#he thinks it’s only natural to stamp out the things in his way

[mywritersmind]

MARKS ON YOUR BODY - LN4||OP81

summary : In which it starts with strip poker and ends with questions about a specific hidden tattoo and some secret piercings. Or, Lando and Oscar are both hot for you and let you know it.

listen up : zakbrowndaughter!reader 18+ not fully smut but pretty suggestive (at least for me who doesn’t write smut lol) i’m blushing. STRIP POKER PHOTO INSPIRED!! tramp stamp and tits pierced??🙂‍↕️

words : 1425

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“Alright Lan, You wanna stop?” Oscar eyes Lando who’s in pants only. The only way Lando would lose strip poker is if he distracted me too much with his body.

He laughs, “Fuck no!”

“Fuck yes.” I throw down my cards and yawn, “I’m bored of winning.” Oscar had so many pieces of outerwear that he’s lost multiple times but still is wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

Strip poker is my game apparently, maybe the possibility of the guys being naked fueled my fire.

“I swear you’re cheating.” Lando shakes his head.

Oscar’s laughing as I scoff, “I do not cheat! Just accept defeat, Norris.”

He leans against the table, “I’m not losing to you, Brown.”

“I think it’s too late for that, Lando.” Oscar fiddles with a card in his hand as I lean my head back. Apparently, my hair moves with me and Oscar’s brow shoots up, “You have a tattoo?”

I blink, “Uh yeah.”

“What!?” Lando practically screams, “Let’s see.”

I move back my hair to reveal the tattoo that’s behind my ear, it’s a tiny 8 for the number I grew up racing with. “That’s hot.” Lando nods as Oscar hits his arm, “I want to get a tattoo.”

“No you do not!” Oscar argues as Lando sends him a dirty look.

He turns back to me, his arms crossed against the table so his biceps pull my attention, “Did it hurt?”

I shrug, “Yeah, but some of my others hurt more.”

Lando’s jaw drops, “You have more? How did we not know this?”

I laugh again, “I hide them from my dad.”

“Really?” Oscar asks, seemingly surprised at my sneaky nature.

The corner of my mouth pulls upwards, “You wanna see the rest?”

His eyes are deep as he nods and taps the card against the table. “I’m assuming they’re easy to hide.”

I sigh and hook my finger to the bottom of my shirt, pulling it upwards. He's right, of course. All of my tattoos aren’t easily seen by my father.

I pull my shirt until I reach my sternum. Lando’s smile dulls as his eyes zero in on my skin, clearly not wanting to miss anything. I have a star design that goes in a line with little details around it.

Oscar leans his head back against the headrest, biting his lip and checking me out. I don’t think he’s ever looked hotter.

Lando’s hair is a mess but in the sort of attractive way that makes you want to pull it. The two of them are my greatest desire with bright orange caution tape put up by my father.

Zak Brown hates when I'm with the two of them, no matter which, he doesn’t trust me. But coming back from the FIA awards, they offered me a ride since we were all going back to england, so it was only polite to accept.

I drop my shirt and I swear I see Lando’s mouth fall into a frown. “Damn… didn’t know you went against daddy’s orders.”

I smirk, “He hates tattoos…Thinks they’re trashy. Which is ironic because...” I stop myself before I can go on, trailing off and grabbing my water to play it off.

“Because what?” Oscar asks.

“Um…” I don’t really know what to say and I feel quite overwhelmed with these two men staring at me.

“You have one more. Don’t you?” Oscar’s trying to hide his smirk but is shit at it. Lando looks to his teammate, then me.

“Now we have to see.” The curly haired man stretches his arm on the table, his muscles rippling and making me bite my lip.

“Okay.” I situate myself so I'm sitting on my feet. I pause, looking at both of them for a second. The whole thing is so oddly erotic and ridiculously hot.

I turn around in my seat, pulling down the back of my sweats ever so slightly so my tramp stamp is in view. I look over my shoulder to see their reactions because neither of them say a thing.

Oscar is staring, face blank and directed at my lower back. Lando’s mouth is open just the slightest bit, his arm draped over the back of Oscar’s seat. It’s not huge, just thin lines that make up a butterfly and some swirls to compliment it.

“Fuck.” Lando whispers, Oscar looks at him but doesn’t tell him to stop, just mumbles along with his friend. “Yeah.”

“You like it?” I know they do. I’m not blind.

The two are staring at me like i’m fucking edible and the way they look right now, I might be. “I’d be an idiot not to.” Oscar says as I turn back around, my shirt still pulled up and my hair to one side.

“I think this is the first time Lando’s been speechless.” I joke as his eyes meet mine again and his cheeks go pink. “Am I making you nervous, Norris?”

I expect him to roll his eyes or scoff, but he just breathes out and says, “You’re really hot, Y/n.”

“Can’t argue with him there.” Oscar wipes a hand over his mouth before tapping the table, “I wanna see it closer.”

I realize that he means he wants me to sit on the table. “Not even a please?” I tease but I'm already turning and setting myself down on it.

I’m about to adjust my pants but Lando’s hand does it for me. His skin is cold and holds my hip as his fingers dip below my waistband.

“Why a butterfly?” Oscar asks, leaning against the table to get a better look. I lean back and rest against my arms as they look.

“Thought it was cute.”

Oscar laughs a bit, “How often do you mark your body because it’s cute?”

Lando slides out of his seat, moving into mine so I'm facing him. He doesn’t even ask, just slides a hand onto my hip and another on my shirt, pulling it up to see my sternum.

Oscar switches with Lando so he’s now holding the back of my sweats. I let my eyes train down Lando’s chest… his abs… his arms. He’s fit as fuck and the way he was acting during strip poker, he knows it.

I go back to Oscar's question, realizing I got distracted by Lando in front of me. “Very often actually, piercings too.”

This prompts Lando to push my hair behind my ear, admiring my jewelry, “How many do you have?” He sounds almost out of breath.

“Twelve.” His fingers drift over my earrings, counting.

“You only have five on each, though.” As soon as Lando says it, I hear Oscar shift in his seat.

I don’t even wait for Lando to catch on, I just grab his wrist and have my shirt go up with his hand. Lando lets out a noise, close to a whimper.

He stares at my bare chest, the only thing on me is my jewelry decorating each nipple.

I hear Oscar stand, his hand gripping my hip tighten as he gets closer. He’s looking over my shoulder, I lean back a bit so he has a better view of my tits.

Lando’s hand is resting on my neck, pushing my shirt against my skin, I can feel his pulse beat faster under my fingertips.

Lando’s gaze shifts to Oscar as the brown eyed man stares back at him. I feel like they’re having some telepathic conversation that I can’t understand, until Oscar looks back at me.

His eyes are darker, the air filled with tension. As my eyes flick to Lando, I see his chest rise and fall. I get it now.

My hand slips to Oscar’s face, his jaw and cheek warm against my touch. I hesitate purely to see how his breath hitches, then I kiss him.

Lando swears as Oscar’s tongue dips into my mouth, he freezes between my legs. I break the kiss with Lando, hooking my leg around his waist to pull him in closer.

“Are you still nervous?” I whisper as Oscar moves his lips to my neck. Lando looks like he’s dreaming, his head turning side to side slowly as I smirk.

He kisses me, softer than Oscar at first but he becomes sloppier when I start being affected by Oscar attached to my neck.

The aussie mumbles against my skin, “This your end goal all along? Strip poker… tattoo tour… fuck?”

I lean my head back and laugh, “No. I guess I'm just lucky.”

[noxcheshire]

I just think

I just think it’d be really neat

If Damien was JUST as codependent on Danny as Danny is about Damien.

That sort of sweet toxic family dynamic where Damien sees Danny as the — obviously physically young — child he is and thus being incapable of many things, or of anything, because he’s a child. So he’s often taking control of Danny’s actions and where he should go and be.

I’m thinking an unintentional Mother Gothel.

Danny for his part has been damaged so much for so long. From one breaking point to another. So to have someone obviously care for him? After everything he had to endure? He’s not going to care how toxic it is because he can’t even see how toxic it is.

So here they are, feeding into one another’s toxicity.

And if someone tries to stop them from doing that? Damien will revert to his earlier days, all sharp points and bitter sneers and crushing swift violence, because he will not have his little brother taken from him. Never again.

Danny on the other hand just falls apart, because he has someone who cares for him, who treats him so gentle and as if he were a fragile thing. He is loved and someone is trying to take that security from him. He spirals back to the emptiness, to the days where he was not allowed to feel and be human. Just a doll on display, to give and never to take.

And being that Danny is just a kid, just a baby practically, and a damaged one at that, maybe the wariness others feel will fall more onto Damien seeing as he’s older and should know better. They see parts of him they are not comfortable with, parts of himself he had tucked and hid away because even if he wasn’t really conscious about it, Damien was adapting and playing the role that the Wayne’s and others wanted him to play. Now they are seeing that his teachings never really faded, he was just better at hiding it.

He is marred in black, and he only washed it with dirty whites to make them feel better.

And for Damien who sees that wariness, he’ll become even further dependent on Danny, his little brother who reaches for him for affection and safety, who knows and doesn’t ever mind the amount of lives that he had taken and what he does even still to this day.

Here's a little double the trauma for the price of one story for you folks.

So basically Danny got captured by the GIW and was experimented on / tortured until he died and was reincarnated as Danyal Al Ghul. He attempts to adapt to his grandfather's teachings but just can't get behind them unlike his older brother. This culminates in Danny getting caught trying to help an injured animal.

When he refuses to kill it, Ra's decides he's had enough and strikes Danny down then and there. Damian, who was watching all of this go down, disobeys his grandfather for the first time and attempts to resurrect Danny using the Lazarus pits. But Danny's body sinks to the bottom and doesn't return. This devastates Damian and Talia when she gets back.

Meanwhile Danny opens his eyes to find himself in the one place he never wanted to be again, the GIW research facility. The Lazarus pits had responded to the traces of ectoplasm within his body and opened up a portal back to his home dimension. All across the spider verse style you could say. Anyways Danny spends the next decade being experimented on while Damian spends it pretty close to canon albeit with a little more resentment towards Ra's and a little more grief towards the batfam (he feels like he's somehow replacing his little brother by hanging out with them).

Eventually a prison break happens within the GIW facility. Whether because they captured a powerful ghost like Pandora or something or because Clockwork did something, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Danny takes advantage of the chaos to go back through the very portal he got spit out of all those years ago.

Imagine the league's surprise when their youngest heir suddenly comes crawling out of the pits without looking even a day older than when he was first thrown in. The reason for this is because the scientists at the facility thought that Danny was growing in order to simulate being human and gain sympathy. He was always severely punished for this until the remaining ghost part of him eventually adapted to stop his human half from growing. He's now pretty much stuck at the age of 5 or so. Don't worry as he eventually heals from his trauma, he'll start growing again.

Anyways the league, especially Talia is trying to keep it on the downlow that Danny is back. She knows that if Damian finds out, he'll immediately come and try to take back his little brother. Unfortunately for them, they were a little too quiet and Damian gets hella suspicious. So he goes on a solo mission to see what they're up to. He sneaks into Nanda Parbat in the middle of the night and finds a sleeping boy in his baby brother's old room. At first Damian thinks that the league cloned his brother. But when Danny wakes up and stares at him with those big blue eyes he just knows.

So Damian takes Danny with him back home where the batfam is absolutely baffled about where he got this kid from. They're also flabbergasted when Damian speaks to the boy in soft Arabic and has the most gentle and loving expression on his face. This can't be the same demon brat right?

[theoxenfree]

ROOT ROT

possessed!scholar husband x reader|3.7k| 18+

following your cold and reticent husband's return from settling affairs with his deceased uncle's estate, he has changed and done things unheard of. once a great lover of botany and entomology, he has razed his garden to the ground as proof of his love to you. this man—this thing—os not your husband.

warnings;; pseudo-victorian setting, dubcon, mentioned dp, mentioned temperature play, cumshot on body, cum eating, other explicit sexual details, mentions of drug use (opium), unrequited love, hypnosis/trance, some horrific imagery, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a companion piece to imposter. you don't have to read it, but if you want a better idea of what is going on, I suggest you do!

a/n; I reappear after a month hiatus with this piece. I have questions and notes at the end of the fic that I'd love to have feedback to!

please reblog this if you've read it, guys! help keep your favorite writing and authors on this website by reblogging their work!!

“He is simply not himself!”

Bartolomé Medina knew his best friend better than you knew your husband, so you believed him when he said that your husband’s newly acquired, increasing eccentricities were not some fictitious imagining of yours.

Although, Medina himself could not explain the unexplainable and all of the oddness without growing visibly flustered.

A bit flushed in the face, singeing the roundness of his ears. He'd stamp out your justifications for strangeness in the same way he did the fine cigars he'd been accustomed to sharing with his friend, yet had not for quite sometime now.

“And you say his garden is dead?” Medina looked stricken with dread, suddenly ill by repeating something so blasphemous. “Now, my dear, please don't mistake my shock as disbelief. I very much believe in what you're saying. I've seen Solomon and his weirdness! Why, just this morning over breakfast, at a time where you were still tucked away in deep sleep, he wouldn't drink his coffee. So bizarre! That man knows the thousands of tastes and varieties of coffee beans, and he spat the very stuff out on the floor like it'd never once touched his tongue!

“But his garden? A botanist without his garden is like a bird without wings. A dog without a tail to wag. A newborn without his mother’s teat! Vulgar, I understand, but you see my point.” He drank from a heavy glass in his hand. The inside had nearly spilled over at one point with light brown which glittered gold under the overhead light, smelling slightly sour and earthy. “To think that Solomon would let it all die. Something is wrong. Something has happened to my only true friend and to your husband.”

You did not drink with any enthusiasm or anguish from your own cup, rather you used those seconds of delicate sipping to gap the conversation, separate yourself from it all for just a moment. You'd had your time to grieve and contend with knowing the man you had married and come to love was not the same one who kept you awake at night.

Solomon had once been a reclusive and reticent man, the only son of David Agrippa and sole heir of the Agrippa Diamond Mines and Jewelry Galleria. He'd never been able to replicate his father's ardor for business and entrepreneurship, choosing towards academic ventures of entomology and botany and most of everything belonging to the natural world instead.

Among his most prized things was a sprawling, domed greenhouse made of large sheets of pale blue-green glass soldered with metal which shifted rose-gold in bright daylight.

“I loved his garden, but I didn't much like to be in there with him,” you confessed, forgetting your manners as you kept your cup still against your lips, mumbling your words. “He liked to tell me about the plants and flowers he grew. Most of it I could never hope to understand, but… I loved seeing him come alive. He seemed to glow when he could tell me things, so I got into the habit of listening to him when he wanted to speak.”

Medina, not yet drunk or driven to any untoward behavior, set aside his empty vessel with jittering ice cubes and looked at you admiringly. “You said that you didn't like being in there with him? Why?”

“The bees. The bugs. The humidity. The fertilizer he liked to use because of the nitrogen content. He told me that it mattered what he used and couldn't just break up soil from the yard.” You said, tilting your cup.

After taking another sip, you determined you hated the taste of the liquor and how it slid down along your throat like fire trailing an oil spill, yet clung there with residual, syrupy stickiness that nearly made you gag.

“Why did you keep going inside?” Medina asked tranquilly, much of his previous frustration softened, body and soul warmed by the alcohol and how fondly he regarded your sweetness towards his friend.

