finished the grouse grind in 41 minutes as a 15 year old

[thatswhatsushesaid]

is this salt at my own expense

maybe

why is it that my least canon-compliant shitpost memes, aka the ones i literally just made for shits and giggles, are the ones that do the most numbers on this site. why is this happening to me. is this punishment for my hubris, for assuming that people would reblog the obviously fanon (TO ME) stuff in the spirit in which they were originally created: to just mash up jpegs and textpost screenshots like fun barbies in Situations, heedless of their basis in canon?

what have i done 😔

[onmytape]

which canuck would you do the grouse grind with

which one can lift the most? i'm looking at the roster trying to determine which one will carry me up 😭 real talk probably quinn. who are you picking?

[veradune]

Dang this thing was pretty though.

[daftpatience]

ohh she SHOULDNT be hiking that much without a break!! im just making fun of a particular typa person we have out here (avid hikers)

i hear we are drawing mikus from where we are heres miku from vancouver canada

[screampied]

can you please please write manhandling & squirting w gojo :(

❤︎ ໋𓈒 telling your best friend satoru that you can’t make yourself squirt

warnings. fem! reader, manhandling, praise, fingering, talking you through it, rev cowgirl, dirty talk, squírting, mdni.

legs sprawled, toes all curled up, you were desperately trying to make yourself squirt. it’s never happened to you and you wanted to experience what it was like—you read through various erotic stories of how it feels way different than just your everyday ordinary orgasm. with your teeth softly digging against your bottom lip, your fingers gently rummage throughout and against your clit. after a while though, you end up sighing—on the verge of giving up before as if on literal cue, your best friend gojo opens the door.

“hey, is it any more . . oh! uh,” he’d murmur, walking in on you with your legs sprawled all open. gojo suppresses a giggle that was about to escape from his lips before he utters. “. . . should i come back another time? you seem busy.”

there was smugness dripping underneath his tone and you were far too aroused to feel embarrassed. “no,” you puff. “i need help, satoru.”

“yeahh you seem like it,” he snickers. running a hand through his hair, he hums to himself before his eyes avert towards your lazily slid to the side panties. “is that what you call fingering yourself?”

“. . . shut up,” you chastise, and his sly smirk only widens. gojo stares at you for a long while before inching closer towards you—plopping down beside you. the mattress jolts a bit from his weight and he cocks his head to the left in pure amusement. “i need help. i can’t … i can’t squirt.”

gojo sneers. “oh, you sure can. you just don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, angel, heh.”

he had such a smart mouth, the dramatically frustrated sigh that deserts past your lips was too adorable—in his eyes at least.

the way you were so dedicated to making yourself have a proper finish was so cute . . but you couldn’t, you needed his help—you wanted his help.

“hm but okay,” he shrugs with a cheeky grin, getting right beside you. gojo lightly grabs your wrist, peering at how you’d already soak two of your digits with sloppy amounts of slick before he titters. “aw, poor thing. these useless fingers just can’t do shit, huh?”

“just fucking help me.” you grouse at him, a pouty scowl ceasing against your lips firmly.

“fine, girl fine,” he rolls his eyes. “i’ll take it from here.”

and he does because once he starts to ‘help’ you, it’s in a way that has you merely speechless.

with your neck slightly whirling towards the left, you’re mindlessly bouncing up at down on his thick cock. you’re faced the opposite way, your back leans up against his chest. gojo holds you up with no problem, a brief squeeze on your thighs and you start to whimper at how close his fat tip thwacks against a particularly sensitive spot.

“f— fuckk, ‘toru,” you’d whimper out, feeling him reach the deep components inside of you.

so deliciously good, you felt a few droplets of your own saliva trickle past your lips as you slump back against him. “so deep, stuffin’ me f— full, ‘toru.”

“. . . hah,” he pants heavily, tensed abs flexing each time he drags you up and down. he’s treating you like a rag doll. you didn’t expect him to do all this, having you all up and down. although, who were you to complain—he was reaching every spot without an ounce of trouble. “guess i can reach better than those fingers ever could, hm angel?”

“y—yes, yesss,” you stammer, your voice all shaky, trembling on each syllable that you spat out. “satoru, harder. fuck me, f—fuckkk me.”

you repeat the same words out your spit-glossed lips. with such a firm grip, he’s making your hips slam up and down—such a rigorous rhythm…

you try to grind a bit against him but you only end up slouching against his bare chest. it was simply no secret, gojo was known to be lengthy, longer than thick when it came to his cock. every orifice, he makes sure to locate every spot inside of your gummy walls with the crown of his shaft.

gush after gush, you’re spasming on him and you make a cute attempt at grabbing his wrist, clammy hands piercing into his skin. “s-so good, more ‘toru. right there, pleaseee . . !”

“i got ya.” he huffs, warm breaths waft right up against your earlobe. he’s holding you in place, each time he bounces you up again and again.

your eyes do that cute thing where it rolls all the way back into your cranium. it’s cute, lewd . . but cute.

with your pretty pupils dilated, all you see is nothing but pure splotches of white. his cock’s buried so deep that you’re stuck in a trance, a trance you never wanted to escape from.

“. . . awww,” he purrs against your ear, a big hand softly cupping your chin. he feels some of your translucent spit pour down the sides of your lips before smearing it over your mouth with his thumb. “such a messy baby. you feel it comin’ don’t you?” he teases, nipping a kiss near your neck once you squeeze his wrist a tad bit tighter. “oh. you want me to hold your hand, is that it?”

“sato—ru,” you whine, a cute trembly voice making a special appearance.

but oh, the stretch…

it was so good simply divine.

each second is spent with gojo’s dick delving into your clenched walls. a syrupy ear ringing whimper snatches right out of your throat before you speak once more, “satoru, ‘toru, s—satoru.”

“hey, that’s me,” he grunts with a coy grin, feeling how well you clamp down on him—of course, he’d make a joke out of nearly anything. you’re like a bobbling doll, feeling your cunt squeeze him tight before within seconds, your thighs began to quaver.

with your legs quavering, it was as if a volcano was preparing to erupt. violently, your legs start to tense and you’re steadily pulsing and pulsing. something’s coming and it’s coming fast…

it had to be exactly what you were thinking. it felt a bit different though. pressure presses down against you and you feel gojo’s fingers intertwine with yours. “heh, you’re kinda dramatic, huh?” he teases—and right before he can give you another snarky reply, he brings your hips to an abrupt halt. teeth chomping down together, your jaw insignificantly tightens and you feel a certain sharp twinge for at least three and a half seconds.

“i- i’m about to s-squirt, ‘toru,” you warn him, and he nips another chaste kiss near the crook of your neck.

“nuh uh. you’re going to squirt, trust me. give it to me, yeah. grind against me ‘n just listen to my voice, mhm.”

his voice.. just the way he spoke to you in such a playfully deep tone was enough to make you finish on the spot.

gojo holds you still. he’s still buried deep inside. stuffing you fill of hefty inches before he brings a hand towards your swollen puffy entrance. “damn, she really is so fuckin’ sloppy,” he grunts, starting to maneuver slow circles against your pussy. he makes haste with it though, and your lips part before moaning once you even hear the evidence yourself.

squelch, squelch, squelch..

it’s loud, it rings throughout your ears—each time, it’s louder than the next. he’s so sloppy with it too, no shame whatsoever. gojo then drags a soft thumb down your slit that was just sopping. everything felt so fervent - the way he’d strum his fingers against your cunt, only to then give it a concise spank.

“s-satoru, fuckkk.” you’d gasp, leaning way back with your legs still sprawled, “i—”

“now—don’t be rude, angel. she’s tryna speak to me, let her do her thing, baby,” and he clearly referring to your dripping wet pussy. he continues, rubbing against your clit at a much more rapid speed now. your legs could barely hold themselves open. mouth twitching, you feel a rupture on the very brink of rippling out of you before his spanks against your pussy come again, and again, and again…

“sloppy girl with a sloppy … fuckin’ … cunt.”

his words get more raspy and degrading and he’s way too into it to pause. with a thumb slowly tickling against your spasming nub, he watches at you moan a shrieking whine before not even seconds later, it happens. you gush out, and it’s a lot to where you even dampen gojo’s lap. thankfully he was prepared, keeping a towel underneath you just in case you were a bit too much of a soaked.

and soaked you were, it felt so good that you didn’t even know what to say… more like, you didn’t know what to think.

your mind was blank, equivalent to an empty canvas. he’s so mean, whispering such filthy murmurs into your ear before he lets you ride out your orgasm.

wet, you felt that entire word right between your legs. gojo’s still playing with you, cock stuffing your pussy full to the very brim before he feels you bare around him.

