#it’s a dynamic that somehow works well for them!

[writingwisterias]

hope this isnt off limits but how would eras leon react to their partner being into ddlg?

Hi!

I have no problem doing this for you! I hope you like it 💕 I'm churning these out as fast as I can lmao...I'm dead from work but almost to my holiday 🥺

Warnings: NSFW, Ddlg, Fluff, MDNI

AFAB!Reader

RE2:

I actually think he would settle into this role easily, like it sort of makes a routine in his life

He would be embarrassed at first just with the idea and worried if anyone saw but eventually he would settle pretty quickly

I think he would lean more towards getting you the thing you would want like teddies

Less likely to punish you even if you break the rules he's given you because he caves easily

In terms of the use of daddy I think he would freak out a bit at first, never letting you see it because it would almost feel like you are aging him and the world is already doing that so he might be a bit reluctant

He's never thought he would be into something like this but he ends up actually liking it and it fit really well with the both of you

RE4R:

He would love the idea of being able to take care of you and provide for you in a safe place

I think he would also enjoy coming home and seeing what you have done whenever it's colouring or just being cosy on the couch

He would also shower you in love and affection very quickly. All the money he earns goes to bills, food and you.

I think he's more of a quiet observer, so he just enjoys being in the living room watching a film as you sit next to the coffee table drawing etc

He prefers watching your favorite films and shows. He will say they are bad but secretly he loves them

Huge on praise Kink, all you have to do is bat your eyes at him and he's dragging you to the bedroom with a raging hard on

At first the use of Daddy would shock him and take a while to get used to but then he would fall into the role naturally and actually refer to himself as Daddy

Infinite Darkness:

LOVES IT

Like he's all in straight away no need for further questions

He loves spoiling you but becomes firm if you break his rules

Has raging hard on's all the time with your innocence.

Often Feels guilty about it but you always seem up to pleasing him so eventually he doesn't get guilty anymore

Doesn't let you in his office because you always end up distracting him but somehow you always end up in there

When you do enter let's just say you will be shooed out with the promise of a red ass if you don't do it quickly

He will tease you as you cuddle and watch films or TV shows. Playing with your clit under the fluffy blanket you insisted on laying over the top of the both of you

Enjoys your whines of protest and how they eventually turns into begs for daddy's touch

Damnation:

Definitely becomes more strict in terms of you following the rules he puts in place but always makes it up when he does have to punish you

Your little doe eyes always help you get your way with him

Lazy at sex, prefers if you are so needy and do most of the work. Until you get all whiny and upset that you can't cum he'll step in then

He's away a lot more, but always at random times so he'll make sure to have meals prepared for you and labeled in the fridge. Trusting that you use them and don't forget

He will call you if he's away but if he can't he'll always make sure to send you a text

RE6:

Neither of you actually have a conversation about exploring this dynamic between the two of you it just happens naturally

It works though and Leon enjoys it as it gives him something else to focus on

Especially so after the events of the game, he pretty much lives through the events of raccoon City again and doesn't even seem phased

Until he gets back

You notice the change in his attitude and see his sad eyes. Deciding in your little brain to try and help him out

He finds it cute how you bring him your favourite teddy and cosy up to him, allowing him to thread his fingers through your hair

You'll try your best to not be needy but that only upsets him further because that's his favorite part

Your constant need for his attention

Vendetta:

Since he's not in the right frame of mind I don't think he would be as interested in the idea

He can barely take care of himself

I think the dynamic would only work during sex

It would come out to play before, during and after sex but beyond that it would have to be hidden if he's having a bad day

Sometimes when he's drunk he'll play into it a bit more, he's looser and forgotten whatever was bothering him

He would be gentle still during these times, probably loosely refers to himself as Daddy just for your sake

Feels bad that it's been washed away and he's not doing a good job at providing for you in this manner

Still spoils you rotten though

Death Island:

Doesn't like the idea of having children he's too old for that now

But you? He loves taking care of you

He wouldn't even let you work, he's got more than enough savings to last you living this life style comfortably

Prefers it if you didn't spend his money lavishly but then you are just his cheeky little girl so who's he kidding

Sex is great because you are just so willing for it

He doesn't have to worry about erectile dysfunction for a while that's for sure

Accidentally refers to himself as Daddy in public if you are meeting friends one too many times

It's just become a natural habit now, he doesn't mind though. You seem to get more embarrassed than he does

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I have a couple of questions, the main two being: 1: what ships do you dislike/hate? and why? 2: are there any ships you enjoy/like? and why? I am an anti-shipper myself, so hearing other ppls opinions on ships is interesting to me.