You thought very little before answering, “I wanted to be where he was. It didn't matter to me if that meant his greenhouse or the coldest part of the arctic.”

That was the truth of it. Once you'd received the first crumbs of understanding who Solomon truly was beneath his stolid exterior built brick-by-brick from tragedy and grief and a lifetime of emotional ineptitude, you would've gone to any length to see more of him. To see his pale eyes gain a wild, flickering candlelight of passion, and the faintest of trembling smiles disguising how deeply your questions had aroused his soul.

In those moments, he revealed to you the things he loved the most and what you envied the most: the natural world.

The flittering, fat-bodied pollinators whose entire world were yellow and red flowers with succulent centers and lush, girthy leaves where they'd rest their weary, iridescent wings and could never understand your husband's appreciation of them.

The thousands of specimens he'd collected from every corner of the world and articulated thoughtfully against wood and felt. Their dead little limbs were pinned in place; perfect mimicry of how they would've been if still alive and crawling. He’d had them all meticulously framed and arranged across the walls in his office; trophies of his success, of his studies and hard work.

The innumerable plants and flowers he trimmed and watered in his greenhouse and the ones not contained within it. Some species he had planted in the yard, others in the cool shade of the nearby woods where they smothered native varieties with tendrils-like vines and climbed upside trees. More aquatic species were placed by the edge of the lake, growing into the water; buoyant; a woman's deep dark hair reaching forever for the surface.

He had turned the lonely, sprawling estate into a monument of life, of love that did not belong to you. And for that, sometimes you hated living there. Hated the things that he loved.

Choking the plants, poisoning their roots with any number of things from your father’s pharmacy crossed your mind more than once.

Feeding the bees something enticingly sweet and deadly; filling the greenhouse with noxious gas at night while they slept on their big leaves and your husband in his bed. It would've been such an easy thing for you to do—own your husband's grief as you held his face in your hands and comforted him in the morning when all had atrophied and rotted.

But, those feelings had become a reality you truly never wished to have seen after Solomon returned from his deceased uncle's estate months ago.

He was not the same man.

“Tell me what happened.” Medina’s voice buzzed in your ear from nearby, closer than it had been before. Your hand was caressed by tight warmth—his holding yours, his handsome face looking up at you from where he had crouched in front of your chair. “Tell me everything you've seen. It's of grave importance that you remember it all, as curing Solomon from his affliction relies solely upon you.”

You could not deny his earnestness, the squeeze of his fingers. A promise that he would not be easily shattered by what you had to say, and would think no less of his friend for it. Within his sincere stare, you saw the gleam of another, secret promise. The likes of which you pretended not to see, that he'd never speak of out loud.

“I…” you distracted yourself with the embroidery on your clothes, pinching loose threads and beads. “It was subtle, at first. I noticed some of the bees were dead on the ground. And then some plants had started developing spots. Leaves turned brown and yellow and fell off. A lot of them withered, even though their soil was still damp when I checked…”

And then, the morning came where you witnessed Solomon among a carnage of broken stalks weeping foul-smelling sap, leaves he'd ripped apart with his own hands, and some of his larger flowering plants with fiery manes completely severed. Their bountiful heads lay at his feet, flattened by the heel of his boot as he walked aimlessly, snipping and tearing indiscriminately.

“My god, Solomon! Stop!” you stepped around the countless tiny, contracted bodies of bees and other pollinators to reach him. He let go of the gardening shears as you grabbed them. “What are you doing?! What have you done?! Decades of work! Gone! Are you mad?!”

“Well, you've gone and ruined my surprise for you. I've been working on it for hours. I didn't expect you would be awake so soon.” Solomon said, sounding much like himself despite the savagery he stood surrounded by. He smiled at you in an unfamiliar way, as if trying to navigate his facial muscles around a mask. “Isn't it simply wonderful?”

The sweltering humidity trapped within this greenhouse of death had turned the air stagnant and foul, heavily pungent of detritus and mildew. Across all zones of the greenhouse, once painstakingly organized and labeled for the purpose of easier cataloging, no slithers of greenery or color remained. Each step you took in any direction seemed to sink you deeper into the decay, wet gurgling underfoot as you crossed stumpy mounds of plants and flowers he'd destroyed and thrown into piles.

“How could you? My husband spent almost twenty years building this garden and studying it. This was his life’s work!” You wished you could force life back into the severed plants; pray that the ground of yellow-brown waste would suddenly freckle with tiny, green sprouts and grow with thick stalks and thorns to keep his hands away.

“I am your husband.” Solomon took the gardening shears from your hand and tossed them aside. He leaned into your body, nose and lips pressed into the fabric covering your neck. “I've only done what you wanted. What you wished you could've done yourself, but never did.”

You flinched against the movement of his hands smoothing down your waist to the notches in your hips. Sliding inward, he unfastened the hook-and-loops and buttons holding your trousers up to push them down your thighs along with your undergarments.

“I know your thoughts and what you really think. I've been listening the entire time. I've always been listening.” Solomon let his hips roll along the back of his hand while he used his fingers to lay long, languid strokes on you. “It was tiring, wasn't it? Always competing for love and affection in a place like this. You were never going to have what you wanted. Not with this place still standing. Not with his ineptitudes and selfishness.”

His touch weakened you indescribably; like the caress of heat from the fireplace against your bare skin once the opium had taken effect. Swapping tiny pills on wet tongues with your maid until they'd dissolved into saliva and into your cheeks. You explored one another's bodies thoroughly on those cold nights, silky with sweat from the fire and exertion.

Yet, this was not the same as back then when the sexual appetite of two teenagers transcended societal morals.

Solomon encompassed you in a feeling; consumed you without ever digging into you with his teeth or nails. He could whisper hideous secrets and depravities to you to tip you over into searing euphoria. He had once penetrated you with a hot metal phallus resting on top of his own, thrusting with both until the metal cooled, and you still came anyway.

He'd put worse inside your body and done far worse than that in only a few short months since returning home, yet he never tired of the torture and you remained malleable and enthralled by it all.

“God, you are beautiful. And you are mine.” Solomon had maneuvered both your bodies to the ground, atop of the soggy detritus. Your back was exposed to the mush, leaves, and crushed flower petals, weight pushing an indentation in the loose soil. “This is the fruition of your desires, darling. Don't you love it? Destroying what he loved so you could have it all?”

The one who came back to you was not Solomon; the one fucking you into waste and dirt was not Solomon, either. You told yourself you needed to love imposter as well, because he looked like your husband; wore his signet ring, too.

At night, you imagined only his softest expressions behind clenched eyelids when he wanted to have his way with you, as something else entirely took his place. A creature so diabolical and unsightly that the servants now awaited your screams to rouse them awake in the murky midnight hours.

Every time they arrived with their candlesticks and oil lanterns, the thrusting spectre receded into the dark as a black mass hardly distinguishable from shadow.

Only Solomon would remain, and he was swift to send the servants away before they could see your improper, disheveled state sprawled across the bed sheets.

In the daytime light, his face stayed familiar and comforting to you and you could bear to see him, form some coherent words.

“Someone might—might see us out here, Solomon. Mr. Medina is supposed to—oh, oh, mmm—he’s due to arrive at any time.” You were given several long kisses, which turned into severe caresses of hot breath when his thrusts turned savage, cock reaching so deep you were starting to feel numb below the waist. A feverous response. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He adjusted himself to lay on your chest, the sweat on your bodies offering an effortless glide and new angle for his cock that made your moans deeper and dire. Such sounds, whether in agony or pleasure, were melodious to him. Addicting drags from a pipe in an opium den; an alcoholic's first sip at breakfast; a cheating man's night with a new lover.

“Wouldn't you like for them to see that? For someone to witness you being fucked into the ground? Surrounded by everything their master loved?” Solomon tucked his face into the curve of your neck and groaned, hips slow and stuttering. “Bartolomé would be the one to find it most tantalizing. His only friend in the world ruining the only person he's ever loved. Wouldn't that be a sight? We could invite him to watch.”

At the time, it had been quite jarring to learn Bartolomé harbored those silent, ardent feelings for you. It had sufficiently pulled you from whatever trance Solomon had lulled you into, reacquainting you with all the sounds of sex and the filth clinging to your skin. It was as though your mind had been locked into a mostly airless, noiseless void that he controlled and released at will.

You held tight to his shoulders as he molded you deeper into the muck and plant litter. The squat, friable walls of soil holding your shape like the cushions in a tomb, whereas Solomon was the man lowering you into the dark earth; the last to see your face before covering it in clay and dirt.

He was in your ear with loud moans that resonated through you, simultaneously as carnal as a beast amidst its seasonal rut, and velvety as the feathery smooth glide of fingers down your spine. His throat rumbled against you, resembling the intensity of a purring housecat nestled near your head in contentment.

At his tipping point, he removed his cock from your body and used the slippery stuff glistening off it to stroke himself; weepy, deep red tip to the base. You received the aftermath of his release in thick ropes across your abdomen and chest, the warmth of it already cooling on your skin while he continuously kneaded the head to force out what remained as if they were dewdrops made from pearls.

“How do you think Bartolomé would fare seeing you like this?” Solomon swept two fingers through the cum in an elegant curl to smear it around his cock. The viscous white thinned into pale gloss on his girth and a sticky residue inside his hand.

Your lips parted to give an answer, but his fingers and taste were faster than your words.

“And… that is all? Truly?” Bartolomé asked, shattering your visions of the recent past as he revealed a compact silver case from inside his vest, pulling a cigarette from within it. “You simply walked into the garden one morning and saw that he had destroyed everything? He gave you no explanation whatsoever?”

The imposter had stolen much of your dignity over the months, but enough of it remained for you to omit every significant detail from your story. You'd only told him that Solomon had cut the heads off of rare flowers, mumbled in a disorienting way, and gave you no difficulty with the gardening shears.

Bartolomé went away from your side for an open window across the spacious sitting room, matching his cigarette and blowing gray plumes out into the dense summer air.

“This is concerning.” He spoke loud enough for you to hear, even with his thumbnail tracing the underside of his lower lip, muffling him somewhat. “Solomon is considerably worse off than I first thought. We need to investigate this, retrace his every step since the moment he left you that night for his uncle's estate.”

“Oh, Bartolomé, that will be very unnecessary.” Solomon announced himself as he walked in through the open doors, offering you a tepid smile, which came nowhere close to reaching his eyes. Your chair jostled slightly as he stood behind it, a weighty hand landing on the tall back above your head. “Why trouble yourself with employing some ludicrous scheme when you could, ah, inquire as to what haunts you instead?”

Bartolomé tamped out his cigarette on the windowsill and pocketed it. “You are ill, Solomon. You may be suffering from some form of hysteria. It's time you visited a doctor, my old friend.”

“Well, that just isn't true.” Solomon kept the neutrality in his tone, but you tracked a rumble of agitation; a warning not far off. His hand followed the curvature of the chair down to the arm that you leaned against, fingers touching your shoulder, lightly kneading you through your clothes.

He was sure to be in Bartolomé’s eyesight as he did this, further aggravating the heavy disquiet. You didn't dare to move out of reach of his touch.

“But, it is true, Solomon!” Bartolomé insisted, gesturing toward the window. “What of your garden? All of your life's work now means nothing, you damned fool! You've snapped, old boy. See a doctor before you do something you regret.”

“That garden was more a source of misery than it was a boon. At any rate, I'm quite finished listening to you harp at me for one night, my dear friend.” Solomon lightly stroked down your cheek with bent fingers, coaxing you to look up at him. “It's time for bed, darling. Us impropertious brutes have kept you up for too long.”

You hesitated, and then stood when Solomon took your arm. “Alright.”

“As usual, your accommodations should exceed expectations. I'll have a servant wake you for breakfast again tomorrow.” It was too soon to call those Solomon's departing words to Bartolomé, as he stopped with you in the doorway, your hand caressing the meat of his forearm. “You know, Bartolomé, I would recommend marrying soon. There is no greater feeling than having the one you love so close to you, don't you think?”

Bartolomé became unreadable as he fished a hand into his vest pocket for the cigarette case again. You were led away for the bedroom before anything else could be said, but you knew that Solomon had struck a nerve.

“That was cruel.” you said.

Once in the bedroom, your back was pressed flush to the door while he unfastened the buttons to your outerwear and the blouse underneath it. Solomon kissed your lips slowly, first, before moving underside your jaw after shucking you down to your undergarments.

“And you are mine. You made your vows to me. Remember that, my sweet.”

You watched him strip out of his clothes and then stroke the length of his cock until it was hard.

“I married someone else. Not you.”

As he dimmed the lights within the space, sweeping the bedroom under a shroud of near pitch black, your annoyance shifted into a swell of anxiety both freezing cold and burning hot. Your body pulsed in rhythm with your wild heartbeat, throat clenched as tightly as infantile flower buds.

You waited for Solomon to touch you, startling once he finally did. His fingers had elongated and sharpened, his touch now far more delicate and methodical.

“Don't worry, he’s still in here with me.”

a/n; so, some notes real quick

do not count this scene as canon bc idk how much I'm going to take from it to incorporate into the actual story. like, certain things will be there fs, but a good chunk won't.

tbh, this didn't go as hard as I thought it was going to. by comparison to the actual story, this is pretty tame. but I've already relented that the full story is just hopelessly slutty and pornographic lmaooo

bartolomé medina was actually included late into my current version of the story outline. I wanted a somewhat paralleling foil character for solomon, and he's who I came up with. in a lot of ways, bartolomé and solomon are very similar, which is why they get along so well as friends. but, they're also starkly different in other aspects (e.g. wealth differences, careers, bartolomé forces his sociability and personality, whereas solomon can't be fucking bothered). tbh, I love bartolomé as a character and this oneshot does not do him justice—at all.

sadiya, mc's maid, is actually the most important supporting character in the entire story and is completely different from her first appearance in imposter. like, completely. I'd like to do one more concept piece where I can actually introduce her.

men moaning is one of the hottest things imo. get out of here with that silent ejaculating bs.

NOW, ONTO QUESTIONS!!!

what are your thoughts on me incorporating the idea that bartolomé is in love with mc into the actual story? there is a possibility of an ending with him if enough folks show interest before the final chapters. or, would you prefer it strictly focused on solomon, the demon, and mc? this subplot would not come to fruition as a side romance or "cheating" plotline. like I said, bartolomé exists mainly as a parallel and foil for solomon.

are you guys interested in smut scenes with actual, explicit details of the demon in his true form (he ain't pretty y'all. this story is majorly psychological for a reason). but, if you kinky fucks want it, I'm happy to oblige.

would having a bolder mc who experimented with things (mainly opium) and has a bit more of a sexually promiscuous background take you out of immersion and be a deterrent, or would you be interested in me continuing that route? be honest.

I dropped several hints in this piece on the inspired identity of the demon in the story. have you guessed who? 👀

how depraved y'all want me to get with the smut scenes fr???