“. . seeeee,” he pants, humming in a soft tune.

he squeezes your folds tighter just to hear that honeyed mewl rip from your sweet lips. he gradually pulls out and now you’re just laying back against his chest with the dumbest expression. “told ya you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing,” he chaffs before making you turn your neck, dragging you into a deep kiss.

it catches you by surprise, you connect your lips against his and that’s when he makes you fall back. you watch with glossy eyes before he then grabs ahold of chin with one hand, brushing it tenderly against your skin. “say ah, open that pretty mouth for me ‘n taste what a messy girl you are.”

you felt your heartbeat go straight between your legs. once you loll out your tongue for him, staring right into his bright cerulean irises, he stuffs your mouth with two fingers. the same fingers that were covered in nothing but your sweet wet arousal. “yeah, run that tongue around my fingers ‘n taste it all, baby.”

you moan, swirling your tongue alongside his digits before you briefly end up gagging at the tips of his fingers massaging against the very back part of your throat.

“good girl,” he whispers—pulling his fingers out real slowly, he does this purposeful. a sheeny trail of your glistening saliva follows out from your lips before he gives you another long kiss before departing. “now, let’s do it again. but this time,” he utters, making you lie back against your back. “i’ll make you squirt just from my tongue, angel. let’s make that cute squirt velocity a little stronger, hm?”

[astralnymphh]

dry humping with ellie..

els is such the type to start dry humping as a joke, but then slowly the suggestive nature begins to whirl her brain 180 and genuinely starts bucking into you. like, you just bend over to retrieve something from the lower cupboards and her lanky ass slinks over, hooks both curled hands into your folded hips and thrusts you into her groin, giggling, "dang, all this for me?" and you can just feel two lazers burning holes on your ass, bobbing limply as she continues to hump you. you grouse in a chuckle, "hey! stop that– that is not for you!" but she doesn't listen. of course. it's redundant to even attempt a complaint. then it keeps going, and going– anddd gooinggg, till she can't stop. the jab of her steel denim button just gets harsher and harsher, with airy moans to get all blushy about, "uhuhh~ fuck, your ass feels s'good– shhhit–" her teeth clamp, hissing cold air. realistically, the inseam of her crotch was tightening just right to split her folds and sandwich her achy clit, not that your ass had any physical stimulation to give her. you intervene, an intervention destined to spoil, forwarding your hips out of her grasp and locking your spine upright, "okay, els, please–" to your dismay, horny hips follow, and grinds denim against denim like a literal horndog. her strapping grips mark dents around your hip crest, using you as support while she possessively ruts into your plush butt, summery hot breath coating gales on your ear, "don't pull away, mhh– fuck you think ur' going?" and hacks a timid laugh, caving open lips to your ear and clasping points of her teeth lightly.

[greenmilkyee]

force them into the grouse grind ONG

co-signing this

[blindmagdalena]

How It Feels to Chew 5 Gum

Summary: 18+ 3.6k homelander x reader, established relationship, gn reader w/pussy, eager brat reader, domlander, slurs, degradation, rough sex, zero refraction period, spit kink, come play, anal, unprotected sex, dirty talk, blowjob, cunnilingus, fingering, dp (fingers and cock), come/spit as lube, just a lot of spitting, ends soft in aftercare and praise.

While you hadn't meant to irritate Homelnder with the simple act of chewing gum in his proximity, you can't help but be a brat about it when he tells you to spit it out.

It all starts with a stick of gum.

You’re chewing quietly. Politely. Mouth closed, absent and slow. It helps you focus.

It does precisely the opposite for Homelander.

“Would you spit that out already? Disgusting habit,” he grouses from his seat, shooting you a withering sidelong look. The two of you are sharing an office at home today, something you didn’t expect to be an issue.

You quirk a brow at him, and then look back to your computer. You hadn’t intended to be annoying. Now you intend to be annoying. You begin smacking your lips as you chew the gum, pushing it from one side of your mouth to the other with your tongue, never taking your eyes off your screen.

This lasts for all of six seconds before Homelander pushes his chair out, the legs of it making a horrible screech of protest against the hardwood floor. He stands with a flourish of his cape, and  marches towards you like a man on a warpath. A crimson clad glove appears in your face, his palm upturned, fingers splayed. “Spit it out.”

You grin, still smacking that gum as loudly as you can manage. “Make me.”

Faster than you can process it, Homelander grabs hold of your chin with his other hand, squeezing your jaw tight enough to straddle the line of pain. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” you shoot back. It’s incredible, you can actually see his eye twitching with each smack of the gum.

“Suit yourself,” he responds. The next thing you know, the hand splayed in front of you moves in a blur of red, and he’s shoving two fingers into your mouth, abruptly halting your chewing. You make an indignant noise, but he’s wholly unbothered by it, pushing the taste of leather onto your tongue. He focuses on spreading his fingers in your mouth, blocking your teeth from closing, until he manages to pinch the piece of gum between his middle and index finger.

He snorts triumphantly as he pulls the gum out, tendrils of saliva stretching from your mouth to his finger before inevitably snapping. He rolls the chewed gum into a ball, and then flicks it. It hits the opposite wall with enough velocity that the thunk it makes startles you.

“Honestly. Disgusting.” Looking back down at you, Homelander maintains his iron grip on your jaw. “Are you really that desperate to keep your mouth occupied?”

You’re breathing shallowly now, your mouth abruptly much drier. “Maybe I am,” you answer breathlessly, shifting in your seat. Homelander’s gaze flickers down, catching the way you grind down against it when you do. You aren’t subtle about it. Recognition lights up in his eyes as they return to yours. “You got an alternative? Otherwise…” You lick your lips. “I’ve got a whole pack of gum in my bag.”

“No,” he says, relinquishing his hold on your jaw. “If I have to listen to your mouth work, it’s going to be working for me.”

The hiss of his zipper is music to your ears. You make a play at pushing your chair back, but he catches you by the back of your head. “Don’t fucking move,” he says, voice heavy with it. You know he can hear your heart hammering in your chest, the throb of your clit, and more than that, the smell of your arousal soaking your underwear. You know it by the hunger in his eyes. “Open your mouth.” “Make-”

You don’t get the chance. The second your lips part to say it, Homelander shoves the fat head of his cock between your lips, his precome smearing salty-sweet along your tongue. Your eyes flicker, rolling back briefly. Your moan is shameless, muffled by the way he shoves in too deep too fast, bumping the back of your throat hard enough that you gag.

“Mouth’s dry,” he grumbles, voice caught in that same petulant, grumpy tone that makes you love teasing him so much. “Wasted your spit on that goddamn gum.”

Sharply, he withdraws, leaving you panting. The hand at the back of your head turns into a fist full of your hair, and he tugs your neck back into an arch. While you’re still sucking in breaths, he sneers down at you. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous.”

Your whole world is rocked when he spits directly into your mouth, the wet of it landing directly on your tongue. Before you can think to do or say anything about it, he shoves your head back down and slips his cock right back in, wringing a depraved moan right from the back of your throat.

“Christ, listen to you,” he sighs, holding your head in both hands now, rocking back and forth, fucking your mouth in earnest. “Needed this so bad, you had to make a whole big show about it. Who knew you were such a cockslut.” 

Your moans turn pitchy, just as needy as he says you are. Ever since he learned you get off on this, the degradation and the game of it all, he’s been an absolute menace. In his eagerness to please you, he becomes a filthy fucking animal for you.

“C’mon, suck,” he hisses, tightening his grip on your hair. “Don’t get lazy now. If you want to be a little whore, you’re gonna need to put that mouth to work.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you do precisely as he tells you to. You suck him down with as much force as you can, knowing it will never be enough for him. Nothing ever will be. No matter how much he takes from you, you know that he will always want for more. You start to rock yourself, grinding your aching cunt down against the chair.

Moving his hand from your hair to your neck, he cups your throat in his palm and shoves you down lower, bringing you perpendicular to his pelvis. Your eyes water as his pace picks up, filling you out with every thrust. You wonder if he can feel himself, if that’s why he has his palm pressed flush to your throat like that, or if it’s just to cut off what little bit of air you were capable of pulling in. Either way, your head is spinning up, up, up into a state of bliss that makes you feel like you’re floating.

“That’s it, fuck. Fuck. See? Knew you were holding out on me. Don’t you fucking swallow, you hear me? I want your mouth as wet as your pussy. Think I don’t see you fucking yourself on that chair? Fucking shameless. Listen to you, bet I could make you come like this. Make you come just from sucking my cock.”

You keen, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, your tongue pressed up tight to the underside of his cock. You’d nod if you could, but he’s holding you so tight by your throat and your hair that all you can do is submit to the frenzied thrust of his hips. Your skin is prickling hot all over, and he’s right, you haven’t stopped grinding against the edge of your seat since he started fucking your mouth.