Only ships I really hate are like, incest, pedo or zoophilia, and Killermare and Bad Sans Poly.

I hate Killermare because it is trafficker/kidnapper/abuser x victim/captive and that is just..baked so completely in their narratives I find it ridiculous to ignore it.

I hate the narrative that Nightmare ever genuinely saved Killer, he didn’t—Color was the one putting in hard work and tears trying to protect, understand, befriend, and earn Killer’s trust. He was the one being threatened with death and stabbed and attacked for trying to help like he was asked to— by Killer himself—to help. He’s the one constantly risking his life and safety and well being for Killer’s freedom.

I hate how certain shippers treat this ship, how they treat Killer, and how they definitely treat Color—like Color’s somehow the bad guy because they want to pretend that Nightmare is somehow good for Killer’s safety or that Killer would ever be happy with him. Or as if Color only has selfish intentions and motives for Killer. Even more so when they pretend it’s one sided and Killer doesn’t grow to feel the same eventually—even when they’re extremely rough and certainly not friends in the beginning.

As if Killer wasn’t the one asking Color to save him. As if Killer didn’t say he kinda likes Color, and Nightmare had to tell him to literally shut up—as if Color isn’t the only one besides Toriel Killer has admitted to liking before, compared to when he said he doesn’t like anyone when asked. As if Color wasn’t the only one Stage 1 Killer ever felt comfortable asking, pleading with, for help—trusting him enough to admit he wants to be saved.

As for ships i enjoy, there’s Colorkiller obviously—but I also enjoy them as a friendship, or queer platonic, or them in general. Lifeafterdeath most definitely. Reapertale Chara x Core!Frisk (I don’t know. if they have a ship name) is wonderful.

Epic Sanses poly, Delta x Color, Epic x Color, Ccino x Color, just other Color ships in general i like. Chromatic Crew poly could be interesting.

But honestly what I really want is more of Killer in platonic relationships.

Color is special to him and this is just an undeniable fact, and Killer doesn’t strike me as the type to be very interested in friendship outside of what he managed to build with Color—but i think he should have more social connections, even if they aren’t what he has with Color because he does not trust most people at all.

I’d love to see more of Ink and Killer. Not really as a ship, but as pals—I feel they’d understand each other. Ccino and Killer and Lust and Killer and Color too. I’d like to see Ink and Color content as well, and Color and Dream.

I feel I’d be interested in seeing more Killer and Horror content, but there’s barely any outside of Bad Sans Poly or MTT Poly—and even in those ships there’s hardly anything.

I’ve found myself turned away from most Killer and Murder dynamics because, similar to Kross and killermare, these two always have to have some sort of “sexual tension” or something and it’s actually just beating eachother half to death or being lovey dovey and so in love. (Or when Killer is portrayed as a desperate whore for dust’s attention and begging him to love him or something.)

I think I’d find them more interesting in fandom depictions if 1. It wasn’t always just about how “hot” they are together and how “hot” is it that they hate eachother or whatever, and 2. people focused more on how they’re different rather than how they’re similar.

[d-z20]

Yield and Obey (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You decide to act out by not listening to Agatha in front of the coven and when you don't take the opportunity to correct yourself, she has to punish you

- OR -

You get spanked for your brattiness and then fucked (and bred) into submission

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Agatha, bratty reader, Dom/Sub dynamics, spanking, breeding, magic g!p, degradation, tiniest amount of praise, possessive Agatha, she kind of just uses reader for her own pleasure at the end

Words: 3.2k

A/N: I've realised that I mostly imagine Agatha being taller than reader (even though Kathryn is only 5'5) like I refuse to believe that THE Agatha Harkness isn't tall👀👀

AO3 | Masterlist

The room buzzes with the quiet hum of activity, the coven murmuring over spell books, tendrils of magic curling in the air. It’s a chaotic yet strangely comforting scene—home to the powerful and the power-hungry alike. You lean against the edge of a wooden table near the fireplace, where Jen meticulously stirs a glowing potion. Alice sits cross-legged nearby, her hands weaving through glittering threads of enchantment. Even Rio has made an appearance, lounging in a corner and casting sharp, knowing glances at anyone who dares disrupt the tenuous harmony.