[crappymixtape]

hang on tight, baby • part one

NAVIGATION -> PART I •  PART II •  PART III favored to win in barrel racing for the upcoming rodeo, you’re out in the corral practicing when your obnoxious neighbor, tyler owens, swings by to say hi, but when the wind picks up you both won’t have a choice but to trust each other • 18+  | ( 3.0k – TW: natural disasters, tornado, injuries • witty banter as foreplay, fluff in their own way, enemies to idiots in love, tyler owens x reader )

H A N G O N T I G H T, B A B Y • P A R T O N E 🎶 devil always made me think twice, chris stapleton

Clouds stretched overhead, lazy liked pulled taffy as the sun beat down on you in the midday heat. You’d been up since the first fingers of light had crept up over the horizon, dew still clinging to the long stalks of wheat in the early morning, but as the day spun on summer made sure to remind you what it was capable of.

That June in Oklahoma wasn’t anything to mess with.

Sweat beading across your forehead, you had half a mind to toss your hat over the corral fence but it was the only thing keeping you from getting sunburned. Pushing at your windswept hair with a gloved hand you tucked the flyaways out of your face and clicked your tongue at your horse, Tilly, to get back into position.

“C’mon, girl. One more run and then we’ll call it,” you coaxed, readjusting your grip on the saddle horn and giving her neck a pat. Tilly snorted, her hooves stamping in the dirt, anxious to take off again around the three wooden barrels dotting across your little makeshift arena. “That’s it, easy…” you murmured.

Barrel racing horses were built different, like they were brought into the world locked and loaded with a fire burning in them – they lived to ride like this. A black flash of muscle and tension set loose like a snapped rubber band and honestly? You lived for it too.

Tucking your chest tight against her mane, you knotted your fingers in the reigns, sucked in a breath and held it steady in your lungs. Three…two…one…

“Yah!” you kicked your heels to Tilly’s flanks and she took off like a gunshot. Hooves thundering across the ground, winding a tight circle around the first barrel in a blur as you ticked off the seconds in your head.

Seven, eight, nine – you rounded the second barrel – ten, eleven – you approached the third – twelve – and then you heard it. A blast of drums and twangy guitar riffs, a Chris Stapleton track followed by a loud engine backfire and it threw both you and Tilly off track.

Your booted foot smashed into the side of the last barrel and you yelped, Tilly kicking her back legs in a start with a high pitched whinny.

“Whoa, whoa–easy!” Pulling back on the reigns you soothed her, hands smoothing down her mane. Shh, s’alright girl, and she slowly calmed, cantering to a stop just at the edge of the corral where you could finally see who’d come tearing up the driveway.

Tyler Owens.

“Well hey, sweet stuff. Damn, you were lookin’ good for a minute – what happened there at the end?” he hollered out his open cab window and it made your hands ball into fists.

Brows pinched together and lips twisting into a deep scowl, you tugged at Tilly to head back to the gate, “I told you not to call me that, Owens.”

“What? Sweet stuff? What’s wrong with that?” you could hear the grin in his tone, saw him in your head without even having to look. Stupid smirk, stupid aviators, stupid toothpick and stupid belt buckle.

“I ain’t sweet,” you shot back and it pulled a chuckle out of him, a low, rough sound that put a flicker of heat between your ribs.

He cut the engine on his truck, boots shuffling in the grass as he hopped out, and the heavy slam of his door told you today just wasn’t gonna be your day.

Tyler tutted at you, teasing. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Sawyer?” and that snagged your attention.

Dismounting faster than he could blink, you were out of the saddle and marching across the corral to kick at the fence board his boot was resting on. He stumbled back at the force of it and laughed again, flicking his toothpick off into the wheel ruts of the driveway.

“Alright, alright,” he held his hands up in defense and took his sunglasses off, tongue running along his bottom lip, “Didn’t come here to get my ass kicked.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you snarked, pulling your hat off to fan at your face, “You know I’m trainin’ right now.”

“Mmhm,” he agreed, notching his foot back between the fence boards and leaning his elbows lazy on top, “But I also know it’s pushin' a hundred degrees and the humidity’s sittin’ at 50%. You been drinkin’ water?”

You swallowed, mouth dry — No — and rolled your eyes before turning to walk Tilly back to the gate, “I’m fine.”

He pushed off the fence and chased a line around the corral, hollering after you, “Betcha didn’t know I’m almost as good at chasing bullshit as I am tornados!”

You groaned, dumbass, and reached the gate with Tilly in tow, but Tyler’s hand was on the latch before you could get to it.

“So. I call bullshit,” he said again, a little out of breath and eyes stuck on the way your lips twitched against a smile. “What d'you say we go get an iced tea or something,” he opened the gate and somehow you managed to pass through without so much as a glance in his direction.

Stick to your guns.

“No, Tyler.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he insisted as you pushed past him to the stable, “You and I both know it’s too hot to be out here. So does Tilly.”

But you ignored him, walked Tilly into her stall and even though you couldn’t see him, you knew Tyler had propped himself up on the other side. Arms folded over the top of the gate and hat tipped back just a little, but you went to work anyway undoing Tilly’s bridle, moving easily down to work at the buckle on the saddle and heaved it off her back.

“Least make yourself useful,” you huffed, saddle in hand and shoving it over the gate into Tyler’s chest.

“Shit–” he grunted, fingers scrambling to grab hold of it. A frown tugged down at the corners of his mouth, but he walked the saddle to the tack room anyway and came back with a renewed sense of purpose. “C’mon, Sawyer. Just a nice cold iced tea between friends?”

Sawyer. The nickname he’d gifted you when you’d moved in next door, a nod to your home town – Sawyer, Oklahoma. The home you’d left. The one you tried to forget. The place that held too many memories, too much hurt, and made your chest ache every time you thought about it.

You stopped brushing Tilly and let her get after a much needed drink of water, heaving a sigh from your lungs. It was cooler in the stable and without the sun beating down on you, you didn’t need your button down anymore. Fingers moving to undo the damp, long-sleeved, shirt clinging to your skin, it sighed with relief as the fabric shifted to let the breeze sweep over you.

“Tyler. I need to focus on training,” you grumbled glancing up at him, but it was mistake.

Without his sunglasses, you could see him tracking the movement of your hands. The buttons as they slipped through the loops one at a time. The heady mix of your sweat and shampoo a sweet scent lingering in the air between you and it made you feel dizzy. Made you want something you knew you shouldn’t have. Tyler knew it too as he swallowed thick, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, jaw ticking as he bit down on the feeling flickering in his chest.

“Promise I won’t ask you again if you still hate me in an hour,” he said, tone a little strangled, and your lips betrayed you, the corner of your mouth tugging up in the world’s tiniest smile.

“Honest?” you challenged, quirking a skeptical brow and he winked.

“Cross my heart, hope to die,” he traced his fingers over his chest and you swore right then and there you’d be the one to kill him if he put even one toe out of line.

❝ THE MINUTE THAT I SAW YOU WALKIN’ OVER, I FIGURED I WAS DIGGIN’ MY GRAVE. AND YOU HAD THE SHOVEL, I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE, BUT YOU’RE JUST THE KIND OF TROUBLE I CRAVE. ❞

Your property was a few miles out of town, a small farmhouse with an old horse stable on seventy-eight acres you rented to the Calhoun brothers for their fescue. It was a lot of work. The house badly needed updating, but it was all you could afford with your winnings from nationals last year and in the end, it didn’t matter – if you hadn't gotten a fresh start you’d have suffocated.

So, a little over a year ago when you’d pulled up the dirt drive in your red Ford pickup, Tilly’s trailer in tow, you felt like you could breathe again. Felt like this little patch of earth there on the outskirts of Tulsa was just what you needed, but when you started hauling boxes out of the truck bed you heard the one thing you didn’t need coming up the road.

Your neighbor.

Tyler Owens.

Renowned twister chaser and resident hot air balloon with an ass that could make even the most beat up pair of Wranglers look good. You knew before he even opened his mouth that he was trouble, but he was easy on the eyes and – surprisingly – pretty helpful.

When your roof sprung a leak during a particularly bad downpour he came over. Climbed up the ladder with a hammer and nails hanging off the tool belt on his hips and had it patched in twenty minutes.

When your chickens got loose and took off into the Calhoun’s fescue he and his horse Banjo helped corral them back up and into the coop before they did too much damage to the crops.

And when he’d found you at the Tin Bucket last year, too many drinks deep after losing at the Fourth of July rodeo, he drove you home. Held your hair out of your face while you puked and cried and spilled your guts to him in a muddled mess and didn’t say anything after. Kept your secrets just that, secret.

“Still with me, Sawyer?”

Tyler’s voice cut into your thoughts and you blinked over at him from the other side of the truck bench.

“What?”

“You’re not here,” he chuckled, brows pinched with just the smallest bit of worry. “You’re somewhere else.”

“Oh,” you felt your cheeks grow hot and tossed your gaze out your window, “Just thinkin’ about Friday. Adeline Stout got a 13:20 last weekend, I gotta beat that to qualify for nationals.”

“Hm,” he hummed, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel, “Seems like you had it earlier.”

“Yeah, ’til you drove up.”

Tyler huffed a laugh under his breath and clicked his tongue, “Sorry. Should’a called first.”

Silence settled in the cab and the air between you buzzed, felt like static, charged and pulling taut with something loaded until the truck bumped over the curb of the parking lot and shattered it in an instant.

You couldn’t jump out of his rig fast enough and didn’t wait for him as you cut a path over the asphalt and into the dingy little diner, the bell overhead tinkling happily.

“Howdy, sugar!” Dot greeted you with her big, friendly smile, cowboy hats dangling from her earrings as she gave the man at the counter a refill on his coffee.

“Hey, Dot,” you couldn’t help smiling back, the bell on the door jingling again letting you know Tyler had finally caught up.

“Dottie, you are lookin’ fine as ever,” Tyler grinned, smooth like butter and the older woman chuckled, hand on her hip as she watched him pick out a booth.

“And you’re lucky I’m pushin’ seventy,” she teased back with a wink.

“Age is just a number!” Tyler played along and you rolled your eyes.

“We’ll take a couple iced teas, please,” you cut in, Dottie giving you a knowing smile and it made your cheeks flush again.

“And fries,” Tyler added, sliding into a booth by the window and you followed suit, sitting across from him on the glittering red plastic of the seat.

“You got it, hoss,” Dot nodded, hollering the order back over her shoulder to the kitchen and pouring two big glasses of her famous sweet iced tea.

Picking at the peeling vinyl table top, your knee bounced, a silent protest at having to be still for a minute.

You always made sure to keep yourself busy. To keep your mind from wandering off back home and everything that came with it, and sitting across from Tyler Owens at the quiet little diner while Dolly Parton sang overhead about working nine to five wasn’t doing you any favors.

“So,” Tyler started, dragging out the ‘o’ and lifting his brows at you, “How’re the girls?”

The girls. The chickens.

You deadpanned him and shook your head, propped your chin in your hand with your elbow on the table.

“They’re fine.”

“Good, good. And the Calhouns?”

“Also fine,” you shot him a look, a side-eye glance, but he only smiled.

“And did you get your boots worked in for Friday?”

“Tyler,” you firmed, turning finally to look at him straight on and his smile faded.

“What?”

“All this–this small talk and being chummy and whatever, it’s just–”

“Just what?” he asked, leaning forward on the table toward you and your heart stuttered in your chest.

“What’s your game?” you leveled, meeting his gaze despite the way he had your pulse fluttering against your neck and his lips curved up.

“No game. Just bein’ a good neighbor.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and leaned forward just a little more. “Thought you said you were good at chasin’ bullshit,” you pushed and he burned, a flush of red from the collar of his white t-shirt all the way up to his cheeks.

“Alright, two iced teas and some fries. You need anything else, peaches?” Dot cut right between the two of you with a couple of glasses and a red plastic basket piled high with shoestring french fries.

“Thank you, thank you,” Tyler recovered, thankful for the out and took the basket from Dot. “Think that’ll do it for now.”

“Mmhm,” Dot murmured, clicking her long pink nails on the table top. “You two be good.”

“Yes, ma’am,” fell out of Tyler’s mouth automatically as she left you it.

You picked up a bottle of ketchup and squeezed some into the corner of the basket, swirling a fry around in it and lifting it to your lips to take a bite. Maybe you should be nicer to Tyler, should give him a chance, the benefit of the doubt, but you weren’t about to be made a fool again. Weren’t ready to put your walls down yet even if he was mostly sweet and only a little sour – the fun kind – but maybe it wasn’t fair.

“Gonna be outta town on Tuesday,” Tyler started, looking over at you through the long sweep of his lashes, green eyes meeting yours across the table. “In case you punch a hole through your wall or something.”

“Ha, ha. Should do stand up.”

He grinned. “You wanna come with me?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“With you?”

“Yeah, I gotta go pick up a case of rockets for our next video series.”

You scoffed, half-laugh half-nerves, but didn’t say no and his grin widened, eyes narrowed and almost closed with the way he was smiling so big.

“Pick you up at six,” he grabbed a bunch of fries and shoved them into his mouth, “Includes complimentary coffee.”

And something in you melted with the way he was looking at you. The way you could hear the tease in his tone softening and shifting more sincere and you cracked and finally gave him a real, honest-to-god smile.

“Fine,” you surrendered as he slapped a hand on the table and made you jump.

“Hell yeah,” he buzzed and you laughed, dropping your gaze to your lap so he couldn’t see you blushing.

“Keep your pants on,” you chided and the laugh that pushed from his lungs was hard enough to made his head tip back on the seat, but then you felt a buzz in your pocket.

You weren’t expecting a call.

Then Tyler’s buzzed on the table top.

And Dot’s from back behind the counter.

And the farmer’s at the booth behind you and when the siren sounded from down the street your stomach dropped.

“Shit,” Tyler breathed.

Jolting up from the table he pressed a hand to the window and looked out across the plains stretching out ahead of you. Cotton candy clouds turned dark and heavy, curling in on themselves and tinged in an eerie yellow and when he finally turned to look back at you, the feeling in your stomach twisted into something more ominous.

A storm was coming.

[ NOTE -> THIS IS PART 1 OF A 3 PART SERIES – STAY TUNED FOR THE LAST INSTALLMENT! ]

crappymixtape™ • tyler owens / twisters masterlist to come!  ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[aft3rhrs]

— pastel pink ღ

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: forbidden romance, step!father au

warnings: dead dove, yandere, pseudo incest, cheating, age gap (the reader is always 18+!), corruption, porn, cnc themes, mentions of masturbation, choking, dub con, fingering, daddy kink, rough sex, humiliation, praise, dirty talk, allusions to sadism & masochism, multiple orgasms, use of triggering words in an erotic and degrading manner* (listed under the cut), creampie, aftercare

*use of the words “rape”, “abuse”.

masterlist

Namjoon used to think that you didn't quite understand the consequences of playing with fire. It was not surprising, after all, considering your young age. You were but an inexperienced cub compared to the wolf that raised you, not yet having grasped the unbridled nature of all things wild.

Sooner or later, though, inching too close to the flames was bound to get you burned. Somewhere in the darkest depths of his heart, Namjoon craved to inflict the pain of the heat on you, mark his territory with a swirl of scars.

Wasn't every father's daughter his most precious gift? Pretty like a doll, with a heart that had flowers and thorns tangling through it. A bricked, bleeding house that welcomed no intruders. He wanted nothing more than to keep it safe.

It was those protective instincts that had always kept him in check, tamed, in constant agony over something he could never have.

Until tonight.

Until it turned out your doe eyes and the pastel pink of your bedroom were misleading lies; and you yearned for the burn of the fire, simply too afraid to dive into its scorching depths.