As if possessed, you mindlessly slip your hand into your pants and start rubbing your clit, wetting your fingers with your own slick, desperate for some relief.

“Greedy slut,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “Not enough for you? Need a cock for every fucking hole, don’t you? Too bad. I’m not sharing. I’ll have to find something else to stuff you with,” he grits out, losing coherent thought, his voice becoming thinner with every word. His breath catches, he groans, and then with a handful more thrusts, he pulls back and comes all over your tongue, tipping your head back to keep it all from spilling out.

Pulling the rest of the way out, Homelander stares down at you, looking dazed. You’re just as out of it, delirious with your own arousal, but you manage to keep his words locked in your mind: don’t swallow. Your mouth is full of a mix of your own drool and his come, and the sight of it is enough to make him smile lopsidedly.

“Look at that. Good for something after all,” he says, touching the side of your face with a tenderness that sings loudly the depth of his affection beneath this wicked little game. “Close your mouth, don’t swallow that. You’re gonna hold that in your mouth while I fuck your pussy full, and then you’re gonna keep hold of that while I fuck your ass. Tonight, your only purpose is to hold my come. Understand?”

With every inch of your body throbbing, you nod, obediently closing your mouth with a soft moan. He hauls you up by your hair, and with a sweep of his arm, completely clears your desk. You make a genuinely startled noise at that, eyes wide as your computer hits the ground with an ominous crack. Homelander doesn’t care. He bends you over it, and roughly yanks your pants down before taking a seat in your chair. He takes two firm handfuls of your ass, and spreads you wide, wringing a low moan from you as he wastes no time lapping at your pussy, dragging his tongue all the way from your clit to your asshole. Your whole body jerks with the hot press of his tongue, but you keep your mouth diligently shut and full.

“Stay still,” he orders, following up with a sharp slap to your ass. Oh, he’s really not playing fair. You drop your head onto the desk and moan unreservedly, encouraging him with it, spreading your legs and trying to fuck yourself back on his tongue every time you feel it.

“Slut,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. You smile, too, giggling softly, only for the sound of it to fade off into a come-muffled moan with the return of his tongue. He makes a mess of you with his mouth, wetting your ass and your pussy so thoroughly, you start to feel it drip down your thighs. You have no idea how much of the mess is yours, and how much is his, but you don’t care. It feels fucking amazing.

Homelander sucks your clit, slurping on it so loudly, you can hardly believe this all kicked up over a little gum chewing. Another smart slap to your ass makes your pussy clench. The next thing you know, one of his hands leaves your ass, and you feel the dull probe of two gloved fingers pushing into your cunt. You can’t spread any further for him, but god knows you try, whining around your mouthful of his release.

“That’s it. Open up for me, sweetheart,” he sighs, scissoring his fingers when he plunges in deep, and curling them on each slow outward drag. You press your cheek to the cool hard surface of the desk, panting through your nose, desperately fighting the urge to swallow back the load in your mouth. The addition of a third finger has your knees shaking. The wet squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of you completely fills the room, making the sudden quiet of it when he stops almost deafening. Using his thumbs, you feel him spread the lips of your pussy, a heated flush crawling up your chest and face when you hear the appreciative sounds he makes, admiring you.

“Mm, there we go. Gonna fill you right up,” he purrs. Your whole body jerks when you feel him spit directly onto your pussy, the slick of it rolling slowly down to your clit. You grip your desk for dear life, shuddering when you hear the sound of your chair skidding backwards as he stands. Homelander puts his hands right back on your ass and holds you firmly in place for the first sweet, aching push of the fat head of his cock.

“Don’t fucking move,” he grits out. He still sounds sensitive from the first round, but it doesn’t stop him. “You don’t fucking move. You’ll take exactly what I… ffffucking give you,” he groans, sliding all the way into you in one smooth, firm push. He feels so good splitting you open, it almost hurts, your clit throbbing wildly. You want him to touch it, you want to touch it, but you don’t move. You keep your white knuckle grip on the desk and moan as prettily as you can for him. 

Blissfully, he starts to fuck you in earnest, hands moving to your hips so that he can yank you back onto every sharp thrust, ragdolling you like an inanimate toy, using you. His strength makes the feel of it unreal, makes your teeth clatter, the clap of skin against skin obscenely loud and so fucking good.

“There we go, happy now? So fucking needy,” he says, exhaling the words roughly. “Only cooperate when you’re full of cock. Goddamn brat,” he calls you, punctuating each word with a deep, hard thrust. You nearly lose yourself, almost moan aloud and spill the mess in your mouth down your chin, but stubbornly, you hold onto it.

He moves one hand from your hip, you hear a wet pop, and then feel a new pressure: his thumb to your rim, pressing in slow, spit-slick circles before it sinks in, wringing a startled, low moan from the back of your throat. He’s fucking you so good, working you open from every angle, you feel like you’re going to pass out, struggling to breathe from just your nose.

“Jesus fucking Christ, take me so easy, don’t you? Not a hole on you that won’t suck me in. Can’t talk, so your whole body begs for you,” he says, sinking his thumb in deep while he fucks your pussy. Another spit makes you jolt, more saliva being pushed in from your rim. You could sob with it, your clit throbbing so hard it hurts while he fucks you onto your tiptoes with each thrust, the desk rattling so much he has to move his hand from your hip just to hold it in place. “That’s it, that’s it, moan for me, sweetheart. Wanna hear you with my come on your tongue,” he says, thrusting deeper yet, groaning. “Come on my cock. Clamp down on me. Show me what a good little cockslut pussy you’ve got.”

His words wholly unravel you. You close your lips tight and very nearly scream behind the gag of your full mouth, gritting your teeth as your whole body seizes up with the calamitous wave of your orgasm. His cock feels bigger inside you with how intensely it hits you, walls spasming around him in wave after wave of euphoric release. You hear it steal his breath away, a choked off noise as he slams into you one last time. The rush of heat that floods you with his release is burning hot, and you can feel every last throb of his cock as your own quivering pussy milks him of each and every drop of his own orgasm.

You barely have time to process the aftershocks of your climax before Homelander’s withdrawing both his cock and his thumb, and flipping you over onto your back, hitching your legs over his hips. You can feel the mess of his come spilling out of you, dripping down to your ass before he abruptly pushes in three fingers, stifling the flow and wringing a surprised little chirp out of you.

“Clench,” he demands, voice ragged and low. “Don’t you waste a fucking drop,” he says, though it’s a little late for that. The wet mess of it has already made it to your ass, where you can now feel the probing push of his slick cock. You listen, clamping your cunt down around his fingers, giving a shivering moan as you slip and swallow a portion of what’s in your mouth, almost choking on it. You feel delirious with pleasure.

“I heard that,” he says. “You’re fucking lucky I gave you so much to work with.” You look at him, and see your own fervent desire mirrored back at you in his eyes. He looks wrecked with it, his own breaths shallow. You know he’s doing this for you, talking like this for you, and you know it’s your pleasure that drives him to such insanity. Your clit throbs with it, almost painful after the intensity of your orgasm.

With his fingers deep in your pussy, he pushes slowly into your ass, fucking once more into the soaked mess he’s made of your body. He moves slower here, gives you more time to adjust, but all you want is for him to really fuck you again. No matter how tightly you clench around his fingers, you can feel more of his come spilling out of you, dripping over his cock as it splits you open.

You reach between your legs and grab his wrist just to touch him, to brace yourself against the building pressure, fully overwhelmed by each and every sensation: his fingers in your cunt, the salty fill of his come in your mouth, and the agonizingly good ache of him plunging deeper and deeper inside you. Bending over you, Homelander takes hold of your jaw, and smiles wickedly. “Let’s see how you taste.” He kisses you, prying your stubbornly held lips apart with his tongue. You relent, opening up and giving a blissed out sigh as he ravages the taste of himself from your mouth, come and drool dribbling from the sides of your mouth. It’s more depraved than you knew sex could be, and yet all you want is more.

“Fucking delicious,” he growls, using his grip on your jaw to snap your mouth back shut. He covers your mouth with his palm, holds you down like that while he starts to fuck you with both his fingers and his cock. “Fuck, fuck, you don’t even know how good you are, do you? Too fucking desperate to be degraded, to be used. That’s fine, that’s fucking fine by me. I’ll use you. I’ll fucking ruin you,” he says, snapping his hips sharply. You cry out against his palm, eyes rolling back. “You’ll never get this from anyone else. Understand? Your mouth, your pussy, your ass, you fucking belong to me.”

Staking his claim, glorifying and sullying you in one fell swoop. You know that he’s right. Not only would he never let you go, but you would never let him. You want this more than anything, to be his inside and out, to be forever tainted by the ruination of his love. You would rather be destroyed by him than salvaged by any other.