But despite the coven’s dynamic energy, your attention is fixated entirely elsewhere. Specifically, on her.

Agatha Harkness perches in her usual chair, an aura of authority emanating effortlessly from her every gesture. The flickering firelight catches her dark, slightly dishevelled waves, which frame sharp cheekbones and an unsettlingly beautiful smirk that always promises trouble. The soft linen of her blouse clings to her frame, tucked neatly into purple high-waisted slacks that somehow make her appear even taller. She’s a woman you can never quite look away from, her presence magnetic, her power intoxicating.

She’s toying with a strand of her hair now, feigning disinterest in the goings-on around her. But you know her too well to fall for that act. She doesn’t miss a thing. Least of all the way you’re staring.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” she says at last, her gaze cutting to yours like a knife.

Your cheeks burn as the rest of the coven barely spares the two of you a glance. These moments between you and Agatha are commonplace by now, a sort of game only the two of you understand. But even in the relative privacy of the bustling room, her voice carries an edge of authority that twists your stomach into delicious knots.

“Just watching,” you reply, a little too innocently.

Agatha arches a brow, her smirk deepening. “Is that so?”

Her tone sends a shiver down your spine. She knows exactly what you want, and she’s going to make you work for it.

Jen glances up from her potion and mutters something about the moon phases aligning for a powerful incantation. Rio snickers, clearly amused by the tension thickening between you and Agatha. But neither of you pays them any mind.

“Why don’t you help Lilia with the herbs?” Agatha suggests, her tone deceptively sweet.

It’s a command, not a question. Your defiance flares up instantly—your bratty streak refusing to let her have the upper hand so easily.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” You quip back, folding your arms.

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Rio stops smirking, her sharp eyes darting between you and Agatha. The rest of the coven seems to hold its collective breath, tension hanging in the air like an impending storm.

Agatha rises slowly from her chair, the firelight painting her every movement in shades of gold and shadow. She doesn’t have to say a word—her mere presence is enough to make your pulse quicken.

“Out,” she says, her voice calm but laced with steel.

The coven members exchange looks before scattering like leaves in the wind, muttering excuses as they file out of the room. Rio lingers for a moment longer, her grin returning as she mouths, Good luck, before slipping out the door.

Now it’s just the two of you, the flickering fire casting dancing shadows across the walls. Agatha closes the distance between you with measured steps, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

“Do you want to try that again?” She asks, tilting her head as she looms over you.

Your heart pounds as you bite your lip, refusing to back down even as your body betrays you with a telltale shiver of anticipation. “Nah, I’m okay, thank you.”

Her smirk returns, sharper this time. “Oh, darling. You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Before you can respond, she grabs your wrist and pulls you toward her chair. The force of her magic ripples through the room, locking the door with a resounding click. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you find yourself draped over her lap with your bare ass exposed, your breath hitching as her hand settles firmly on your lower back.

“Since you’re so eager to challenge me, I think you deserve a proper lesson,” she purrs, her voice low and dangerous.

Your skin flushes with heat as you wriggle slightly, testing the strength of her grip. Agatha chuckles darkly, her nails grazing the curve of your hip in warning.

“Stay still,” she orders.

You bite back a grin, knowing exactly how much it’ll annoy her if you don’t. “Make me.” 

It’s childish and probably the most cliche bratty thing you could say, but that’s exactly why you said it: you know it’ll just frustrate Agatha even more.

The first sharp slap lands before you can brace yourself, the sting radiating through your body and drawing a gasp from your lips. She doesn’t hold back (she never does) and that’s precisely why you crave this.

“Oh, you’re going to regret that attitude,” she murmurs, her tone dripping with amusement.

But you don’t regret it, not one bit. You squirm under her hand, revelling in the sensation, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that only she can deliver. Each strike sends a jolt of electricity through you, your defiance slowly melting into submission as she works her magic—both literally and figuratively.

“You enjoy this far too much,” she says, her voice softening as she leans down to whisper in your ear.