And what was his duty if not to help you experience life, fulfill all your soul's desires? With immense love and a guiding, fatherly hand, now stuck in between your soft thighs.

"Is this what you like?"

The hoarse whisper made you clench. You whimpered in response, your eyes growing warm.

"No."

You knew it was pointless to lie; he could feel you soaking his fingers, pulsing around their thick girth. But it was too much handle, and the filthy video playing on the screen made you want to shrink.

"Yeah," Namjoon coaxed, breathing into your ear. "You like watching old men fuck their daughters? Like watching them abuse their good little girls?"

Relentless, he pumped the digits in and out of your poor cunt, and the tears overflowed, a dangerous combination of the shame and the orgasm rippling through you. From deep inside your tummy, all the way through your spine, prompting your thighs to tremble on top of his.

What a stupid mistake; to lie down and let your eyes flutter closed right after coming. You weren't even sure when you drifted off, your laptop barely shut, still resting by your side. Namjoon came into your bedroom to check on you, tuck you in and turn off the light, as he'd done a hundred of times before.

The website on the screen caught his eye.

Dreams were safe; reality was different. No one was ever supposed to see this side of you. Especially not the man whose name was stamped all over the walls of the private, forbidden rooms that took up the space in your head. Not the man you looked up to, respectable and smart, all warmth and dimpled smiles, with such deep, kind eyes behind his pristine glasses.

Not Namjoon.

"Fuck," he cursed softly, one arm curled around your waist, grounding you. "That's it..."

Hips stilling, you attempted to catch your breath. Dizziness washed over you. You've never felt this good before; and perhaps a part of the reason why was that you were doing something very bad. The thought of your mother coming home still lingered at the back of your mind — no longer an imminent threat, the bullet dissolving in the haze of the bliss, though its existing chill persisted.

This would be quite a sight for the poor woman to witness; her husband's fingers buried deep in her only daughter's cunt, legs spread wide open on his lap. The lewd porn playing on your laptop only served as the final nail in the coffin.

You winced as Namjoon slipped out of you gently, disoriented. Your legs felt like jelly, but his hold on you was secure, your only safety net.

He stood up, lifting you with him. He didn't try to lead you back to your bed, instead placing a large palm on the small of your back and pushing forward.

You let your cheek rest on the cold surface of the desk, trying to ignore the dirty sounds of sex coming from the screen. Maybe it was the emotions muddling your brain, but you couldn't move, helpless as an animal with their leg caught in a trap.

In spite of the carelessness on your part, you've never imagined Namjoon reacting this way. You'd thought he would have been disgusted, concerned — embarrassed at the very least — and the topic would never be brought up.

Yet here he was, unzipping his pants, about to fuck you on the same desk you occupied to complete your homework every night. In the same room that used to be adorned in plushies and fairy lights, saturated with all of your innocence.

It was different than any taboo feeling or thought you might have entertained in secret; the forbidden fruit no longer a fantasy, but a sin weighing down on the palm of your hand, ripe for the tasting. Its only price was being cast out.

Namjoon caressed your ass, the foreign sensation causing more slick to dribble down the apex of your thighs.

"Such a good slut," he breathed.

The word whipped through you, leaving your skin stinging and lungs emptied of air. He hasn't addressed you with anything but respect before; in fact, you didn't think you've ever heard him use such vulgar language.

You clenched, as though the degradation chipped away at your brain, dumbed it down to a blissful void.

"No," you whined out in protest; of what, you weren't sure anymore.

You felt his hand lock around your wrists.

"Yeah, you are," he cooed. "You're my little toy, and toys get played with. I may be too old for that..." he slid your underwear down your thighs, "but you're not, are you, baby?"

A shiver ran through you, arousal mingling with a tinge of fear the moment he leaned over you, his chest resting firm against your back.

"Don't you want daddy to play with you?" He whispered, flooding your nape with goosebumps. "Seems to me that you do."

This wasn't the Namjoon you've grown to know; this was something different, sinful and ravenous. The rattle of the cage was nothing compared to it being set loose, claiming ownership over you, corrupting and consuming.

But you were wetter than ever, slick flowing like honey and coating the heated, swollen tip of his cock as soon as it pressed against you.

Namjoon was faring no better; his collar open and tie loosened, shirt wrinkled with the memory of your fingers grasping at it. All of his self restraint was gone, the cracked lock broken and the dented cage empty.

You did that.

He had a wife, a job, a good reputation. He worked hard to achieve success, however, the path laid out before him has always looked rather bleak without you in the picture.

And any doubts that troubled him in the past went up in the flames the moment he peeked at your laptop. Of course it was him you longed for, his cock you needed in your little pussy. You were daddy's perfect little girl, all too aware of your purpose. To be ruined and loved and owned by him.

His hand encased your neck, a grip that instantly made your head tingle. He pulled you up, letting you sink into his chest. His breath tickled your ear, and the girthy cockhead pushed against your slit once more, leaking.

"Why are you shaking, baby?" he inquired, sliding his free hand up your stomach. Palm wide open, only to close around your breast and squeeze. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

No. Yes? No. It was so wrong. You shook your head, like that would change anything; turn back time, conceal the truth, get you out of trouble.

Namjoon chuckled.

"It is," he husked, plush lips brushing against the shell of your ear. He moved his hips, rubbing himself against your nub teasingly. "You wanted daddy's cock, just like all these dirty girls on screen."

He eased his hold on your throat, but his hand remained around it; a reminder that he was in control.

Your head was swimming as more oxygen rushed in, but it made almost no difference. His words, his touch, they had a hold on you too, squeezing your lungs, making your clit throb beneath his touch.

"Wanted to be mine..." his tone mellowed out to silk, seductive and light. "Wanted to be my pretty, little angel, and take it behind mummy's back, hm?"

Eyes teary and barely open, you gasped.

"Even better if I just make you take it, right? You won't have to feel so guilty, and you can still slobber and cream all over it."

Your knees were close to giving out, wetness gushing obscenely onto his thick length. As if he could sense it, Namjoon tightened his arm around you, lifting a hand to wipe away the tears that fell.

"Oh sweetheart," he shushed, "see? Daddy knows what you need. Your eyes are wet, but your pussy is wetter. Bet it's tight, too. Tighter than your mother's."

He palmed his cock, at last positioning it back at your small entrance.

"Not that I ever wanted hers anyway."

It seemed your soul left your body the moment he sank in, and he swallowed all of it with his kiss. Any remnants of your thoughts, integrity or coherence; all swiped away with the lick of his tongue and the delicious stretch that left your cunt clenching and insides churning.

The noise he let out sent a thrill through you. He broke the kiss, broke you, his gleaming eyes hooded and adoring, staring deep into yours. Time seemed to fizzle out of existence.

Then he thrusted.

"Fucking whore."

A croaky whisper, followed by a moan you barely recognized as your own.

"I tried to stay away, but my baby just had to be a fucking whore. Couldn't help wanting daddy to rape her."

You shuddered, breath caught in your throat and hand clutching his bicep.

There was no going back, and at this point, it didn't matter. At this point, exposed and full of him, you ached for more; and like a good dad, Namjoon was there to cater to your needs.

He pulled out, only to slide back inside the velvety heat, pleasure bursting and simmering through. No more teasing; just shivers, and long, deep strokes that made his balls slap against your skin.

His breath fanned your neck, unsteady, edged with soft groans. He barely fit inside you, but your pussy took him so well, as though it was always meant to be his.

The way he fucked you drowned out whatever porn was still playing on your laptop, long forgotten, nothing compared to the depravity happening right in front of it. He pounded into you harder, keeping a steady pace. The desk began to thud, repeatedly hitting the wall behind it.

"Like that?" He mumbled into your cheek, his thumb lazily rubbing your stiff nipple. "Right there?"

He required no verbal answer. Not when you were so soft and pliant in his arms, the rush taking over. Still, he enjoyed the way you squirmed at the questions, eyes closed and luscious lips wide open, making the most heavenly little sounds.

He wasn't going to last; there was no time to waste, besides, the simple fact that your warm, wet hole was taking his cock — raw — was enough to push him close to the edge.

Desperate, he took a hold of your jaw and turned your face towards him. His lips were an inch away from yours, the intimacy of it tender and aching, like a bruise.

"Say, 'thank you, daddy,'" he murmured. '"Thank you for fucking my tight, little cunt.'"

You responded with a mewl, your muscles tensing along with the knot in your tummy.

"Gonna—"

Namjoon groaned. Too out of breath to finish the sentence, too fucked out, you let yourself go limp as he pummeled into you.

"Come?" He suggested, wanting to laugh at how quickly you nodded, but your walls were getting so tight only a moan came out. "Fuck. Good girl, making daddy so proud." His forehead touched yours, as if he could get any closer. "You deserve a reward."

The moment you clamped down on him, he muffled the cry that broke through with his lips, crashing them into yours. He kissed you hungrily, tongue and teeth, reaching the peak of his limit as your cunt quivered, effortlessly massaging his cock with the convulsions. He couldn't resist its pull sucking him in, trapping him in place to do what it was made for.

He groaned loudly, letting his seed spill as deep as it would go, letting you see stars right there on the ceiling; like the glowing stickers he used to put up there for you, just an old father and daughter tradition. Your eyes rolled back, and it had him gritting his teeth, grinding into you until you couldn't stand, and his own legs barely kept him up anymore.

He panted softly, gulping as you melted into him, both of his arms hugging your waist. Slowly, the heat was receding, and in its stead serenity crept in.

It was quiet when he washed you up, his hands gentle, wiping the mess in between your thighs and the sweat off your brow. Dressed in a clean shirt and underwear, you climbed under your blanket. Beyond sleepy and sated, your heart still felt heavy.

The edge of the mattress dipped as Namjoon sat down beside you, extending his arm to cup your cheek. Only then did he meet your eyes.

"I love you."

He's said it to you before, but it felt different now. It was different. And it made him hesitate, reduced his voice to a whisper.

"You're the best thing... that's ever happened to me. That's never gonna change. You know that, right?"

You nodded, wondering how in such a messed up situation a few words could feel so comforting. Perhaps it was because they were coming from him. Would that always be enough? Will it feel the same when you wake up in the morning?

Namjoon bent down to press a lingering kiss onto your temple, coaxing your eyes to shut.

"Don't worry about anything, okay? Just trust me, baby. And get some rest."

You relaxed, acknowledging the request with a small sigh. He watched you fall asleep, stroking your hair, trying not to dwell on how much he wished he could stay. At least he'd be able to get into bed before his wife came home.

In the darkness of his bedroom, he settled into the cool sheets, his glasses set aside and clothes neatly folded. He heard the front door unlock, the keys jiggling, and closed his eyes.

Time to sleep.

Time for a change of plans was awaiting him tomorrow.

taglist 💌: @baalsgurl1913 @httpsbts @hoseokshobagi @pynkgothicka @art-3-miss @sweetempathprunetree @blueberryarchive @messyjk @themochiverse @minyoongiboongi @chimmisbae @crisle19 @bangtans-momma @get-that-brain-working @babycandy111 @mother2monsters @whipwhoops @svnbangtansworld @ane102 @stellalovesstarss @jksteponme @httpjeonlicious @iceprincessviviane

[ddejavvu]

you join the team and hangman gets real shy with you and everyone is like

:O what have you done :O

and you're like

idk

and hes just like heart eyes

bc i LIVE for hangman being whipped and all nervous around his crushy wushy

MY LOVE MY LIGHT MY SAVING GRACE THANK YOU FOR THIS

--

Reassignment is a struggle. It's temporary, or, it's meant to be, but if things go well with your new team, you may be a permanent fixture. So you're a little nervous stepping onto the tarmac, all things considered.

You'd only managed to meet one person from your new squadron so far, a good-natured, kind man named Jake. He had seen you wandering along the hallway, directing you to Admiral Simpson's office when you'd explained your predicament. You don't spot him on the tarmac now, but you're not sure how many people are on the team.

There's a dark-haired woman that you can see, and she notices you, too. You aren't sure whether they've been shown pictures of you, but your last name is patched into your uniform and the helmet under your arm is branded with your callsign. A flash of recognition shows in her eyes, and she starts towards you.

"You're Y/N Y/L/N?" She quirks a brow, and you nod, smiling kindly.

"Nice to meet you," She grins, a brilliant expression on her pretty face, "I'm Natasha. Callsign Phoenix."

"Phoenix," You gush, "I like that. I'm supposed to join you for a hop today?"

"Yeah, we heard about that!" A man steps up beside you, cocky smirk on his face as he holds out a hand, "I'm Coyote. You're supposed to fly with Hangman, right?"

It wasn't ideal, being stuck in someone's backseat. You're used to flying, but this squadron wasn't in need of a new pilot, and you've been trained for both seats.

"Oh god," A man beside you groans, mustache a burnt red, "That's unfortunate. I'm, uh, Rooster. By the way."

You cock your head to the side, shaking his hand, "Rooster. What's wrong with that?"

"He's... difficult." A shorter man pipes up from your left, sticking his hand out, "Fanboy. He's just arrogant, that's all. He thinks he's the best, so it's hard to work with him if he feels like you're working against him. Hopefully he doesn't give you too much of a hard time."

Your heart sinks a little at the prospect of being paired with someone who didn't take kindly to partnership. You're resilient, sure, but there's only so much you can tolerate.

"Don't look now," Phoenix mumbles, leaning in close so no one can hear, "But he's coming out now. Just stand your ground, we can handle him if it gets too much."

You nod near-imperceptibly, waiting until you can hear the thunk of his boots on the asphalt before you spare him a glance. To your delight, the sweet, smiling face of Jake greets you, his cheeks already dusted a rosy hue.

"Y/N," He greets, southern drawl as sweet as sugar, "You're part of my squadron?"

"Your squadron," Rooster scoffs disapprovingly.

""You two know each other?" A tall man inquires, dark skin and pretty eyes, "I thought this was your first time here, Y/N."

"It is," You nod, exchanging a friendly smile with the man and glancing down at his name tag: Fitch, "But I ran into Jake yesterday in the hallway. He helped me to Admiral Simpson's office."

"Oh he did?" Fitch cocks his head to the side, a shit-eating grin thrown at Hangman, "Oh, that's so nice of you, Jake."

"I'm so glad you think that, Payback," Jake sneers, grin more menacing than any glare could be, "Now if you'll excuse us, Y/N and I should get comfortable with our new ride."

Jake crosses the rest of the tarmac until he's beside you, his hand coming to press against the small of your back just as it had yesterday. He's developing a habit of leading you around, and you reach his plane shortly, both of your names stamped on the side.

"I've never flown two-seater before," Jake admits, brushing a hand over his printed callsign, "This'll be interesting."

"Oh, why now?" You frown, fitting your helmet over your head, "What changed?"

"Uh," Hangman's eyes widen, and you think you've asked the wrong question. He answers, though, it's just sheepish.

"Admiral Simpson thinks it would be best if I had someone else with me in the air," He starts, choosing his words carefully, "Because he has observed some, uh- daring maneuvers from me. And he thinks that I might benefit from having someone else's safety to consider."

"You're too reckless," You realize, and you can't help but giggle, "So I'm your babysitter?"

"Let's not call it that!" Jake laughs, blush intensified, "Let's call it partners. Deal?"

"Deal," You grin, eyes twinkling similar to his own, "Partners."