You come again, eyes screwed shut. Your whole body arches into a curve, and you swear the desk cracks beneath you as Homelander gives one last thrust before spilling into you for a third time, filling the empty spaces inside you like liquid gold into cracked porcelain. Your breaths are harsh and tonal, sucking air in through your nose in desperate pulls.

Homelander lifts his hand from your lips, and replaces it with his own, kissing you softly, soothing your frenzied breaths. “Swallow,” he murmurs against your lips. You do so instantly, gasping as soon as you have the capacity to. He gives you the time to breathe, easing his fingers from your quivering cunt. He brings them to his mouth, which you smell before you see, and one at a time, he sucks each finger clean, smiling lazily around them, moaning at the flavor of you on them. You laugh breathlessly, barely finding the strength to take hold of his face and pull him back down into a kiss, savoring your shared flavors as they mingle on your tongues. You take the time to recover, to recalibrate your senses while you luxuriate in the full feeling of him inside you, warm and so wholly yours. 

Homelander nuzzles into the crook of your neck like an overgrown cat. You think he’d be purring if he could. “Too much?” He asks, playfully giving one of your limp wrists a little shake. You can tell there’s genuine concern behind the play: he’s always worried about pushing you too far.

“No,” you answer, that simple word alone slurred. You both laugh at that. “No, was… Good. Mmmm… You do good.”

“I do good?” He echoes slyly, clearly as amused as he is pleased by your lack of coherence. You can already see it going straight to his ego, though you don’t mind. Despite the facade he puts on for the world, you’re the only one who really knows how much he needs these little assurances.

“Mmmmhm,” you hum, smiling. “You do good.”

“Good,” he says softly, eyes soft, lips slanted in a deeply content smile. After a while, he helps you adjust, slipping out of you, and you both work slowly on putting yourselves back together, never going far from one another. You’re both a mess, as are your clothes, but that can wait. Intimacy can’t. He settles down into your chair, and you slide into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. He has a talent for making any and every spot and position comfortable, allowing you to drape yourself on him in whatever way you like. His strength makes it effortless.

Once you’re comfortable, you hear a rustling. You lift your head, and find him rummaging through your bag. Just as you’re about to ask what he’s looking for, he reveals it: a single stick of gum. You stare incredulously as he unpeels it, and pops it into his mouth, smacking his lips obnoxiously as he chews. He lets out a pleased sigh.

“Unbelievable,” you say with a smile, shaking your head with a laugh as you nestle in against his chest. “I love you.”

You can hear his grin in the way he chews the gum alone, but it’s even more prevalent in the earnest way he says, “And I love you.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 24 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-It always takes you a little while to shake off the haze when you wake. However, this morning, you are instantly aware that you are being filled. You try to move, but unyielding arms tighten around you, holding you fast. “Good morning, beautiful,” John greets with the gravel of sleep in his throat, nuzzling at the shell of your ear with his nose.

Stuffed full with his morning wood, your pussy pulses around his thick, velvety hard flesh inside you. You make a sound, not sure if you are whining for mercy, or more.

“John…”

“I woke up to this sweet, wet little hole just begging for my cock,” he grumbles in your ear.

Yet, he does not move, and it is driving you mad.

Of course you went to bed wet, because your body has not been allowed any form of reprieve, no chance to regroup or recover. You feel like you’ve been living in this agony for ages.

You strain against him, hungry to feel him move inside you. To feel him do something besides just fill you quietly, taunting you with his glorious girth.

“Want to do something about it?” you grouse, trying to move your hips against him, but you don’t have the right leverage at all.

“Maybe.” He kisses the back of your neck, his lips like a brand upon your skin. “I feel like you pulled a trick on me last night.”

“Gave you a blowjob and put you to bed? Behold, my nefarious scheme…”

You feel the rumble of his laughter in his chest pressed against your back.  “Hmm. Little witch. Be still. I don’t think I’m ready to wake up yet. Want to stay like this for a while…”

The keening sound of frustration that escapes you is barely human.

“Unless there’s something you’d like to say to me? Otherwise, you can just…keep this warm.”

You breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth, determined not to let him win. You lay very still….but there is no pretending there is not a big dick deep inside your weeping cunt. You whine again, and he kisses your neck this time.

“You know the magic words, kitten.”

Say you’re mine.

“Don’t you know torture yields unreliable intelligence?”

“Hmm. Not in my experience.” 

You pause as you realize he used to work for the Russian mafiya, and he probably really has pulled out someone's fingernails or some shit before. 

He reads the way you pause, sensing the change. 

“It was never really my forte,” he tries to explain away. “I didn't have the patience.” 

That, you almost believe. 

He remains still inside you, the seconds ticking away in heartbeats. Your body betrays you, just fucking refusing to settle down. He teases you until you could almost scream.

You squeeze your inner muscles as hard as you can, winning a strained groan from behind you. “Those are some fucking kegels you’ve got there, kid.”

“They feel even better if you move.”

“Hmm.”

His hand trails down, dipping into your curls, exploring your slit while avoiding your clit all the while. “So wet for me. I’d like to make you cum, kitten. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

“Be my guest,” you grind out between gritted teeth.  

God, if he would just give you one hard touch on your clit you think you will explode. You are that turned on. You have never felt anything like this before, with anyone. And it’s not just that no one ever thought to treat you this way. It’s…him. You know it’s him, your feelings for him, your chemistry together that could burn down the world, if he would stop being so fucking weird about this mine thing.

Because you are not a thing to be owned. You are not a sofa, or a set of dishes. You belong to no one but yourself.

He does touch your clit then, just a feather light caress with the tip of his finger.

You do scream, and he swallows the sound with his mouth on yours. Suddenly you are flipped on your belly, your ass in the air with his cock buried inside you. He gives your round rear-end a smack that makes you jump. It doesn’t really hurt you, but it stings. Your reaction makes him groan, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.  

“Do you know how many times I thought about ambushing you in the early morning in the coffee house, when it was still dark outside, and no one was there but you?” he asks as he withdraws, hovering so just his tip kisses your entrance. “I watched you fuss around behind the counter, listening to your music, oblivious to me. I fantasized about grabbing you up and ruining you on the countertop to the smell of the first pot of vanilla roast brewing.”

You blink, not sure where this is coming from at a time like this.

He was watching you. The whole time, he was watching. It should freak you out more than it does, but after everything that’s happened…the thought just inspires an uneasy warmth in to spread in your belly.

“I usually kept the doors locked before opening,” you offer weakly.

He snorts at that. “Wouldn’t have stopped me from getting to you.” He drives himself inside you, and you cannot help but flinch, your face shoved into the pillow. He is kinder with his next thrusts, but no less determined. “Cum with me, baby,” he demands again. “You’ve always been mine. Before you even knew it, you belonged to me.”

You want to. God, do you want to, but you’re not willing to pay this devil’s price for it. You are so grateful for the surge of anger that swells in your breast.

“You’re just a bully,” you snarl. “Maybe you’re bigger than me and meaner than me, and you can keep me here as long as you want, but that doesn’t mean you own me. I’m not a fucking coffee maker or a couch or a stereo. The only way you’ll ever truly own a piece of my heart is to have the courage to ask for it openly, with the freedom to let me stay or leave.”

He freezes, his cock buried inside you to the hilt, his fingertips digging into your hips. “Is there a chance in hell you would stay with me, after what you’ve seen?” After what I’ve done to you? hangs unsaid in the air.

Your pause is too long, and you know you fucked up by not answering him immediately. This would have been a great time to tell him a lie. You guess he’s conditioned you against it though. You’ll tell him the truth, even if it hurts you.

“That’s what I thought,” he snarls, and with three thrusts he finishes savagely inside you.

There is no snuggling afterwards. He leaves you cold and alone in the big bed, retreating to the bathroom with a slam of the door.

For the umpteenth time you think to yourself, you are so fucked.

_______________

20 points to your House if you spotted the Jane Eyre reference...🥰

[pinkandblueblurbs]

he’ll go down first

word count: 900

daryl dixon x fem!reader. mentions of plus size!reader, cunnilingus, face riding, banter/lighthearted sex, teasing, dirty talk, implied blowjob

“You’re such a fuckin’ tease, actin’ like that in front of everyone.” Daryl grouses once the door is closed, giving your ass a playful smack over your jeans. You spin around to look at him and cock your head in an exaggerated show of confusion.

“Actin’ like what?”

Daryl huffs. “Yes, sir. I need it bad,” his impression of you is high pitched and scratchy, making you giggle. “Please fuck my needy pussy.”

You mean to let out an exasperated scoff, but a laugh bubbles up in its stead. “I did not say that!”