“Maybe,” you admit breathlessly, your cheek pressed against the fabric of the armchair.

Her hand pauses, resting on the now-sensitive skin of your thigh. She runs her fingers over the faint marks she’s left, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“Good,” she says simply. “Because we’re just getting started.”

The next strike comes harder than the last, making you cry out and instinctively grab at the edge of the chair. Your fingers curl against the fabric as your breathing grows heavier, a soft whimper escaping your lips. Agatha’s hand stays firmly on your back, keeping you pinned in place.

“You’ve got such a smart mouth, don’t you?” She muses. “Let’s see how clever you are now. Count for me.”

Your head swims, the heat from her palm still lingering on your skin. “W-What?”

“Count,” she repeats, her hand hovering over you. “Or we’ll start all over again.”

Her words make your stomach twist with a heady mix of anticipation and dread. You nod quickly, your voice trembling. “O-One.”

The next slap lands sharply, making your body jolt. “Two,” you gasp, your voice hitching with the sting.

Agatha’s smirk widens as she settles into a steady rhythm, each strike drawing a breathy moan or soft cry from your lips. You can feel her leaning in closer, her breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Poor thing,” she coos mockingly. “You’re enjoying this far too much. Listen to yourself, whimpering like a needy little thing.”

“F-Four,” you stammer, unable to suppress the moan that follows.

She chuckles, her hand caressing the tender skin of your thighs before delivering another strike.

“Five.”

By the time you reach ten, your mind is spinning and your body burns with arousal. The friction against her slacks hasn’t gone unnoticed either—not by her, at least. Agatha pauses, her hand sliding down to rest on your thigh, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles that make your breath catch.

“Well, well,” she drawls, her voice dripping with condescension. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”

You freeze, your face heating as you realise what she means. The smooth fabric of her slacks now bears a darker patch, evidence of just how worked up you are. Agatha tilts her head, feigning pity, though the smirk playing on her lips betrays her true feelings.

“Absolutely shameless,” she remarks, her tone a mixture of amusement and disdain. “And here I thought you had some self-control.”

You squirm under her hand, your embarrassment only heightening your arousal. “I—”

“Quiet,” she interrupts, sitting back with a snap of her fingers. “On your feet. Now.”

Her magic compels you to obey, even as your legs tremble slightly. You stand before her, your head lowered as her sharp gaze roams over you. Then, with another snap of her fingers, the world seems to shift.

The cool air against your skin tells you that you’re now completely bare, and your eyes widen as you realise Agatha has shed her own clothing with the same effortless command. She leans back in the chair, her powerful presence now magnified by her lack of restraint.

What catches your attention most, however, is the unmistakable addition of something new. A large, thick length juts proudly from her body, clearly the result of some well-placed magic. Your breath hitches as you stare, your heart pounding in anticipation.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” she teases, standing gracefully and closing the small distance between you. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you?”

Her hand cups your chin, tilting your face up so you meet her piercing gaze. “You wanted to play brat,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “So now you’ll take exactly what I give you.”

You can only nod, your body thrumming with desire. Agatha smirks, her other hand sliding down to grip your waist as she guides you back toward the chair.

“Good girl,” she purrs. “Now let’s see if you can be a little more obedient this time.”

Her lips crash against yours, stealing what little composure you have left. The weight of her body against yours, the heat of her skin, the sheer dominance she exudes—it’s all too much, and yet not nearly enough.

Agatha’s lips leave yours as she pushes you backward, guiding you with an unrelenting grip on your hips until your thighs meet the edge of the chair. Her sharp eyes gleam with amusement, a smirk tugging at her lips as she spins you around effortlessly.

“Bend over,” she orders, her voice low and commanding.

You obey, pressing your chest against the cool wool of the chair’s backrest. The angle leaves you entirely exposed to her; your legs spread just enough to keep you steady. The vulnerability of the position only heightens the intensity of your desire, a soft whimper escaping as you feel her hand glide over the curve of your backside.

Her fingers trail down, teasingly slow, until they slip between your legs. You gasp, your body jolting as her fingers brush against your dripping heat. Agatha chuckles darkly, her fingers exploring lazily, spreading your arousal as if testing just how far gone you already are.

“My, my,” she hums, her tone dripping with mockery. “You’re soaked. No wonder you were squirming all over my lap.”