"What the fuck?" Fanboy spits, watching from afar as Jake helps you into the jet, letting you grab his hand and brace your weight on his arm, "Did he get possessed, or something?"

"She hasn't slapped him yet," Rooster ponders, "He must be keeping himself in check."

"Is that Y/N?" Natasha turns where she hears Bob's voice nearing behind her, nodding with a growing smirk on her face.

"Yeah, that's her. And that's Hangman."

She points to Jake, who's leaning into your seat, concern evident on his face as he helps you adjust the position of your harness.

Bob's face falls, scrunching into a frown, "He's... helping her?"

"This is gonna get interesting, boys," Phoenix grins, eyes narrowed at Jake who's still grinning sweetly at you, "Hangman's got a crush."

[freakingholland]

freakingholland's batboys headcanons part 1

A/N: Hi cuties! After posting some dc comics related imagines over the last couple of years I've decided to finally post a list of my own headcanons for batboys! Just a disclaimer - these are based on multiple dc related media (comics, shows, fan-made content) as well as just my imagination. I do not mean any harm with these! Also if you agree/disagree with these let me know in the comments/asks/rbs because I'm super intrested in what you guys think and your own fanons! Stay whelmed xx questions/ideas here! - rules here my wattpad archive is here my AO3 archive is here If you enjoyed my work: Ko-fi.com/freakingholland masterlist

Dick Grayson (25-29ish yo)

Wears contacts all the time when he’s out. His sight used to be perfect up until puberty. Only wears prescription glasses when he knows he’ll spend the entire day wearing sunglasses – has prescription on them (he does have an emergency pair of regular glasses though).

Has a deep set of dimples. More visible when he’s a dehydrated raisin of a human being. He has a special bottle for just water to force himself to drink more.

Is left handed. His siblings bother him for that matter when he accidentally elbows somebody while eating.

Is “silently” addicted to energy drinks. Has tried to switch to other beverages but ultimately always goes back to energy drinks.

Sings in the shower, has a genuinely good singing voice. Pretends to be shy when people suggest doing karaoke.

Has chronic wrist pain due to a bad fracture.

Is a minimalist. Hates clutter and frequently gets rid of things like clothes, unnecessary gadgets, kitchen utensils etc.

Loves rock climbing and bouldering.

Has pockmarks on his cheeks. Had tried different products to make them fade away, but gave up and accepted his fate.

Uses a lot of post-it notes around his apartment.

Jason Todd (22-24ish yo)

Jason is the only one with brown eyes. You cannot convince me otherwise. Don’t try to.

He’s the best cook out of all the guys. Finds it very therapeutic. Genuinely enjoys making meals especially if others can stop by for dinner or pick up his food. (always makes me think of those pics of him and Dick in the kitchen in Gotham Knights!)

Has type 1 diabetes, uses a pump. (As mentioned here!)

Has a private library stamp for his book collection because any time someone visits him, somebody borrows (steals) books from him.

Plays the violin, self-taught as an adult. It’s his “safe” hobby that convinces his neighbours that he’s just a regular guy.

Has a full arm tattoo sleeve, it’s his way of dealing with body dysmorphia and body image issues. His tattoos include book references, fav movie characters and different symbols for all of the siblings (not their super hero stuff though, for safety reasons).

Has reading glasses. (As mentioned here!)

Hates arugula, loves Italian cuisine. He is not afraid of carbs (his glucose monitor states otherwise) and makes noodles often.

Has wavy hair but doesn’t use proper products for his texture.

Has veryyy straight teeth naturally. Others are jealous.

Tim Drake (20-21ish yo)

Journals. Even when he’s severely sleep deprived. It’s his way of dealing with heavy stuff, but also his archive in case he goes missing.

Has a nintendo switch. Doesn’t really use it but he knows that Damian steals it that’s why he keeps it instead of selling it.

Has a proper skin care routine. It includes dying his hair dark every 4 weeks cause he has gray hairs due to stress.

Uses ktape regularly. Struggles with chronic back pain and uses a foam roller.

Is vegan. Doesn’t try to convince other peeps to switch to veganism knowing that they are barely capable of making food for themselves. Will make an exception and eat meat if it’s a meal prepared by somebody close to him.

Is a huge music fan, listens to music often. Mostly metal, but also pop, rap. Doesn’t really discriminate music genres.

Loves playing board games. Is the type to bring board games to social meetings of sorts in case people want to play.

Has a very pleasant, contagious laugh. Rarely laughs out loud, but those who know his laugh try hard to make him laugh for that matter.

Has really sparse facial hair. Would like to grow out a stache or beard but cannot.

Blushes very easily. Doesn’t like it. Despises cold temperatures for that matter.

[rakhalofthestars]

Under His Bangs

Synopsis: Boothill finally lets you see what he's been hiding underneath his bangs.

Tags: Boothill x gn reader, established relationship, Boothill's backstory, fluff, light angst, hurt/comfort, soft Boothill <3 a/n: This fic is based off my headcanon on what I like to think is underneath his bangs :3

Warnings: Self depreciation and talks of appearance, Boothill might also be a bit ooc here :(

wc: 1 733

Many parts of Boothill’s appearance are striking, causing him to easily stand out in a crowd. Poor guy. Blending in was never his strong suit and his metal body makes it even more difficult. There just aren’t many cyborgs who looked the way he did. 

It’s not like Boothill ever tried to blend in much. Everything from his whole cowboy get-up to his boisterous personality screamed that he was someone who you wouldn’t want to forget about anytime soon. Not to mention the bounty on his head that had risen to the billions recently.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me like that for, darlin’? I ain’t even responsible for half the things these people be accusin’ me for! I mean, just look at me, ain’t I just the picture of a saint?” Boothill protested one time when you had shoved his wanted poster in his face. On the poster was a (admittedly good) photo of him with his signature shit-eating grin along with the sum of a whopping one billion credits stamped underneath.

You had sighed back then, knowing you can’t argue with him and in all honesty, you doubt he was actually responsible for the wares disappearing from a shop at Pier Point shopping street. Maybe the poor employee was really just trying to get out of listening to Karen complain their ear off. Considering the amount of trouble he’s caused at Pier Point for the IPC, it’s no surprise that Boothill made a long lasting impression on everyone there. 

That’s the thing about Boothill. Every part of him always left an impression. Whether the impression was good or bad really depended on whether you were with the “shirt bags at the IPC” as he liked to call it. 

Even though you had been traveling with the Galaxy Ranger for quite some time now, there was one aspect of his appearance that was constantly on your mind. His bangs. They were so mysterious and styled in such a way as well. 

Why were his bangs the only part of his hair that was fully black? Why did they cover his right eye? Was it a stylistic choice to cover his right eye and look like an emo? Or was there some other, more bigger reason behind covering part of his face like that?

The flurry of questions always swirled about in your head whenever you were with him. It almost made you dizzy at times. However, since you knew about all that the man had been through prior to becoming a cyborg, you kept quiet and never tried to pry. It didn’t go unnoticed by Boothill though, the curiosity that was always brimming in your eyes when they flicked momentarily to his bangs. He really did want to explain what was underneath. The problem was that he just wasn’t sure whether he was ready to open this specific can of worms.

But when something is meant to happen, the opportunity for it will naturally present itself.

You and Boothill were lying on the motel bed, simply basking in one another’s presence. It was one of those quiet nights where all you wanted to do was to just forget about your worries and relax.

Lying on the soft mattress with Boothill’s body acting as a sort of weighted blanket whilst his face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, you really don't want to ruin this slice of paradise by asking about his bangs. Nor does he want to ruin that lazy little smile on your lips by revealing this particular skeleton in his closet.

Your hands roam about and glide over him mindlessly until your fingers are suddenly tangling themselves in his hair. You massage his scalp gently before bringing his face out of its little hiding spot in your neck. An uncharacteristic and borderline pathetic little whine sounds from Boothill’s lips but it’s forgotten as the crosshair in Boothill’s eye locks onto you, the tiny target in the middle forming into the shape of a heart because each and every time you caress his face, he swears he’s falling in love even more than he thought was possible. He has the most adorable little smile on his face but it falters when your hand strays just a bit too far, almost brushing his bangs away from his face. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to”, you apologize immediately and retract your hand, knowing that the fact that Boothill even allows you to touch him and his hair so freely is something that not many get and you’d hate to overstep his boundaries.

“...Naw, it’s fine. I ain’t mad, darlin’,” is Boothill’s reply as he brings your hand back to his face, already missing your touch. He places your hand right underneath his bangs and the look in his eyes tells you that it was no mistake on his part for the placement.

“Can I…?”

The man hesitates, something that you’ve rarely ever seen him do. He’s always so sure of himself, so confident with each and every single move of his. What could possibly make him hesitate?

“Yeah, go ahead”, Boothill finally says.

Despite the bit of excitement that’s bubbling within you, you don’t rush to see what’s underneath. You take your time, simply feeling the soft skin and watching how your partner looks on with anxiety but also affection. He wants to know- no. He needs to know how you’ll react. Even if it might hurt him. You’ve done so much for him. You’ve loved him, taken care of him, listened to him without any judgment and have been with him through the highs and lows of this chapter of his life as he navigates through depression, anxiety and this new robot body of his. You deserved to know.

With love and care etched into your movements, you slowly brush aside the black locks of hair that covered part of Boothill’s face. 

Under his bangs, was a big, dark burn mark that marred the area his hair normally covered along with a deep scar that ran vertically down his right eye, causing it to be shut tight. 

Silence permeated throughout the room as you drank in the sight and Boothill stared back anxiously, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh…”, you finally breathe out and the Galaxy Ranger winces.

His breath hitches and his left eye widens in disbelief. Beautiful? Was there something wrong with your eyes? He was tempted to ask but falls silent when you trace the darker flesh with reverent touches and bring his face closer to press the lightest kiss on top of his right eye.

“It’s hideous, ain’t it?”

“You’re so beautiful, Boothill.”

“You’re so very beautiful.”

“Well fudge…ya can’t just say that, sugar. Gon’ make a man cry”, Boothill mumbles, his gravelly voice cracking so subtly you could’ve thought that you imagined it. He had never exposed himself like this to anyone. He could count on one hand the amount of times he felt as vulnerable as he did now. 

“Why can’t I say it? You’re the handsomest man that I’ve ever seen. If you want to cry then go ahead, there’s nothing wrong with crying. But believe me when I say you’re gorgeous.”

“How could you ever find a bag o’ bolts like me beautiful?”

“These scars on your face…they tell stories of who you are and what you’ve gone through. I won’t force you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable but you don’t have to hide them. Not around me at least,” you whisper against his skin. Hidden in your words was an underlying plea that was only for him to hear. 

“Because you are. If I could, I’d let you see yourself through my eyes just so you could realize what a sight you are.”

With every word that passes your lips, you press soft kisses across his face, paying extra attention to the right side that he deemed “ugly”. It was as if your kisses were paint and his face was your canvas as he allows you to paint your love onto him. 

Please let me take your pain and shoulder it with you. Please let me shower you with the love that was robbed from you. Please don’t push me away.

A shuddering gasp escapes Boothill, the first sound that he’s made now in a while. He needs time and that’s what you give. You fill the silence with fond caresses and gentle kisses until the man finally manages to speak.

“Mah face wasn’t always like this, y’know. It was…on that night. When them cannons were falling down from the IPC…”, his voice cracks and he trails off. You wanted to know more but stayed silent, letting him take things at his own pace.

“I was runnin’ home, praying to every Aeon that I could think of at the time that everything would be all fine and dandy…Wasn’t really lookin’ where I was runnin’ and neither was I thinkin’ much about dodgin’ the bombs. A bit o’ burnin’ shrapnel fell on this side of mah face here and well…y’can see for yerself what happened.”

“When I went to that tech doc to get this here body of mine, I asked her to not do anythin’ to these scars. Maybe it’s stupid since I can’t stand to look at ‘em, but I just didn’t want to do away with ‘em. I wanted to keep ‘em, as a reminder of that night and what it is that I fight for. Not like I need much remindin’ but heh…y’know…”

Boothill lets out a small, bitter chuckle before burying his face back in the crook of your neck. He had long lost the ability to cry but he swore that if he continued to talk, he’d end up breaking down in front of you and that was something he wished to avoid.

All you can do now is to comfort him because the fact that he’s told you all of this means that yes, he will allow you to shoulder his pain with him. Yes, he’ll allow you to shower him with the love that he was robbed of. No, he won’t push you away. So continue with what you’ve been doing all this time. Continue to assure him of his beauty and his worth. Continue to love him because Lan knows how long he’s gone without it.

[weebsinstash]

I'm sorry but I can't stop thinking about a certain angsty idea

Like pretty sure this is implying getting married is a canon event? But in a way, doesn't that kind of, really strip the choice and actual love and magic out of it? Or, could you at least understand the idea of a Spiderperson who may feel that way? Did you genuinely fall in love with someone if it was "supposed" to happen? And the universe could fall apart if you don't so you arent really even given a choice to say no? Isn't that like having a preprogrammed robot instead of a true lover?

Still kinda obsessed with the concept of a Spider Reader where you didn't get scouted by Miguel until after you had already lost your loved ones, but, it's clear that some Spiders are scouted before they have all of their events (Pav), and, I can't stop thinking about, you're in the Spider Society and making friends and having fun and stuff and you're. Still supposed to get married or have a relationship or something and you're just, completely avoiding having anything at all, not even dating anyone, nothing really feels natural to you and you just don't really want anything?