“Might as fuckin’ well have.” He mutters. Before you can respond he closes the distance between you and catches your lips in a searing kiss. He backs you up towards the bed while his hands swiftly undo the fly of your jeans and tug them down the swell of your hips along with your panties.

You gasp when his hands shove your shoulders, sending you backwards onto the mattress. He has the garments fully off you before you can form a thought.

“Lemme at that pussy,” Daryl’s large hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the pillowy flesh there as he decisively pulls them wide. He leans down to your bare cunt, gazing at it with the same adoration he awards to every other part of you before placing a soft kiss to each of your inner thighs. It makes your chest tighten. “Fuck, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

“Yeah? Then why you takin’ so long?” You quip with a taunting grin. He looks up to flash you a mock glare.

“Impatient brat,” he mutters before leaning down to lick a strip up your slit. You moan at the feeling of his wet tongue on you, his movements confident and well-practiced as he teases over your sensitive skin.

“Darryl,” it’s somewhere between a whine and a demand, but whatever it is he takes the hint and focuses his attention on your clit, flicking over it with the tip of his tongue. You let out a long groan and reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair. “Fuck yes, that feels so good.”

He wraps his lips around the sensitive nub now, sucking steadily and making your vision blur. Your hips itch to move and you don’t hold back, naturally grinding up against his hot mouth, your hands keeping his head where you want it. The vibrations of Daryl’s groan only add to your gratification. You look down to watch him, finding his eyes fixed on you, half lidded as if he’s getting just as much pleasure out of this as you are.

You’re still looking at him when you see his eyes flare open slightly as an idea dawns on him. You whine when he lifts his head away, keeping your hands in his hair and chasing him with your hips, but he swats your forearms to make you loosen your grip.

“Take it easy, girl, you’re gonna like this.” He grumbles with lighthearted annoyance as he moves up the mattress. He settles on his back, head on a pillow, and a thrilled smile breaks out on your face as his intention sinks in. “Get up here.”

You let your smile fall away as you slowly crawl up the bed towards him, putting on a feigned meek look and batting your lashes. “You sure?”

Daryl huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t gimme that shit, you ain’t been shy a day in your life.”

Your act breaks as you let out a laugh and quicken your pace, swinging a leg over him until you’re positioned atop his chest, straddling his head.

He’s quick to grab your ass and pull you forward so your cunt connects with his mouth. You let out a long moan, hands grappling at the headboard as he laps at your wet entrance. Soon his tongue is thrusting inside, stroking along your inner walls and making your thighs clench around his head.

When you look down you can’t meet his eyes like before, your stomach obscuring them, and you miss that intimacy— but it’s made up for by the way his nose feels against your clit when you roll your hips, and the way his strong hands grip your thighs like he never wants you to pull away.

He keeps up his expert attention, licking and sucking just the way you like. You chase your orgasm as you grind against his face. Your moans slowly become louder, more frequent, and tension builds up inside you until finally it breaks and makes way for pure bliss.

Your hips stutter as your orgasm crashes over you, knuckles turning white as they grip the headboard. Daryl works you through it, drawing out your pleasure, not letting up until you’re whimpering at the sensitive sting of his tongue.

His hands support you as you move up and off him, the process slow and clumsy thanks to the weakness in your knees. When you look at him his face is covered in your slick and his eyes are closed while he catches his breath.

“You’ve got a little something…” his eyes crack open and you gesture over the entire lower half of his face, making him snort.

“Yer hilarious.” He deadpans. You grin at him, moving so you’re between his legs. You start to undo his pants, palming at the bulge in them.

“Guess it’s your turn, huh?”

[missmonsters2]

—MONACHOPSIS | TWO

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x OFC/Fem!Reader

Summary: Wednesday has never cared about belonging somewhere. She does her own thing unapologetically. Yet, you’re over there, and she’s over here. It’s the first time she’s ever felt out of place.

Warnings: Jealous!Wednesday. Wednesday generally being Bad At Feelings™️. Enid enjoying it too much. Thing, the betrayer. Wednesday hating on Xavier, as per usual.

Series Masterlist || Library Blog || AO3: Missmonsters2

Reminder there’s no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Note: I really enjoyed writing this one. Soft 🥺

Part One

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Monachopsis: Noun. The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

There are very few things that make Wednesday Addams uncomfortable. She will certainly never let anyone know her full list, but there’s no hiding this one. Wednesday isn’t even sure what’s making her uncomfortable. 

It’s not the fact that she’s at a party held in the Siren’s common room. A part of her regrets letting Enid drag her to this, especially since the blonde left her almost immediately when she spotted her stoner boyfriend. But another part of her is thrilled by being here—because of you.

It’s slightly difficult to see you across. This party is not like the Rave'N Dance, chaperoned by adults and modest dancing. 

No. 

The lack of adults watching makes this a party of hormonal teenagers cramped in one space with dark lighting. The obligatory distance between people as they dance disappears, bodies grinding up on each other as the music plays so loud, Wednesday can feel the bass on her skin. 

So, it’s a little hard to see you across the room.

Wednesday clenches her jaw, her mind betraying her as she unwillingly wonders if she’s uncomfortable watching the sea of bodies—her peers—grinding up on each other or if it’s because you’re on the other side of the room, nowhere near her as you lean against the wall with a red solo cup in hand and talking to Bianca.

Even though you’re not following the masses in dancing, you look so mellow as you rest against the wall. You look like you belong. 

It’s too far, Wednesday distantly thinks.

You’re over there, and she’s over here. 

And for someone like Wednesday, who has never singularly cared about belonging anywhere, she feels—out of place. 

“Wednesday!" 

Arms wrap around her before she can move out of the way. It’s disheartening she’s so distracted, so clumsy, that Enid can ambush her.

"Enid,” Wednesday grouses, her brows furrowing as she tenses up but allows it in the end. 

“Sorry,” Enid pulls back, looking only slightly sheepish. “It’s just all so exciting! Why aren’t you joining in on the fun?”

Wednesday’s eyes peer past Enid’s shoulder to the mass of bodies. She can smell the sweat and practically feel the grime. “That’s torture,” Her eyes move back to Enid’s smiling face. “And not the kind I like.”

Enid doesn’t say anything; her eyes move to the side where the punch bowl is, and her boyfriend is getting her a drink of Yoko’s specialty virgin mix. His gaze finds her, and she waves at him as he gives her a warm smile. 

“I think,” Enid starts to say as her boyfriend returns to his task. “There’s something else you could do you might find fun.”

Enid is staring in the same direction as Wednesday, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. In the same line of vision, Xavier is sitting on the couch by his lonesome, looking broody as usual. 

“Keeping Xavier company isn’t my idea of fun either,” Wednesday dispassionately replies. 

“Not that!” Enid exasperatedly replies. “Go talk to Maleficent.”

“I see you’re struggling to find a new moniker.”

“It’s better than Xavier’s,” Enid mutters. “Besides, it’s not like we’re limited on tries. You’ve yet to come up with anything at all.”

Wednesday doesn’t reply to the comment. It’s not necessarily true, but everything she’s thought could be possible is strangely too…intimate. If she did inherit her father’s nicknaming skills, she cursed him for it. Of course, that skill would be limited to coming up with pet names. 

“Anyway, stop stalling,” Enid chastises. “Go save her from Bianca.”

“What makes you think she needs saving?” Wednesday’s eyes travel to your form again. You look perfectly content with whatever drivel Bianca is subjecting you to. 

Wednesday tries to keep her irritation in check. Bianca has been much more bearable since they saved the school, but the feeling of self-pity and rage plague her whenever she loses to Bianca still. 

Bianca looks over, smirking at Wednesday before she turns back to you. 

Wednesday is being plagued right now. 

Then, you’re looking at her. Your eyes look darker than usual in the oscillating lights. But still, as always, you smile sincerely but unintrusively at her. You give her a short wave before you turn back to Bianca. 

Something abnormal flares inside Wednesday’s stomach. Is she sick? Were her eyes being subjected to too many colors, and this was the reaction?

“Enid,” Wednesday calls her friend’s name with no inflection in her tone despite how uncomfortable she feels. “I’m unwell and not in the pleasant way. I’m going back to our room.”

“Oh no!” Enid immediately frowns, concerned for her friend, as she turns to face Wednesday fully. “What’s wrong? Are you catching a cold?”

“My intestines feel like they’re being wrung and twisted,” Wednesday reveals and then thoughtfully says, “It’s not as enjoyable as I thought it ’d be.”

“Why would you enjoy—never mind,” Enid sighs. “Was it something you ate or drank?”

“I eat the same thing as I do everyday,” Wednesday shakes her head. 

Enid hums as she trails Wednesday’s line of sight. Her eyes haven’t left your form once. 

“Did it come on suddenly?”