Her fingers begin to move more deliberately, sliding between your folds, the pads pressing against you just enough to make you ache for more. Each movement sends shivers down your spine, but it isn’t enough to satisfy the throbbing need that’s building within you.

“Such a desperate little thing,” she coos, her other hand gripping your hip to keep you from bucking against her touch. “But look at this.”

She withdraws her hand, and you whimper in protest. Glancing over your shoulder, you see her raise her fingers, glistening with your arousal. “I can’t even get any friction,” she taunts. “You’re so wet, my fingers just slide right off.”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice trembling with need.

“Please?” She repeats mockingly, her smirk widening. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight.”

You feel her shift behind you, her body pressing closer as her hands grip your hips firmly. The head of her magically conjured length nudges against your entrance, and your breath hitches.

Agatha leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she speaks. “Brace yourself, darling. This won’t be gentle.”

Before you can respond, she pushes forward in one fluid motion, filling you completely. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, your fingers gripping the chair’s backrest as she gives you no time to adjust. Agatha pulls back only to thrust forward again, harder this time, the force of it making the chair creak beneath you.

She sets a brutal pace, her hips snapping against yours with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. Each thrust sends shockwaves through your body, the wet slapping of skin against skin filling the room alongside your moans and gasps.

“Listen to you,” Agatha pants, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Making such filthy sounds. You’d think this was the only thing you’re good for.”

Her grip on your hips tightens, her nails digging into your skin as she loses herself in the rhythm. Every movement is precise and calculated, yet utterly unrestrained in its intensity. Her breathing grows heavier, her usually composed demeanour beginning to crack under the weight of her own pleasure.

The wet, obscene sounds of her thrusts only spur her on, her pace quickening as she drives into you with relentless force. “Such a perfect little plaything,” she growls, her voice low and breathless. ��Taking everything I give you so beautifully.”

Your legs tremble beneath you, your body barely able to keep up with her unyielding pace. The pressure building inside you is overwhelming, your moans turning into incoherent cries as you teeter on the edge of release.

The coil in your stomach tightens to an unbearable degree as Agatha’s relentless pace drives you closer and closer to the edge. Each wet, resounding slap of her hips against you fills the room, mixing with the ragged cries spilling from your lips. Her hand comes down on your ass once more—harder this time—and the sharp sting sends you spiralling.

Your body tenses as the pressure inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. A strangled scream tears from your throat, your voice echoing through the room as the force of your orgasm wracks your body. Stars dance in your vision as you convulse beneath her, your walls clenching down on her so tightly that she lets out a guttural groan of her own.

“Oh, that’s it,” Agatha hisses, her voice trembling with pleasure and control. “Such a good little thing, screaming for me like that.”

Your body sags against the chair, your limbs trembling as aftershocks ripple through you. But Agatha isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

Her hands tighten on your hips, her nails digging into your sensitive skin as she picks up her pace once more. Each thrust is brutal, her hips slamming into yours with a force that sends shockwaves through your overstimulated body.

“You’re not done yet,” she growls, her voice low and breathless. “I’m not done.”

Her movements grow desperate, the sound of her cock driving into your slick heat punctuated by wet, obscene slaps. You whimper beneath her, your body shaking as she uses you with abandon, chasing her own release.

“You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? You’d let me fill you up—over and over again—until my cum drips out of you,” she sneers, her voice tinged with dark amusement.

Her words send another jolt of heat through you, your body responding despite the overwhelming sensations. Agatha notices, of course, her sharp laugh ringing out as she drives herself even deeper.

“You like the idea, don’t you?” She taunts, her breath hot against your ear as she leans over you. “Being bred by me. Being so full that you can’t think of anything else.”

“Yes,” you whimper, your voice breaking as you push back against her, desperate to give her whatever she wants. “Please, Agatha—please!”

Her growl is low and feral, her control slipping as her thrusts grow erratic. She is lost in the overwhelming heat of you, her movements fuelled by pure instinct and desire.

“I’ll fill you up,” she promises, her voice rough with lust. “I’ll fill you so full, you’ll feel me for days. You’ll look at yourself and know who you belong to.”

Her hips slam into you, her pace brutal and unforgiving as she chases her release. The wet, obscene slapping of skin against skin fills the room, the sound mixing with her ragged breaths and low, desperate groans.