Months and months and months pass and you've turned multiple people down in your home dimension and Spiders at the Society are told not to interact with you in certain ways, which becomes overboard when no one ever seems to want to hug you or even high five you or touch you at all (because "oh don't let them get a crush on you, they can't break canon" or some dumb paranoia) which just eventually develops into isolating you from the Spider Society, and they all think, "ok good they'll spend more time at home and then start the route for this canon event and we can talk to them again" but it just. Doesn't happen. You're starting to show up to the Society less and less but the only thing that changes when you get back home is a loneliness that you fill with a pet and some platonic friends

Peter B is trying to "subtly" nudge you. "Ya know kid, aren't you in your 20s now? Isn't it time you try and, I dunno, get into college or something? You've got so much potential!" as he willingly omits how he met his wife in college and maybe it's in the model that you could meet your spouse there too as a potential option

But I like the idea and already lowkey established concept that canon changes and has tweaks here and there and can be bent in certain ways so, imagine like, idk, imagine Reader already being with the person who is supposed to your soul mate, and, you find out about The Model or whatever, the Arachno Humanoid Poly Mutiverse or whatever, and you just realize kind of on accident that, oh having a relationship at all is kind of just another prison for you to be in, huh? Another choice stripped away from you, another thing that made you feel like a rubber stamp in existence in the weird copy/paste Spider Society. So you just. You don't intentionally bomb the relationship but you become so extremely depressed and refuse to talk about it with your SO that they actually leave you, making the choice independently, changing canon but not breaking it

But here's Miguel, which I guess you could imagine as a protective obsessive romantic figure or even platonic parental, and he's all but grinding his teeth because, as he sees it, you're not only risking completely breaking your canon which you know Would Fucking Kill You, but, why are you constantly shooting down what are supposed to be good changes for your life? No relationships? No college? No aspirations at all? Why are you not living up to your full potential? He's so frustrated because he KNOWS you could "be better than this" and that you're "supposed to" be better than this, but you just seem. Depressed and defeated. He wants you to be better because it's better for your life, your future, your safety (even if depending on preference it absolutely gets under his skin to see you with anyone else romantically or sexually)

And I have no idea how they would externally force you into some kind of relationship but, I've also thought about, alternatively, the tried and true "Reader lost their home dimension but somehow didn't disappear and lives on Earth 928B now" (the movie specifics its 928b ok, pet peeve I know, 928 is comic Miguel, 928b is ATSV movie Miguel) and eventually, somehow, your bracelet comes off one day and you're about to freak out and it's like, wait, you aren't glitching??? Why aren't you glitching? I mean, you're happy to not be in pain and flashing colors, but, this doesn't make sense? And you don't wanna tempt fate but you don't bother to get a new bracelet or, other people are around to witness this weird event and so, Miguel is immediately investigating what happened. I imagine maybe they scan you with the Go Home Machine and it's just like "ha ha yeah you're home already :)" you know like some "Dimensional Match: 928B" and the machine doesn't even activate, it just scans you with the drone, is like "yeah you're good lmao" and goes back to sleep

And now Miguel is like, you know. Understandably concerned because now there are two Spiders for Nueva York, but, also, he's just like, unbeknownst to you absolutely over the moon necause if you're technically a part of his dimension now, maybe you can complete your canon and have some sort of happy ending. But. Miguel never had his wedding either? Or at least not the "true" one, like how Peter moves on from Gwen to Mary Jane? Cue Miguel suddenly spending suspicious amounts of time on his platform in the dark looking at holograms and algorithms and asking Lyla to calculate the probability of you two maybe becoming spouses for each other

AND YOU'RE SO FUCKED IF IT SAYS YOU CAN LMAO. Cause now not only is he all the more obsessed with you (you were BROUGHT to his dimension by a miracle, can't you SEE you're destined for each other) but now it's "don't you understand? Not only are we MEANT for each other, you don't have a choice! You CANT break canon!" And he's fucking putting a finger in your face and lecturing you about how, you know what, it's ok if you're scared and you're not ready. You know why? Because you two were made for each other, and, he must have been made to be this strong so he can protect you and make decisions on your behalf, right? It's all in The Model. It's all in God's Plan. The two of you are going to get married whether you think it's the love you're fantasizing about or not, and Miguel is more than thrilled that he was essentially just handed a certified excuse to keep you all to himself on a silver platter

Also. I guess this is preferential but. Imagine if Earth 928B's solution to two Spidermen, like how Miles' "corrected" itself with getting rid of blonde Peter, what if the universe and canon just went, "actually it's all cool though cause technically one of them isn't going to technically in name be a Spider anymore, they're going to be forcibly turned into a cute little pampered house spouse" and ON GOD he's getting children out of you if you're capable of it and that ISN'T optional. He's thinking you can start at AT LEAST three babies and then talk about how many more from there? He's always wanted a large family with lots of cute little girls and boys, you know 👉👈

[prongspoet]

broken hearted | luke castellan.

first time writing for luke, so hope this is okay! tell me what u think in the reblogs i would love to know and get more luke asks!

summary: the curse of cabin 10 makes aphrodite!reader pretend to date her best friend so she doesn't have to cause a heartbreak to her actual crush. even though, at the end of it, she's the only one who had her heart broken. major inspo from this concept.

"You're staring." y/n' best friend, luke castellan, head counselor of the hermes cabin, pointed the fact out, side eying the girl right at his side, after looking at the boy sword training in front of them.

"he's staring back." the aphrodite girl said with a grin. the sunlight bathing her head making it comfortingly warm. luke would know, since he was the one caressing it while she laid down next to him. both of them on the grass, enjoying the late afternoon at camp. "so..."

michael dawson, ares' kid, was, in fact, staring. luke couldn't blame him, the way his best friend looked made everyone pay attention to her. she didn't even had to try. and still, the swordfighting happening in front of them made luke even more sure that mike needed a way so she could notice him. not naturally, but somehow, it worked, since the girl payed attention to him as soon as he started.

"oh well, like mother like daughter, huh. " he continued, in a mocking tone, holding his laugh, raising himself by his elbows, before taking one of his hands to the girl's arm. "your siblings wouldn't be too happy to see the goody two shoes dating an ares' kid, would they?"

"gods, don't fucking say that." she giggled, hiding her face with both of her hands. she went quiet for a second, still staring at the boy. "ares' kid or not.." y/n sighed, pouting slightly. "mike's nicer than the others, he wouldn't deserve to be a guinea pig."

"what do you mean?"

"you know what i have to do.” the girl muttered, with a soft sigh. she couldn't blame her mother, she worshipped aphrodite; her beauty, her power, her knowledge and her actions. that didn't mean that she enjoyed the judgment. the need to make someone else feel miserable just because she could. it wasn't fair. "the first love heart break thing."

"i'm glad i'm not in his shoes, that's for sure." the boy whispered, with a chuckle, still trying to be as quiet as possible. his thumb caressing her arm incessantly. it made her skin burn. in a second, y/n abruptly raised her chin, getting supported by her elbows, getting muffled groan from luke, once it hit his ribs. "what is it?"

"you could be!"

"am i your first love, daisy?" he raised one of his eyebrows, with a mischievous grin stamped on the boys face. the scar in his eye making itself more clear. "you should have told me sooner- ouch!"

"shut up, hero. listen to me!" he knew that tone. and as anyone else who had a single bit of sense, he kept quiet, wanting nothing more to hear her insane idea. "we could pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend." the smile on her delicate face kept getting bigger as she explained her brilliant - yet not completely effective - idea. "i could pretend to break your heart. no one gets hurt, i can stay with mike after is over, and my mom ends up being proud of me!"

the aphrodite girl stared at him expectedly, hoping he would buy her insane plan, hoping he could save her from doing something he never imagined her doing it. luke got quiet for a minute. his eyes were darker than usual. he couldn't stand that. y/n knew her best friend well enough to know that he meant to say something. he never truly did. "you shouldn't be looking for her approval."

"i'm not searching for approval i'm just trying to prove myself.."

"you don't have to prove your devotion to her by doing this." his tone stern, more quiet. colder. "you burn offerings for her every single day. you pray, you're always expressing how incredible she is."

"you don't have to do it if you don't want to."

and suddenly, the idea seemed more appealing than ever. she wasn't using her charmspeak on him. no, luke knew how sugary and sweet y/n's words could be when she wanted to. at that moment, his best friend was just being honest. and even though he could retribute that feeling, luke felt that he needed to do it. just for her.

"yeah," he nodded. defeated. "fine, i'll do it."

"really?" the girl hugged him tight. more excited than ever. "thank you boyfriend!"

"yeah, yeah." he grinned, letting her rest her head on his chest, carefully watching y/n closing her eyes, like nothing else would ever bother her. "just don't be too mean when you dump me."

pretending was easy.

they've always been stuck to each other. having dinner with each other. burning offerings with each other. planning capture the flag with each other. training, swimming, talking, sneaking out to parties. always with one right after the other.

it wasn't supposed to be different, they just had to make it more believable.

"we should be holding hands," y/n pointed out as the couple walked calmly to the main area, where dinner was starting. "silena asked me why we never hold hands if we're dating, so i thought we could make it more..."

"real, yeah." luke nodded, grabbing her hand right the next second she spoke. "c'mon, girlfriend, hurry up." he grinned, and she couldn't help but grin back. "i'm starving."

luke could do that. he could kiss her in front of people, and tell everyone the way they got together. he could hold hands with her, caress her back and almost have a heart attack when she kissed him behind his ear. he could live with that, yeah. it was normal. it was pretending.

until it started to change. suddenly. quickly.

he noticed her. the eyes, the shape of her face, the way her eyebrows moved when she laughed, and the look she gave him every single time she entered a room he was already in, and luke couldn't help but pay attention at her soft hair, how excited she became while looking at pretty flowers, and especially, how her fingers felt against his own scalp when they needed to do some pretending. she was an aphrodite kid after all. y/n was charming. y/n was lovely. y/n was his girlfriend, at least for a while.

and she couldn't help but notice him either. how his scar looked more bright when they. the subtle, yet attentive and gentle way he taught her how to hold a sword, how to train, how to fight. the infuriating way at how he held her chin up slightly, every single time, before sealing his lips against hers.

and for once, neither of them were pretending.

the bonfire started earlier that night, but the couple came to it late; y/n helped one of her sisters who was in a small crises, and her sweet caring boyfriend waited for her by the aphrodite cabin's door, holding her hand as soon as she got out, so they could sit together at one of the logs, full of campers, chartering, telling stories, and enjoying the peacefulness that the simple event emanate.

luke choose one of the back logs for a reason, it was darker, harder to anyone else to see them. even so, as soon as the boy started to leave little pecks at her jaw, he was able to hear some whistles and exclamations. teenagers were gonna be teenagers after all.

"alright," y/n sat upstraight, taking a deep breath before continuing. "you can't do that here."

"i'm just having fun!" the boy said with a mischievous grin. he knew way to well what he was doing. she hoped he would do it forever. the teasing, the almost getting caught made her heart sink every time. "you are my girlfriend after all."

"don't get ahead of yourself, hero." she muttered, grinning at him, before sealing lips with him again. "i still have to break your heart."

"are you sure about that?" he furrowed his eyebrows, pretending to be offended, but getting right back at his job pretty quickly. "i'll just enjoy it until the time comes then."

she laughed, taking her head back so he could have full access to her neck, delicately taking one of her hands to his scalp. and he noticed how much he loved that sound. so much in a way he wished he could bottle it up so he could taste it every time he felt miserable. that wasn't possible. but y/n promised that as long as they were together, he was allowed to make her laugh any time he wanted to, if if meant getting him happy.

that's why it hurt even more when he did what he did.

when he revealed himself to be the traitor.

"come with me."

"i'm sorry, what the hell are you doing?" she cried out, feeling her heart beating faster than ever. "you're not thinking straight. you're not. you're not like this, i-" the words got caught up in her throat. y/n felt like she could pass out at any minute. "i know you luke." her voice was a mere pleading by then, hoping with all her soul he would hear. "you wouldn't do this to me."

"you mean a lot to me, daisy, but this is fucking different."

he was different, and she finally noticed. his eyes darker, his tone stern, and the way he held himself up, like he was prepared for a fight.

y/n would never fight him.

and he would never fight her, right?

and when luke turned his back against her, letting the aphrodite girl caught up with a sob, furrowing her eyebrows, feeling the tears already soaking up her eyes, y/n thought she understood.

maybe aphrodite didn't buy it. and even if she did, she knew it started out with a lie. y/n was playing house. thinking she could be smarter than her mom, she could prove it to everyone else how that curse was a lie, and that nothing would happen to the one that didn't completed it.

but it did happend.

no demigod could ever stand out a god. y/n was no exception.

and she finally understood that.

by the end of the day, y/n went back to her well known cabin, shamefully, missing her radiant aura and pretty smile, hiding a shattered heart in her pocket.

[undertheorangetree]

Competition

Summary- Aemond is a big fan of healthy competition.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female Reader. Modern AU. Mutual edging. Handjob. Fingering. Blowjob. Surprisingly fluffy?? Straight up porn.

Author's Note- I wrote this instead of studying for my midterm lmao. This was a request and therefore a tumblr special so I'm posting the full story here below the cut :)

Usually, she finds the competitive nature of her relationship funny.

Aemond has always been competitive. Whether it was a board game amongst friends or trivia night at the pub or something as simple as an arm wrestle, he loved to win. Most of the time, she found the trait endearing and knew it was a habit she shared, especially when he was there to egg her on.

But it is at times like this she thinks perhaps his need for competition has gotten out of hand. Laying naked on their shared bed, Aemond on his knees beside her with his hand between her legs, two fingers pumping in and out of her ceaselessly. Her hand is wrapped around his cock, doing her best to match his pace even while the pleasure his hand is wringing from her licks up her spine, leaving her dizzy and half boneless. He had gotten it into his head that even this had to be a competition, that whoever forced the other to beg to come first would be declared the winner. She doesn't even remember what they're playing for, not now, but she does know that losing is not an option.

Already, they’ve denied each other twice, pulling the other away in their attempt to win. Despite the desperation that is sitting heavy in her gut, her cunt already hyper sensitive and the feeling only getting worse, she can’t make herself look away from Aemond’s face. His eyes are half lidded, the pupil in his real eye blown wide and turning the blue near black, chest heaving with every breath. His hips buck into her hand weakly, matching her strokes as if he wants nothing more than to let the bliss of it pull him under, his need to win the only thing holding him back. She’ll never get tired of that look, the way his features have gone soft and pliant as pleasure runs through him. She wants to immortalize it, stamp it in her mind’s eye and look at it forever.

She knows she looks just as desperate as he does, legs shaking as she feels her orgasm racing toward her. He keeps a steady pace, the sound of her cunt all but echoing through the room while his thumb circles her clit. It’s almost insulting, how well he is working her up even while she does the same to him. She had half hoped that the pleasure running through him would be some kind of distraction but he seems laser focused, staring between her legs as if he never wants to look away. And she's so close. She can feel it right there, knows that if he keeps going she'll fall over the edge, but just as her orgasm is about to run over her, she knocks his hand away. A desperate whine leaves her, hips bucking up to chase his hand despite having been the one to push it away, and she hears him let out a low groan, his wet fingers closing around her knee.

"Fuck, look at you." His other hand comes up to brush across her tits as if he can't stand the thought of not touching her, catching her nipple between his fingers. She jerks, knowing that was more calculated than it was loving, and slaps his hand away irritably. It doesn’t deter him. "You can give up any time you want, baby, just say the word."

Though she's breathless, frustration and disappointment churning in her gut, she knows he hears the petulance in her voice when she says, "Same goes for you, baby."

He grins, hand falling back between her legs again to play with her clit. There's a smugness there she doesn't like, as if he's sure that she will be the one to beg first, and she decides to wipe the arrogance from his face. Turning slightly, she shuffles a little closer, licking the weeping tip of his cock and before sucking the head into her mouth, fist still pumping at the base. She looks up at him with big doe eyes, trying to look as innocent as she can with his cock in her mouth, and very nearly grins at what she sees.

The effect it has on him is almost immediate. His stomach tenses, mouth dropping open and hand going momentarily still as he watches her, black swallowing the blue of his eye whole. She takes full advantage of his distraction, taking him into her mouth a little deeper and hollowing her cheeks. She knows him, knows every mannerism he has just before he falls apart, and she knows from the look on his face and the way he starts thrusting helplessly into her mouth that he's half a second away from finishing.

Unfortunately, he notices it too and she feels his hand in her hair, tugging her gently off his cock with a frustrated groan. A thin cord of spit connects her to him and he lets out an almost pitiful moan at the sight of it, bringing a grin to her face.

He almost sounds as though he's whining as he says, "You're cheating. Don't cheat."

She tilts her head as she takes him back in hand, reveling in the whimper he lets out. "Why? 'Cause you're gonna come?"

"Because I can't put my mouth on you. S'not fair."

She feels her grin broaden. "And we both know how much you like putting your mouth on me."

He very nearly growls at that before all but tackling her to the bed, forcing her onto her back once more. He kisses her hard, almost punishingly, and she moans into his mouth, both hands coming up to capture his face in her hands. She’s happy for the reprieve, the want burning between her legs too distracting, and takes her time kissing him, in feeling his lips pressing against her own.