“Yes.”

“Is it still there?”

“Yes.”

“Is it better or worse?”

“Getting worse.”

Enid gently places her hands on Wednesday, being sure to move slowly, as Wednesday was still averse to having people touch her. Now, Wednesday was forced to look at her. 

“How about now?”

Wednesday doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes gaze down in thought before she looks back at Enid. “Interesting, Enid. It’s subsiding. Where did you learn this?”

Enid merely grins as she turns Wednesday back to her previous position. You were laughing at something Bianca was saying, and the way your head tilted back exposed the smoothness of your neck. If she strains her ears, Wednesday could probably even hear that melodic sound.

“How about now?”

“Enid,” Wednesday glares, the unpleasant feeling coming back immediately.

“Ah, well,” Enid releases her hands and places them behind her back. “Well, from my expert opinion, you’re not physically unwell. You have something called the butterflies!” Enid squeals. 

“Butterflies?” Wednesday repeats with a frown. 

“You know,” Enid grins. “The feeling you get in your stomach when you’re nervous or excited.”

“One, I’m never nervous,” Wednesday raises her brow. “Two, the only time I’m excited is when I’m winning, and others are suffering.” Wednesday’s eyes scan the room. “And the only one suffering here is Xavier and even that is merely amusing but not exciting.”

“Ah, well,” Enid smirks. “I guess you can add Faerie Berry to the list of things that excite you then.”

“That’s even worse than Maleficent,” Wednesday vacantly replies. 

“Ugh, shut up!” Enid scrunches her nose. “Just…just go talk to her!”

But Wednesday refuses. She already feels out of place, and you’re distracting her to the point where she can’t recognize the roar of her surroundings. 

Besides, the gruesome butterflies Enid so kindly (smugly) described to her was bound to worsen in your proximity. 

“I’m going back to the room,” Wednesday declares with finality. She doesn’t wait for Enid to try to convince her otherwise, turning on her heels and briskly walking away. 

The silence in her room loosens the tension in her shoulders, and she lets out a tiny puff of air. Wednesday changes her clothes, contemplating another night of playing the cello.

“Thing?” Wednesday calls out. It’d be useful if he could turn the sheets for her. But only silence answers her back. “Thing, you better not be hiding in Enid’s silk sheets again. You know it scares her if it’s unexpected and I won’t save you this time if she tries to throw you out the window.”

Wednesday takes a deep breath when she realizes that Thing isn’t in the room with her. Thing has been leaving and returning to the room at odd hours lately, and while she’s usually uninterested in what Thing is up to, she’s learned that he’s generally up to mischief that Wednesday ends up paying for.

Turning back on her heel, she leaves her room quietly and begins looking down the halls. 

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

“I’m going to rip your nails out when I find you, Thing,” Wednesday pledges with quiet rage. She’s searched nearly everywhere and has yet to find any inkling of where he might be. She just finished checking the nurse’s office because Thing sometimes came in here to steal lotion.

Just as Wednesday’s about to go back to her room and see if Thing has already returned, something catches her eye at the corner. She carefully peers out the window and sees you stepping outside. You carefully look behind you, running your hand through your hair delicately before you walk off toward the forest.

Strange, Wednesday thought. She got a text from Enid that the party was still going on just minutes ago, and her roommate might not return for the night. Were you stepping out to get fresh air? Or were you meeting with someone? 

It doesn’t take Wednesday long to decide to follow after you. Her morbid sense of curiosity has won over, and quite frankly, following someone while at Nevermore has never failed to bring her something interesting. 

Wednesday takes her time; her footsteps light as she has to be careful when following you. Faeries have a keen sixth sense as you stop multiple times and turn around with a tilt of your head. She reminds herself that she’ll need to tell you that you need to listen to your instincts better.

Eventually, you stop in front of a tree. It’s as nondescript as it gets, blending in with other trees and the background. But you walk around it clockwise 2 times, then counterclockwise once before knocking on the truck 3 times before walking around the trunk clockwise. Wednesday expects to see you as you turn, but you don’t. 

Wednesday’s eyes gleam with interest as she steps out from the shadow and repeats exactly what you did. The scenery changes as she walks around the trunk clockwise the final time. For a moment, Wednesday thinks she’s having a vision, except it doesn’t jolt and incapacitate her like she’s touching livewire. 

The space before her has transformed into something Wednesday can’t quite describe. The air outside had been cool with the night taking over, but despite how it’s nighttime here as well, the air mimics the afternoon air of autumn. The fireflies are the only things that keep the place from total darkness other than the moon.

That’s all the time Wednesday has to take in her surroundings because something else captures her eyes, and she’s powerless to tear them away. 

You were sitting on the ground near a clear pond, and while the usual sight of you does ensnare Wednesday—this was different.

Obsidian wings hung from your back, initially held up as they fluttered before they dropped into a relaxed stance, the ends resting on the grass. 

And resting between your shoulder blades was—

Wednesday narrows her eyes.

Thing.

The way Thing jolted when he saw her jerked you into turning your head around. Shock was the first emotion to cross your face before you frowned, your wings tensing as they curled themselves around you protectively. 

You have never frowned at her before, and the sight of it curdles wretchedly in Wednesday’s stomach. 

“What is this place?” Wednesday asks, her curiosity winning over guilt.

“It’s like a studio…” you answer slowly. “Principal Weems let me have a private area created by fae magic. You can only pass through the veil by a sequence of actions.”

Wednesday nods, and then it’s silent again.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Wednesday finds herself saying, her face remaining blank to not betray how she feels. 

“Did you follow me?” You ask warily. 

Wednesday swallows. “I was—looking for Thing.”

You look at the hand on your shoulder as if you’re having some kind of silent conversation.

“Well,” Wednesday jerkily says. “Now that I see Thing is fine, I’ll go. I won’t speak about this matter.”

Just as Wednesday turns to leave, she hears your quick, but soft voice.

“No, it’s okay. You can stay…if you want.”

Wednesday turns back and feels a weird relief to see your wings have unfurled themselves from you back into their relaxed manner. You nod your head to take a seat next to you. It takes only a few strides to meet you, but as she sits down, Wednesday feels—out of place. Like she’s intruding on you and Thing.

Thing—that betrayer. 

Has he been sneaking out every night to see you? He very well knew that you were the object of her—curiosity.

And he’s been completely signless about you. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “I’m just not…” you sigh. “I get weird about people seeing my wings.”

“Why?” Wednesday deadpans as she stares out into the pond. “They’re a sight to behold. No shame in that.”

You give her a small smile but shake your head. “What do you know about faeries?”

“Very little, considering there are few books about your kind, and Weems seems unwilling to share anything except for the fact you don’t have anything like a siren’s song.”

“Why do you think I have something like a siren’s song?” You ask with a raise of your brow. 

Wednesday doesn’t answer.

You don’t seem offended by her lack of answer, merely chuckling as you pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. “The reason faeries are so recluse is because many of us have been hunted down for our wings.”

Wednesday turns her head to look at you, but you don’t meet her eyes. “Do your wings have magical properties?”

You nod. It’s quiet for a moment, and you seem hesitant by how your brows furrow before they relax. “If you can cut out both of a faerie’s wings, it can be used in a ritual to grant you one wish.”

Wednesday raises a brow, skeptical. “Any wish?”

You nod. “You’d be surprised how many of my kind have been slain for their wings used for depravity and then slain again to reverse the depravity done.”

But Wednesday’s face remains impassive since the idea that people are wretched and depraved doesn’t surprise her. 

“And what happens to the faeries that have their wings taken?" 

"They typically die,” you deadpan. “Faeries can’t survive without their wings.”

Silence falls over them again but only for a brief moment.

“Why did you tell me?” Wednesday asks, her eyes watching your face to catch any movement that would expose the truth. This was too important to reveal and left you vulnerable if Wednesday was interested in your wings. 

You turn to her, eyes trailing Wednesday’s face in the same studious manner. It’s strange how you can do something that is meant to be intrusive yet do it so unintrusively. 

“I think,” you say slowly, licking your lips to wet them, “you have no desire for your wishes to be granted in such a manner. It wouldn’t be satisfying for you.”

You look away, staring at the pond while Wednesday is left with the words to settle over her. 

“You are correct,” Wednesday nods. “I have no need for your wings. Anything I want, I can achieve by my own means.”

There’s a small upward quirk of your lips, and Wednesday’s stomach is being wrung and twisted again. She shuts out Enid’s accursed words.

“Why are you out here with Thing?” Wednesday’s eyes trail to Thing in an accusatory manner. 

You sit up straighter, turning your head to look at Thing on your shoulder. He taps his index finger on you impatiently, and you laugh lightly. Pulling out a small container and opening it, revealing some kind of salve inside, Thing applies a decent amount on his finger and crawls carefully over to your back. 

You adjust, moving to sit so that your wings face Wednesday, and she can see what Thing is doing. 

“Thing helps me apply medicine daily.” Your wings flutter slightly as Thing uses his middle finger to push away some of your feathers, and Wednesday catches what the medicine is for. 

There’s a deep, angry gash underneath your feathers. They don’t necessarily look fresh, but Wednesday can tell they’re slow to heal. The cut is long, disappearing under your feathers from view. It was clear you were earthbound and would be until the cut healed.

Thing applies the medicine gently and slowly, and Wednesday watches as your wings tense and quiver—in pain, Wednesday assumes. 

“I met Thing about two weeks ago in the infirmary late at night,” you reveal. “Previously, I would have to see the nurse every day to have this done. They make special provisions for me at night so as to not draw attention.”

Then, you were chuckling. “But I caught Thing trying to steal some of the special lotion the nurse keeps locked in the cabinets.”

The five-finger discount, Wednesday drawls in her mind. 

“I was a little surprised about a sentient hand walking around, but he’s quite sweet and it’s better than having the nurse pitying looks.”

Wednesday thinks you would’ve shrugged but refrained to avoid jostling Thing as he worked his way down and then to your other wing.

“Thing is happy to help for some dew drops—which is like magical faerie lotion. Very hydrating and makes your skin glowy.”

“Thing is very vain,” Wednesday dryly notes, and you laugh, despite a tiny jerk in your wings as Thing gets to a particularly tender area.

“What happened to your wings?” Wednesday asks, unabashed about it, as she’s never been afraid of the hard things. If you don’t answer, you simply don’t, and Wednesday won’t take offense. 

Thing finishes applying the medicine, dropping back onto the ground as you turn to face Wednesday. She watches as you wave your hand over a patch of grass, its moisture forming into visible drops of dew before they glow faintly and drop onto Thing. 

His skin does look shinier and glassy, Wednesday reluctantly admits. At the very least, she understands why Thing was keeping quiet about you. He seems to be rallying for his forgiveness as he scuddles to Wednesday to rest on her shoulder, bumping his knuckles against her jaw gently. 

Wednesday, though, isn’t in a forgiving mood. Especially when you look up at her with a melancholy smile. 

“While it’s true I’m weird about people seeing my wings because they’re hunted down, it’s also because I’m not fond of them either,” you tell her. “Night faeries are extremely rare. They’re different from the way they look to the powers they hold, and many of my kind believe they’re wretched beings—destined to bring calamity.”

Your wings expand as far as they can without inducing pain, and Wednesday doesn’t understand how there can be something so bewitching as your magnificent wings. 

But you clearly don’t see them that way.

“Black wings are the mark of a night faerie.”

PART THREE

[merakiui]

allow me to spill my thought...

azul & darling makeout in the vip room while a little death by the neighbourhood play in the background

👁 👁 you're cooking something so big brain, anon....... Azul + The Neighborhood is a delicious combination, especially that song paired with the most yearning, hungry makeout ever.... >:D the lyrics "make me feel like I am breathing. Feel like I am human" all while you're kissing a merman!!!! AAAAAAAA orz orz I'm going so crazy,,,,

Azul who is very greedy with you and wants you to stay just a little longer in his VIP room. Spending the time merely kissing while he whines into your mouth every time you grind down against his pathetically hard dick...... you're still fully clothed,,, oooooo if he cums in his very nice and expensive slacks you'll never hear the end of his grousing, but you pinch his cheek and giggle because he's so cute when he's huffy.

Hehehe as for our eels,, may I suggest slow, soft sex with summer Floyb while listening to Tú by maye. <3 or getting high with Jade and gradually undressing each other while listening to Lonely Estate by Cailin Russo. Fingers wandering...... touching beneath the belt..... sighing into each other's mouth!!!!!! OTL Pineapple Crush with summer Floyb is also really good to imagine as well........ actually, there are so many Cailin Russo songs that can suit sensual moments with Octavinelle.

[see-arcane]

Van Helsing Venting (Vent Helsing)

Requisite apology goes here: I am sorry in advance to everyone with a soft spot for the funky old man.

But the reread combined with the podcast has helped put into focus an aggravation that has been nettling me forever without quite knowing how to articulate it.

I’ve brushed the edges of it more than once in several rants about how the Harkers are so constantly given the short stick in every single adaptation of Dracula for a hundred and a quarter years.

Jonathan is either erased, made into a bore, a brute, or unceremoniously killed off while all the amazing character traits and actions he’s responsible for in the story get stolen away and parsed out to others in the cast, often Dracula, Van Helsing, or [INSERT FEMALE THROWN INTO THE CASTLE TO BE BRIDAL CARRIED TO BED HERE].

Mina is alternately a feeble damsel who’s only there to be the pure maiden who gets to live through her seduction*** by Dracula (versus the suddenly scandalous-and-salacious Lucy), or a hashtag girlboss (reincarnated wife syndrome applied as desired) who divorces or otherwise abandons her milksop husband to hook up with a REAL MAN like DRACULA who sexily sex-liberates her. With sex. That she totally for sure wanted along with the bloodsucking.

But on one thing, the Harkers are equal—they never. Ever. Ever. Get to be the true protagonists of any Dracula adaptation, or spinoff, or offshoot, or revamp, et cetera.

This, despite Jonathan being the one to spend the most time with Dracula, alone, in his gothic horror novella of an opening, for Two Months, in which he got the most interaction and dialogue with the Count out of anyone else in the book.

This, despite him and his diary and his love to the point of blasphemy and his nerve and his kukri all being instrumental for the novel to work.

This, despite Mina being the one to literally compile the entire novel out of the transcripts it’s stitched from.

This, despite her connecting the dots to oust the bastard and showing immense courage all on her lonesome in confronting the Count for others’ sake more than once.

But why?

For the longest time, I was ready to grind my teeth and grouse over the obvious reasons of Jonathan and Mina Harker being so gloriously subversive then—and now!—that writers and directors of a certain sneering bent refused to acknowledge anything of their characters beyond the names when slathering their latest cookie cutter vampire bodice ripper with Stoker’s cast titles. The Harkers’ approaches to gender, to heroism, to defeating a villain whose entire role is being the worst of the Gothic Masculine Monster who bullies and preys upon pretty victims to collect for himself (hello harem and power fantasy combo, let’s make THIS guy the ultra-cool totally misunderstood sexypire star of the show!) all chafe against the mental rewrites too many filmmakers and writers make to turn the novel more palatable to their tastes. Assuming they read the book at all.

And that’s all its own pile of rants. But I’ve realized, only now, that this is just part of the problem. The other issue stems from Bram Stoker himself.

That issue being the conversion of an otherwise tight narrative and set of primed protagonist characters into the Abraham van Helsing Show.

I don’t know what it was about today’s entry specifically that made it all click home. Maybe it was already percolating since yesterday, or the day before. But somewhere in Van Helsing’s latest filibuster of dialogue—‘We must share everything! No, wait, tell her nothing! We must make all haste and not lose a moment! Let me turn five minutes’ worth of information into a monologue about bloom and blood and then suggest we all take a siesta on our laurels since we definitely have time to beat the Czarina Catherine! Jonathan, you stay at home with Mina while me and my non-questioning ducklings/the others who don’t really need lines anyway take care of the problem, doctor’s orders! And all my orders are followed, unquestionably, every time, despite them very clearly having only a 50/50 success rate, as is right!’—it all really hit me.

The moment Van Helsing turned into the never-doubted, never-need-apologize, yes, do kiss his hands like a fucking mafia godfather in gratitude for Doing the Things He Should Have Known to Do in the First Place After Lucy, ‘leader’ rather than ‘the lore collector/mentor’ is when the novel turns on its heel and starts breaking its back to accommodate him at the expense of everyone else.

The Harkers get it the worst, naturally.

Once they arrive in Purfleet and the documents are handed over, Van Helsing leads the pack in peer pressuring them into sequestering Mina away as their cheerleader who Need Not Suffer the Icky Horror of -checks notes- finding boxes. Not sent away anyplace safe and guarded by home rules and garlic and crosses; just left to Yellow Wallpaper her days away in the asylum suite.

Meanwhile, Jonathan proves to be literally the only useful member of this group project via hauling ass all over London to gather information to bring back to the table…which Van Helsing then oh-so-helpfully disseminates on top of the obvious point that, hey, yeah, there’s probably boxes there. We should do Wafers about it.