"You're such a brat," he mutters against her mouth and she laughs, nipping at his bottom lip to further prove his point. His hand falls to spank her lightly in retaliation, making her jolt again before her own hand drops to find revenge in another way.

It takes him less than a second to follow suit, his fingers running through her to collect the arousal that’s gathered there before pushing a finger back inside her, crooking it up immediately to rub against the spot he knows makes her squirm. They’re both on their sides now and she slings her leg over his hip in an attempt to get more comfortable, still kissing him in the hopes that it will be enough to distract her from falling apart. It does little to help, the pleasure rolling to a boiling point in her belly. In any other circumstance, she would be grateful knowing that her boyfriend knew exactly how to touch her, how to work her up so perfectly, but now she knows that it will be her downfall unless she takes matters into her own hands.

Her mouth drops open, a moan escaping her when he begins circling her clit again, fast enough that her whole body shudders. Knowing now that she is sure to lose should he keep that up, she speeds up her hand in an attempt to bring him over the edge before her. She runs her thumb along the head of his cock, stroking at him faster, and fights the urge to giggle when he pulls away to moan, his head dropping to rest against her shoulder. His lips drag along the skin there, leaving lightning bolts of want in his wake, and her free hand comes up to twist in his hair, lifting herself up slightly.

“Please let me make you come,” she breathes near his ear, biting her lip when he moans faintly in response to it. “You look so pretty when you do. Just want to make you feel good, baby, please.”

She grinds down into his hand subconsciously, rolling her hips in her desperate need for more, and revels in the groan he lets out. She can feel herself clenching around nothing, wanting nothing more than to feel him inside her, but she refuses to succumb to her want now. Once she wins, she will gladly keep him in this bed all night and let him do whatever he wants to her. But before then, she wants to watch him fall apart.

“C’mon. Be a good boy for me.”

That does it. He lets out another whiney sound, this one half a moan, as his brows knit together, bucking his hips up into her hand. She strokes at him quickly, once, twice, until he spills himself over her fist with another moan, thrusts stuttering as he finishes.

Though his hand stalled while he came, he picks up where he left off the moment he has recovered, not giving her any time to mourn the loss of her fading orgasm. His fingers comes back up to her clit, circling it as hard and fast as she can handle and pulling a yelp from her. His free hand falls to the leg that still rests across his hip, holding her in place as he rubs at her faster and faster, that familiar coil in the pit of her stomach snapping almost as quickly as it begins to form. She writhes beside him as her orgasm washes over her, a whine leaving her as her head tips back, giving him enough room to press a litany of open mouthed kisses across her throat.

All at once, the room falls silent, the faint droning of the TV in the next room still humming on where they left it. They’re both panting and Aemond turns onto his back, his hand keeping her leg splayed across his lap while he does it, a faint stretch burning in her thigh.

"I win," she announces breathlessly, wiping her hand clean of him before flopping onto her side, cheek pressing tight against his chest.

He vibrates under her face with a huffed laugh, his hand comes up to stroke at her hair mindlessly. "I think you already got your prize."

She turns her head up to meet his eye. "And if I want another one?"

He turns down to kiss her again. This time, it’s much gentler, all the desperation that had filled the air between them simmering down to nearly nothing. A part of her thinks that he may be content to simply lay here with her in their disheveled bed but then he reaches for her ass again, using his grip there to tug her to lay flat on top of him. His cock is already half hard between them and she feels the side of her mouth quirk up at the realization that he is, in fact, not quite done yet.

“That can be arranged.”

[greeneyessmize]

So, about Marina.

We need to talk this out. Let's go through her journey step by step.

Upon arrival, Marina thinks she may just be waiting on letters from George so they can run away together but she is losing hope. Then she realizes she is definitely pregnant. Then come the fake letters.

Desperation and survival instinct start to gnaw at her. She is looking out for not only herself. She does try to change that but fails, and accepts that the pregnancy is going forward.

So she decides to make the best of it and find a husband as soon as possible. Preferably a nice, naive, young man with decent enough money.

She has several, and I do mean several suitors, she could choose from. But she settles on Colin Bridgerton and his sweet puppy dog innocence.

She knows Pen is fond of him, but she blocks it out. She doesn't care. She focuses on Colin. The easy low, ripe hanging fruit. Who wouldn't?

Then she realizes Pen actually loves him. This will not stop her. She will stamp out this crush to ash if she has to. She's betting her life on this. Pen means nothing to her here.

She is not in this for love. Love betrayed her and put her in this mess. She wants an easy marriage with no uncomfortable questions. Right and wrong don't matter because she has already had wrong done to her.

Now Colin.

He's a young man. Hopeful, bright eyed, romantic, inexperienced.

He participates in the marriage mart because some of it is fun. There is not too much pressure on him as a 3rd son. He gets to dance and flirt, and chat with Pen. How is that not delightful?

Then along comes Marina. She is a glittery new addition to the ladies he has mostly seen here or there all his life. And everyone is interested in the shiny new toy.

Then she shows interest in him. She flirts with him. When she could seemingly have almost anyone, she lets her eyes brighten for him.

He is easily charmed. Marina, for all he and the other boys of the ton can tell, is an attractive young woman. When she decides to show him singular attention he believes it is love and his easygoing heart wants to return that, being a genuine and open person.

He is easily manipulated into an engagement, thinking that this is natural and right. But his passion never really shows, does it? He pulls back from kissing her when she is scandalously forward with him. He does not seek extra excuses to meet her in the market or at tea or at the garden entrance to the Featherington estate for example.

No. He just insists he is a gentleman.

Then he drops her as soon as her manipulations are revealed. He is angry. He is hurt. But it's like a betrayal of a new friend, not a truly wounded heart. A passionately in love man would try to justify her actions or find a way to get past this. But he just lets it drop and goes traveling to soothe his bruised ego.

Then, there is Penelope.

Sweet, shy Pen.

She is so happy to have a friend in her very own home who is kind to her. It seems like a dream come true at first. She says lovely things about Marina in LW.

Then she realizes Colin is truly interested in Marina. She hates it, but doesn't fight it at first. Penelope has already in many ways given up on Colin ever looking at her the way he looks at Marina. So she bites her tongue. She doesn't discourage the two from becoming closer, but she is not doing much to stop it either.

Then she finds out Marina's secret. She learns about George and cake and that Marina must marry in one way or another. Pen wants to help. She really does.

But she just can't stand that Marina would trick Colin. Her love for Marina is enough to ignore her tricking anyone else. Her love for Colin is so much that she wants him to be happy any way possible.

And she knows figuring out the first child is not his and then duplicity of Marina's affections would not make Colin Bridgerton happy. Unlike most men in the Ton, he knows what love is. His parents were a love match. He would understand eventually that Marina was just placating him whenever he engaged with her emotionally.

So. Having appealed to both Marina, who crushed her heart into bits efficiently, and Colin, who metaphorically ruffled her hair and told her to run along... what options were left to Pen?

Directly tell someone like her mother? She already knew and approved. Violet? Well isn't that terrifying to a shy young woman who still wants Colin's friendship? Eloise? Too mercurial, she might support the match or at least loudmouth that it was Pen who told her. Again potentially ending her friendship with Colin.

Remember, her friendship with Marina was already over, Marina just did not know it yet. You can't brutally crush someone's most treasured, secret desire (realistic or not) and have them continue to love you like nothing happened.

So, Pen uses her last resort when she learns of the pending elopement. The one thing she can do to save Colin from unhappiness and to keep her one small shred of her own happiness: being Colin's friend. She revealed Marina's secrets to the Ton.

Did this maximize damage to Marina? Yes. Did it also damage Colin? Fractionally, both compared to what was dealt to Marina and compared to the damage he would have suffered in a marriage where Marina came to merely tolerate him. (As evidenced by her entire unamusement at his olive oil joke in Season 2.)

Don't forget that Penelope also hurt herself in this. You don't sob in your best friend's arms in celebration. She broke a part of herself to do this to Marina and to Colin. She probably doubted every second of everything and a part of her always will. Her price was not public, it was not outwardly devastating, but she took damage too.

----------

In conclusion, Marina and Penelope were both some level of wrong and Colin was the blind fool in the middle. The flavors of wrong were very different, and so were the levels of damningness.

In their own ways, I can forgive each of them. Admittedly, I forgive Pen more. But that has to do with my life experiences. Former wallflower here, married to a man who is now her best friend. I have never gotten pregnant and been abandoned (though being dead is hardly George's fault here). But I can understand how desperate, how calculating that could have made me, at least in that era. Especially with people like Portia Featherington as your primary caretaker and maternal figure.

I really hope that Pen and Marina both get a chance a chance to gain closure over this peacably before Marina dies. I don't think Pen deserves to feel guilt over Marina's death. Especially as book Marina seemed to have severe depression and well, Marina is likely to have depression too considering her loss of George.

Now, if part 2 of Season 3 could just be here already, that would be absolutely lovely!

[siriusblack-the-third]

The one word that best fits Percy, Annabeth thinks, is Gentle. And it is entirely by design.

Percy grew up hated by his stepfather, hated by his schoolmates and teachers and tutors. He grew up with the words "delinquent", "stupid", "troublemaker" thrown at him, stinging his heart at first and then sliding ineffectually off his back over the years. Annabeth has seen him at his worst, and she knows that it is not in Percy's nature to be gentle. He's a hurricane.

It's in everything he does.

His eyes shift and change with the tides, with his emotions, from happy to angry to sad to exhausted to smug all within moments of each other. Sometimes, she catches a glimpse of something Other, something that makes him look cruel and heartless in the worst yet most beautiful of ways. The first time she had seen that look was when he had packed up the head of Medusa to send it to the Gods.

(It had scared her, then. Now any reminder of it makes her laugh.)

He holds himself in a way that says fuck around and find out, in a way that says he's the most dangerous person on this planet and he knows it, in a way that makes you stop and look and then stamp down the urge to take a few steps back. His back is always straight and his shoulders are always pulled back, but he always looks relaxed. His head is always a little low, reminiscent of the way a bull lowers its head when it's going to charge. His hands are always in his pockets, fiddling with a pen that has been with him since he was twelve. People scatter out of his way like getting within ten feet of him would get them killed.

(They're not wrong.)

Annabeth can only describe his fighting as chaotic. He is a literal whirlwind, movements fluid and unpredictable, sword slashing through the air with such speed that it's almost invisible. He's terrifying and beautiful and mesmerizing when he wages war, all sharp edges and ruthless strikes placed right where it would take his opponent down the fastest. Sometimes when he feels particularly violent, his hits are non lethal yet painful, making his opponent cry and scream, making him grin with teeth too sharp and eyes too bright.

And yet.

Gentle is the best word Annabeth can think of to describe Percy.

Percy, who cradles her face oh so carefully when he kisses her softly and slowly, just the way she likes when a nightmare wakes her up. Percy, who curls up into a ball next to her and buried his head into her stomach to hide from the terrors in his own dreams. Percy, who looks at his sister with the most adoring look Annabeth has ever seen on his face, who smiles at his mother with that spark of awe in his eyes like he still can't believe he got such a wonderful mother, who is patient and caring with every camper that asks him to help.

She can only think of gentle.

Gentle, because Percy likes to be reminded of the good things in the world. Gentle, because Percy works towards being so despite it not being a natural part of him. Gentle, because after years of war and bloodshed and battle and violence, they have made it to peace. Peace, where they can afford to make the choice to be gentle.

Percy is a Hurricane. Percy is Gentle.

Annabeth loves all of him.

.

Tag list:

@narcissa-black-supermacy @the-chaosbringer @in-flvx @padfootastic @gracelesslady23 @mycupofrum @just-another-godless-god @fiendishfyre @ad1thi @prongsfoot-wolfstar @siriuslystarbucks @xxmysticrose18 @ghostie-06 @pan-diasaster @h-m-i-a-n @constant-diablerie @strwbi-laces @shanti-ashant-hai @remen-nyoodles

[ronearoundblindly]

ok im feeling the kiss list sm!! im feeling angsty... so steve x reader with #4 or #26?? love u <3333

#4 (a kiss where it hurts) was double requested, so this is #26-- *this* one isn't angsty although technically could be considered a wee tinybit smidgenly dark if you squint real hard. Sorry this is not even remotely edited and all over the place and just *sighs* yeah okay enjoy!

Steve Rogers x reader: a kiss as an apology

I'm So, So...Sorry, a tale for Valentine's 2024

Summary: Grant, a guest at your middle-of-nowhere motel, has needs not covered by the usual turn-down service.

Warnings: *screams and bites pillow* WHY. WHY???? omg, this just...ack...smut. Nomad Steve being needy and touch-starved just ruined my life. 😭😭😭 DUB-CON adjacent b/c Steve loses control. Please send him help. MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. There's plenty else to read on my Light Masterlist, but this ficlet is for adults! WC 2022

To look at him, you’d think this dude can fuck, but it turns out that the absolutely huge man checking into your family’s small rural motel doesn’t know the first thing about flirting, much less sex.

You have no idea what ‘Grant’ and his friend ‘Tom’ were really whispering about over the breakfast table that one morning weeks ago, but later that night Grant came by the office, restless and unable to sleep.

He just talked to you. It was all superficial conversation about the area, the weather, what activities you liked on your days off. Even that seemed a struggle for him—thinking up casual questions. He could look you in the eye up until he had to respond, and he didn’t give many answers in return.

You laughed--you had to—when Grant asked if he could walk you to your door, which…is ludicrous because it’s a house a whopping fifty meters down the way from strip of rooms.

“I could walk,” he shrugs. “I’ll probably do a lap or two anyway.”

“Well, I have to wait for Clark to show up, but—“ you look him up and down “—okay.”

Twenty minutes later, the craziest thing happened.

An elk walked right in front of you on the path, and you jumped back, slamming into the wall of muscle the was your escort. You were both perfectly still as it moved.

Then that thing squawked and stamped huge hoofs. You threw your weight backward and spun to flee, clambering over Grant’s body.

Why you were so scared, who knows; you should be used to the wildlife.

The most shocking thing, however, is how strongly he tried to hold you still.

The harsh grip on your waist and the way he hissed through his teeth for you to stop should have been your hint, but instead you clung to him harder, asking if the animal was gone.

“Uh…” Grant tenses against you. “It’s…it’s just—“ he shudders when you wriggle closer “—yes, gone,” he bites out, pushing you away by the hips.

He takes a second to breathe, then, “let’s get you home.”

‘Grant’ is now properly called ‘Steve’ in private.

It took a while for him to trust you. He and ‘Tom’—whose real name you still don’t know—have been back and forth to the motel several times. You don’t talk about other guests. You don’t gossip. You don’t pry because that is just the nature of your business.

Steve’s initial five o’clock shadow has come in nicely. The first time he returned with the full beard, you couldn’t help yourself and brushed your fingers through it on your way back from handing him his key over the counter. The way he looked at you…devastating.

Tom made his own, very knowing face, and winked.

“You should do that more. Touch him. He could use it.”

Steve cleared his throat harshly and blushed, accidentally leaving a small bag on the ground when he rushed to the door.

“He was joking. It was a joke,” Steve blurted when he found you standing there to give it back.

You just smiled and said Tom wasn’t wrong.