Now, in fairness, Van Helsing was a vital character up to a certain point. Jack called him in for his broader expertise, for how open his mind was as far as what he was willing to investigate or believe as a threat. Without him and his lore collection in Amsterdam, a lot of the details regarding anti-vampire tactics and Dracula’s history lesson wouldn’t have come into play. All this, plus providing the hideous proof of the Bloofer Lady’s reality, making the last three nonbelievers into members of the Drac Attack Pack. Last but far from least, he helps reassure Jonathan to free him from his crushing self-doubt, and then brings in both of the Harkers to create the full group. Fuck yeah!

All that considered, it does make some sense for him alone to give his little seminar on the Dracula Issue…

…except for the fact that Mina has absorbed and transcribed all the info herself. Literally all of it. And the fact that Jonathan personally knows the fucker. All three of these characters should have been at the head of the table, sharing what they know.

But they weren’t. It’s starting to become all about Dr. Abe—because that’s how Stoker keeps his OC self insert in the lion’s share of the spotlight.

This is also when Van Helsing is fresh off the nightmare with Lucy, fresh off of acknowledging that there is literally no reason at all to keep vampire secrets from anybody in this room, fresh off of being oh so thrilled with Mina’s helpfulness and canniness, fresh off of what should have been him learning his lesson and—in open-minded fashion—cutting off any benignly sexist chivalry at the knees to keep Mina in the loop and share the mastermind role.

And what does he decide?

Off to the tower, princess. It’s man work time! Man work here meaning: Investigate some scary dirt. Some rats are there. Everyone break up some Christ crackers, men. Thank God Mina isn’t here to suffer this, amirite? Oh, and Jonathan, be a dear and gather all the information on Dracula’s locations and properties while me and the others…do whatever. Read? Smoke? Something. Anyway, attaboy, such a good hard worker you are, Only Non-Titled Fresh-From-the-Lower-Class Man in the Group!

And then, after October 3rd?

He’s horrified. He’s upset. He’s King Laughing about Dracula’s good meal and within inches of being kukri’d. But you know what he isn’t?

Apologetic.

Oh, he says sorry for the crack about Dracula eating well—but all the actions that led up to the attack? Not a peep.

And when he falls right back into the ‘withhold as much information as possible until it’s time for a Big Specialboy Meeting and my Big Specialboy Corn-flavored Monologue of the Day, in which I’ll give more orders with full expectation that everyone here will hop to it like good little student-soldiers because the author says we can only follow me me me?’

The only saving grace is that Jonathan—not even Mina! JONATHAN!—finally puts his foot down and refuses to chase the stick without conferring with Mina first. Mina, who has always taken precedent to him, period, but also Mina, who has proven herself to be the soundest mind in the entire group and already well aware of the dangers Dr. Abe has been rambling about and trying to be oh-so-covert and sneaky about with Jack.

On that subject? Van Helsing is STILL living a fantasy world where he, and occasionally Jack, are the only ones who can put 2 and 2 together and consider taking anti-vampire measures against Mina.

When everyone has already read everything.

When Mina knows exactly what the risks and measures are.

When Jonathan ‘Would Sell His Soul for His Love and to Slaughter Dracula’ Harker knows all of this.

WHEN EVERYONE HAS EYES THAT CAN ALSO SEE MINA’S TEETH.

Brammy Pajamas. Bramothy Stokerton. Bramward Stokerbroker. My guy.

Your OC, by your own text’s rules, is not special here. He is not the protagonist. He is not the extra-clever center of the narrative’s universe, per your own fucking writing. Stop forcing this man and his refusal to evolve from his preconceptions and his main character pedestal-theft and his goddamn corncobs down our throats.*

*Note: This will not happen.

The one silver lining yet to come will be that Jonathan and Mina get to roughly shoulder their way back into the story’s forefront by the book’s climax. In a huge way. Jonathan even gets an upcoming scene in which he gets to finally, rightfully, chew Van Helsing to ribbons for casually declaring a Certain Horrifying Action has to be taken (Again! No questions asked! No explanation offered until after said chewing-out!) and the narrative treats this as the right move!

But still. Still. Van Helsing is showered with Stoker’s overblown attention to a character that should have had his influence and dialogue whittled down to a supporting role rather than crowding out the Harkers for two whole thirds of the book, complete with them batting their eyes at how brilliant~ he is for much of it.

Despite.

The facts.

In The Text.

That Mina and Jonathan could have led the the whole fucking thing themselves.

We’ll see in later chapters that Mina is ONCE AGAIN the one to figure out Dracula’s plans ahead of time and set everyone on the right course. Jonathan is ONCE AGAIN the one laser-focused on seeking and slaying the Count almost on a supernatural level. On top of all that? What galls me almost as much as the Harkers being robbed of their story spotlight IN THEIR OWN FUCKING STORY?

If Van Helsing hadn’t been one-man-showing the bulk of the dialogue to make sure Brammington got to wave his self-insert around as much as possible?

We could have let Jack, Arthur, and Quincey be actual presences in the book. Jack has a big role! Absolutely! But even he gets relegated to an orbiting figure rather than an active one once Van Helsing starts hogging the pages. Arthur is practically reduced to a mutely mourning money machine. Quincey gets a few moments to remind everyone Hi, Yes, I am a Cowboy. And that’s it.

THAT’S. IT. FOR ALL OF THEM.

Hell, even Lucy and Renfield get whittled down to wisps of dialogue compared to the whole trees’ worth of lines Van Helsing rattles off.

All because Stoker couldn’t bear to let Van Helsing be the character he should have been.

The support. The guide rather than the commander.

Star Wars isn’t about Yoda, but it wouldn’t be the same without the wise little weirdo! That’s what Van Helsing would and should have been great for! But no!

I see now that I owe at least one small retroactive apology to those movie makers and spinoff writers who try to spin Van Helsing as the very real definite archnemesis of Dracula despite the fact that they have exactly two (2) scenes together and no dialogue. It’s not just the cool name. It’s not just because all of the (frequently male and/or Dracula-crushing) directors and writers refuse to acknowledge Jonathan Harker’s existence or importance.

It's because Stoker himself damn near choked his own book to death with the old man’s screentime, backed up by an utter refusal to let the narrative or the characters acknowledge when he’s fucked up. He always has to be the wise scholar. He always has to command the room and the story when neither of them belong to him.

I’d genuinely like to see one of two adaptations in the future.

In one, we could see a Van Helsing who, following October 3rd, chooses to step back. One where he and others logically point out that he has misled everyone with forced unnecessary ignorance and following stodgy hindering social rules, again, and it has doomed someone precious to them, again. One where the Harkers finally get proper center stage, likewise for the Suitor Squad—the latter of whom are written in canon as having a legit history of dangerous adventures undertaken together. Flesh those out, writers! Let these characters be present in their own fucking story! It’d be a golden opportunity to highlight a point Stoker fumbles even as he champions so many other forward-thinking notions:

Sometimes the older generation has to let go of the reins. Sometimes progress doesn’t come just from following and nodding along, but from forging ahead with new concepts and fresher minds. Case in point, Mina and Jonathan, who are apparently still too radically-written to be bothered with depicting accurately in the 21st century apart from a podcast that is literally just reading their lines verbatim.

The other option an adaptation could take? Supposing it really wanted to lean into the horror and heartbreak and forcing the ducklings to stop grasping at the Dutchman’s coattails?

Kill Van Helsing.

Dracula would absolutely think to target him, assuming that he, the elder with his acquired lore and scholarly nuisance, must surely be the keystone keeping his young enemies together. Given the chance, he’d follow that assumption to its conclusion and, on top of burning what he assumes is all the documentation on him, murdering his fellow clever old man in cold blood, ala Renfield. Bonus points if this comes at a bittersweet cost of Van Helsing landing a parting blow on the Count as thematic penance for ‘failing’ Mina, the second young girl who trusted him and paid for it, giving the bastard his second scar to match the shovel blow on his brow. Double bonus if the mark comes from a Wafer burn.

“Any last words, old man?”

“God bless you.”

Cue him slapping the Son right in the fucker’s face. He doesn’t last long after that, but it’s still a good view to go out on as the Vampire curses and sizzles.

And, natch, he will have been wise enough to leave another memorandum for Jack and the others just in case this very thing should happen. A rousing farewell speech, some parting intel, some apologies made. Perhaps a more personal goodbye to his pupil; complete with Jack’s professional mien cracking like glass and the long-put-off tears finally pouring. Then, finally, the crew move forward as one; no longer leaning on or chafing against Van Helsing’s assumed lead, but using the exact same tools they’d always had at their disposal, along with their own wits that the narrative forced them into ignoring in favor of the Professor’s lectures.

Anyway.

Van Helsing is not a bad character. He’s richly made and interesting, as any worthwhile member of a cast should be! But Stoker crammed him into the wrong role and spread him far too thin across the whole book. Doing so has been detrimental not only to all the media which followed it, but to the actual leads of the novel.