“So, if you ever just want a hug…” you muttered.

That’s how this started.

A tentative embrace where only the top of his chest touched you led to a lovely full-body hug, and then he held you a touch longer, so your hand went to his hair and…

Steve whined and crashed you two against the wall outside his room, righting himself almost immediately, excusing the behavior, and rushing back inside. You couldn’t let that stand though. You stopped the door before it closed.

“Hey, it’s okay. I can be here, if you want, to hold.”

Steve’s eyes were one of the only things you could see in the dark room.

You took a chance and reached out to scratch at his bearded cheek again. “Not like you’re gonna hurt me, Stevie.”

So he melted into your hand, eye’s rolling as if drunk on the feeling, and you stepped in to hug him.

You can’t count the number of times you’ve had to tell him ‘it’s okay,’ but at least Steve doesn’t stop everything to apologize each time. Convincing him not to be self-conscious of how his body reacts to touch took a while.

He humped your leg like a puppy while you played with his hair. He came in his pants while you gave him a back rub. He cried when you kissed over his arms and chest.

You’ve told him it’s all okay.

He tries so hard not to smile when he checks back in, but he waits until your shift ends to have you fall asleep in his arms.

You’ve told him it’s okay to fall asleep in your arms, too.

Genuinely, the best part of the whole arrangement is that he will let you do anything to him. He’s fine being petted and fawned over, teased for being more ripped than jeans in the ‘90s—except for he didn’t understand that joke, sadly,—and it’s okay because you get it. He doesn’t tell you any personal information. He barely told you his name. He’s probably figured out that you aren’t an idiot and have put two-and-two together, but he keeps quiet, too.

He lets you keep touching him because he enjoys it.

Aside from the average hug and a simple spooning hold, Steve only ever touches you when you put his hand somewhere. (Right, except for the leg humping, but that was adorable so who cares! He wasn’t even doing that to touch you; poor thing needed friction, is all.) Anyway, since he’s been so excited about everything you’ve wanted to do to him, you push your luck.

The recent days have been all about Steve completely naked and at your mercy, which is, of course, still focused on making him feel good, but tonight is the very first night you are also naked. It’s meant to be a profound comfort—your weight atop him, maximum skin-to-skin contact—and it is.

He’s warm and stretched out like a cat in the sun beneath you, smiling, resting his eyes as dusk takes over the sky. You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat but don’t notice until he’s gently shaking you awake.

“You’re…you were squirming a lot. Thought you might be having a nightmare.”

Steve’s voice is husky. His grip on your arm is deliberately stationary until you shift to slide off of him.

His hand flies down to the back of your knee but not before you feel the hard length of his erection move from its perch at your ass to press flush on the back of your thigh.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just ignore it.”

You’re surprised he’s so shy after all you’ve been through for this. How can he doubt?

You stretch up to his face, straddling his abs for stability. “Stevie,” you say with soft fingers carding through his long hair, “you know it really is okay. You know that.”

He hums, his cock jumping against your ass while he squeezes your knee. He exhales shakily when you drag the back of your nails down his arms and sit up. Too dark to see, all you can go by is what you hear and feel.

“As long as you’re okay—“ you press into his pecs to lift yourself over his hips “and this is okay for you, right?”

It’s hard to hide how desperate he’s made you, but the issue is mutual based on how Steve groans when you settle your folds along the length of him. He clenches his ass so hard, it lifts you and sends a surge of heat to your core.

There’s a shuffling noise by his head.

“Is that a ‘yes?’ Are you alright?”

The shuffling repeats, accompanied by a strangled “yes.” He clenches again, and your arousal finally slicks his hot skin beneath you.

You keep your hands braced on his chest as you start to move, tiny pulses at first, and the poor thing is too sensitive.

He’s a panting mess by the time your slick is spread over him.

“No,” he whines, and you stop, thinking it’s too far to push him. “Too soon.”

“Shh, it’s okay to come. Remember, Stevie? That’s good. We can stop but—“

His other hand clamps onto the meat of your thigh. “Don’t. Don’t stop. I just…”

“Then we’ll do this again. Don’t worry,” you coo, rolling your hips from his root to tip.

He sounds tortured with little pleas and whimpers escaping before each guttural moan. He only lasts a few more thorough pumps. The spurts of cum graze your clit as he finishes on his stomach, shot as far as your wrists still above his chest, and for the first time with Steve you’re disappointed you can’t immediately keep going. You were getting very close, too, very fast.

It pains you to peel your sticky pussy off of him to get tissues, but you praise him the whole way.

“Please,” he rasps, taking hold of your arm as the last is wiped up, “more?” He’s breathless. “I can do better.”

You smile in the dark, excited for the possibility but afraid to push him. “Stevie, you did great. Rest for—“

“No, I—I want…I mean, can I touch you this time?”

Oh.

Oh.

“Sure,” you gulp, “that’d be nice.” If by ‘nice’ you mean ‘I’ve just creamed myself at a single question’ then yes, very nice.

He wants you in the same position straddling him, but that’s so he can spread his hands and run his fingertips over the most of you. He’s softened as he starts exploring you, but his lingering fascination with your breasts makes you wetter and wetter. He likes how you purr and gasp as he pinches and kneads. He likes to pull at your thighs until he gets handfuls of your ass.

He gets hard again off of your moans and tucks his cock between you while you instinctively ride him. It’s still only him deliciously fucking your folds until the repeated swipe of his head over your clit tips you to the edge, and your nails dig into his skin to draw down with the coil in your belly.

The angle catches him at your entrance, a shallow thrust that has you crying out lewdly, and suddenly, you’re on your back, Steve’s huge body pinning you to the mattress, one elbow propping himself by your chest, his other hand brutally spreading your ass to accommodate him.

You’re overwhelmed by the power he exerts over you. He suckles and nips at your breasts, cock so deep it pushes your insides to make way, and what starts as an average orgasm just wipes you out in a cascade of sharp pleasure.

Your hand grip blindly at his hair and back, choking on screams of profanities he wouldn’t appreciate, and he wraps his arms under you, bending you in an arch, chest to chest, while his hot breath rolls over your sweat-cooled throat.

You feel his lips open wide, but Steve goes silent until spent.

Finally, his last slow pistons calmed in halted combustion, he nuzzles his head to the crook of your neck.

Your fingers are frozen where buried in his hair.

In the dim moonlight you can see his ass twitch, jolting in over-stimulation while he gently pulls out of you. He props himself up, posture small and timid for such broad shoulders.

He hovers above you while you try to read each other’s expressions.

“I…I…” he starts quietly, looking over and over your features.

His chin ticks closer, hesitates, and then descends so his lips can capture yours. It’s so quick and chaste, like any other first kiss, but all out of order.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words cracking in his guilt. “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop.”

You pull him down to you, properly melding your mouth to his, beginning your next lesson already, then let him come up for air.

“It’s okay, Stevie. You can still walk me home.”

A/N: *drops bath bomb to froth in the pool of Tumblr* *runs away* Don't ask me wtf just happened because I don't know. It just consumed my whole day.

[psst. This became a whole series. 'Hideout' Masterlist]

Bucky Barnes and a kiss as encouragement ⬅️ ➡️ Jake Jensen and a kiss where it doesn't hurt

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

Tags: I'm also adding the people who showed interest in this concept earlier. You will not be tagged beyond this unless you ask! @mrs-barnes-rogers-writes @bstorn @rogersbarber @cevansbaby-dove @nowandajenn @jesevans @justherebecausesafarisucks @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp

[harmonic-intervention]

Please find me, I'm hungry

Well.

Tommy has a tramp stamp now. Buck kinda goes insane over it.

We're past the fix-its! Have some smut instead! This is the complete version of this post. Moving further in my mission to give Tommy things I think are hot - like eyebrow scars and tramp stamps. Have fun.

Word count: 13,147 - PWP, tattoos, dom/sub undertones, possessive behavior, cum play

Excerpt:

When they got back together, Hen, with a sly little grin, had teased Buck about them being all over each other. Buck had rolled his eyes, dropped his head, and knocked his knuckles into her shoulder. He got razzed all day by the others, because yeah, he and Tommy had a pretty active sex life before, and Buck had come into work with hickeys on his throat more than once.

Only it was different this time. They’d decided to take their time, and work their way up again. Buck was too giddy about holding Tommy’s hand again, he didn’t think he could handle anything more.

They did dates, and dinners, and hang outs. They didn’t even sleep over at each other’s places when they met up there. When they kissed, they kept it strictly above the waist.

His friends would never believe him if he told them. Hell, Buck wouldn’t have believed himself a couple of months ago! But all in all, Buck didn’t mind this. They had agreed to slow it down, not to rush ahead like they did the last time, where they’d skipped so many steps. It was nice, actually, really nice to do it like this.

Buck found out more and more about Tommy, saw things Tommy hadn’t shown anyone before, and he only loved Tommy more for it.

They navigated through their re-budding relationship, and Buck had never been this happy before in his life. And things were moving, steadily, felt so natural and easy in a way Buck had never thought it could. Even the harder conversations they finally had with each other seemed easy, their words flowing and miscommunication left behind.

Slowly, they made their ways through the stages and bases. Touching above clothes, getting below the belt. Tommy didn’t take his shirt off around Buck, and Buck would admit that was surprising. Tommy really didn’t have any qualms showing off, at least he hadn’t used to.

But then things got a bit suspicious when Buck noticed that Tommy didn’t seem to like him touching the small of his back all of a sudden. He was subtle about it, Buck had to admit. Like when he put his hand there, Tommy took his wrist and pushed it further down, and Buck was always up for that. Tommy had a great ass. But he also had a really nice back, and Buck liked pushing his hands under his shirt and trace along the line of his spine, and after the fourth time that Tommy shied away from the touch, Buck finally voiced his suspicions.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking a step back from the kiss they had shared in his kitchen.

Tommy looked a little dazed, and okay, maybe it’d been more than just one kiss. Maybe it was more, maybe Buck had pushed Tommy up against the counter and thought about how he could convince him to climb up so Buck could stand between his legs, feel the insides of his thigh press against his hips.

“What?” Tommy asked, and Buck, for a moment, got distracted by how red and full and spit-slick his mouth was.

“Don’t you- you don’t want me touching your back? That’s okay, but is everything alright? Did you get hurt?” Buck got momentarily worried. He hadn’t thought about that. But they had agreed to be honest with each other, so if he was doing something that hurt Tommy, he needed to know. If Tommy had gotten hurt, he needed to know.

There was a blush high on Tommy’s cheeks when he shook his head. “Uh, no, I’m good. Not hurt.”

Which was a relief. “Then what’s going on? Is this a new thing? If you don’t want me to touch you there, that’s fine, but- it wasn’t a problem before, right? Did you not like it?”

“God, baby, calm down,” Tommy said with a slight laugh. “No, I liked it fine. But, uh … something changed.”

Buck furrowed his brows. “Like what?”

If anything, Tommy blushed harder. He pushed off the counter, made Buck take a couple steps back. He put his hands on the collar of his shirt as if to pull it up, but before he did that, he locked eyes with Buck.

“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“O-okay, I-uh, I promise?” Buck said, but it came out more like a question.

It seemed to be good enough for Tommy who pulled the shirt over his head, and Buck would be lying if he didn’t immediately try to look his fill. It had been a while since he’d seen Tommy shirtless. And God, those pecs, the hair between them, that fucking happy trail …

Then, Tommy turned around, and Buck’s mouth dropped open. He blinked, stared, tried to form words. He felt frozen, because he had not expected this, because well.

Well.

Tommy had a tramp stamp.

[continue on ao3]

[vonne-inc]

product: yandere boss - stolen shirt.

gender neutral reader. masturbation with clothing. typical pervert stuff. (a little bit of) yandere behavior.

the day was quiet— the only sound was the clock ticking on the wall. tick, tick, tick, tick. a small reminder, one all too evident, that you weren't around. not now, at least.

even if your absence was temporary, he couldn't stand it. the growing need to see you was growing, and it was becoming unbearable. the only thing that kept him under control was knowing when you'd be back.

his body grew tense, looking at the ticking clock. five hours, nine minutes, and fifty-three seconds. it was still too long... still too much.

"sir?" his eyes snapped to the voice, his dilated pupils contracting. heels clicked against the floor, and soon, a plastic bag was set on his desk, "your lunch." staring at the bag, a familiar logo stamped on it, he quietly hummed.

as quickly as the substitute assistant came, she left. he paid no mind, focusing on the food. pulling the take-out container, his fingers skillfully opened it as he wafted in the smell. it was nothing expensive, rather cheap from a nearby restaurant. although it was special; a dish you commonly ordered.

ah, right. you.

his eyes flickered back to the clock. five hours, three minutes, and thirty-one seconds. only six minutes passed, "fuck..." he mumbled, the itching feeling growing again. his skin tingled, brows narrowed, and shoulders tensed.

pushing aside his lunch, letting it touch the end of his desk. he pulled his desk drawer out; a black, clean chest is shown into view. with a diligent motion, he grabs the key from his pocket and opens it with eager hands.

a sigh leaves his lips, pupils dilating once more as he spots the items inside. clothing, candid photos, perfumes, etcetera. all of it being yours. things to keep him managing whenever you're not around.

picking up one of the shirts he'd collected, unzipping it from its ziploc bag, he carefully takes the cloth and inhales your smell. it smelt just like you; your natural musk mixed with perfume.

the more he breathed in, his pants tightened as it showed his evident arousal. his legs spread wider, cock twitching, as his mind began to wander.

what would you do if you found him like this? force him to his knees and degrade him as he shows you how sorry he is? worshipping your sex with his mouth as he pleas for forgiveness.

would you let him bend you over his desk, fucking you with primal need? him whispering each perverted fantasy he's had of you; his assistant. praising you as he rips an orgasm from you repeatedly.

without thinking about it, his hands drag down his buttons shirt and toward his black pants. working at his belt, it falls loose as he slides his pants down— enough to free his cock.

the tip red, leaking with precum already, he begins to trace the veins of his length. his head throws back, eyes snapping shut as he continues. the stolen shirt had fallen from his grasp and hung on his lap, the smell still reaching his senses.

he reaches for it again, grasping it in his hand, while bucking his hip into the fabric. the loud groan resounded throughout his office. the act of your clothing being wrapped around his cock was enough to get him a needy mess.

his hand begins to stroke the cloth along his shaft, meeting the tip as it soaked in the precum forming. hips bucking up, digits balling into a fist around himself, he couldn't resist fucking into the shirt.

all he could imagine was what you'd look like with his cock thrusting inside of you. the way your face would contort, how your moans and gasps would sound, how stunning you would look riding him with his cum soaking your stomach and chest.

at that thought, he could feel the coil tightening. his grunts grew louder, eyes rolling into his skull. his thrusts became more erratic whilst his office chair squeaked underneath him.

ropes of white shot from his slit, soaking into the shirt and coating the end of his desk. cum hit his clothes, and he choked back a sob at the relief.

once he calmed down, he stared at the shirt in his grip that was still wrapped around his cock. before he thought about another perverted fantasy and become hard, he grabbed the ziploc and secured it back into the chest as he closed the drawer.

and while those hours without you were still unbearable, all that surrounded his thoughts was how much he couldn't wait to leave his newfound gift at your doorstep. he just knows that you'll be surprised to see your favorite shirt covered in his cum.