“You’re mine,” she growls, her voice trembling as she grips your hips tighter. “Mine to use. Mine to breed. Mine.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, the weight of her possessiveness igniting something deep within you. You cry out, your body trembling as her thrusts grow even harder, each one driving her deeper inside you.

With one final, brutal thrust, Agatha stills, her body shuddering as she finds her release. Her low, guttural moan fills the room as she spills herself inside you, the heat of her release flooding your core.

For a moment, the room is silent, save for the sound of your ragged breaths. Agatha stays pressed against you, her hands trailing over your sweat-slicked skin as she catches her breath. Then, slowly, she leans down, her lips brushing against your ear.

“Perfect,” she whispers, her voice soft but full of dark satisfaction. “Absolutely perfect.”

She lingers a moment longer, her hands gripping your hips tightly as if anchoring herself to reality. Slowly, with deliberate care, she begins to pull out. A shudder courses through your body as she withdraws, the lack of her cock leaving you feeling achingly empty. She stands upright, holding you firmly in place as she gazes down at the mess she’s made.

“Look at that,” she purrs, her voice full of dark satisfaction as she watches her cum drip out of you, trailing down your thighs in thick, sticky streams. “What a sight. You really are a perfect little toy, aren’t you?”

Her fingers trail along the curve of your back before she raises her hand one last time. The sharp crack of her palm against your sore, sensitive flesh makes you yelp, though the sound quickly dissolves into a whimper of pleasure.

Agatha chuckles darkly, her palm soothing over the reddened skin for a moment before she steps back. With a snap of her fingers, your clothes are back on, though the sensation of her still lingers—thick and undeniable. Your thighs clench involuntarily, the sticky mess now trapped inside your underwear, a constant reminder of what has just transpired.

Agatha, now back in her usual poised form, adjusts her blouse with a casual flick of her hand. “You really should listen to instructions the first time, darling,” she says with a sly smirk, her voice laced with teasing admonishment. She leans in close, her breath warm against your cheek. “Now, keep it all inside. If you manage that, maybe you’ll get rewarded later.”

She knows it’s an impossible ask, and your cheeks burn as her words sink in, your body still trembling from the lingering aftermath of her touch. Agatha straightens, her sharp gaze flicking over you one last time before she turns toward the door.

“Come along, pet,” she commands, her tone firm as she casts a glance over her shoulder. “The others are waiting. We wouldn’t want to keep them, now would we?”

You swallow hard, your legs shaky as you push yourself upright, the heat between your thighs a constant, maddening reminder of her dominance.

As you follow Agatha out of the room, the teasing sway of her hips draws your eyes, and you know you’re in for a long evening.

-----

Her shirt and purple pants combo is so fucking good, especially when her hair is down. The scene where she's sat round camp and starts rolling up her sleeve is probably one of my favourite scenes like ughhhhhhhh so hot.

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Taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33

(let me know if you want to be added)

[cementcornfield]

I can't tell if jamarr exaggerates his stories to an extreme amount or if joe justhas to constantly tell him to chill haha. but based on tee confirming that jamarr does buy joe clothes ocassionally and he did buy him a chain - im going to say joe just likes privacy lol

ALWAYS THRILLED TO BE ASKED ABOUT UNRELIABLE NARRATOR JA’MARR!!!

more under the cut because literally i could talk about this all day and i don’t need to subject anyone to that. 

Honestly I think it’s a combination of both? Ja’Marr exaggerates, says one thing then immediately another contradicting thing, doesn’t seem to have much of a filter, however you want to categorize it. Which I think is such a funny contrast to Joe - who is (almost) always very careful about how he expresses himself and how he wants to be portrayed. 

The “Ja’Marr Buys Joe Clothes Except No He Doesn’t Except Wait He Definitely Does” saga is probably my favorite thing in the world because what on earth is ANYONE talking about in this situation. Like, first Ja’Marr claims in the GQ interview:

"Joe literally won’t buy his own clothes. He always asks me to shop for him and drop it off at the house.” 

Which is almost definitely an exaggeration. I am sure Joe buys plenty of his own clothes (although loving the idea of Ja’Marr literally filling Joe’s closet with things he thinks he’ll like). 

And then, bringing it up completely unprompted in an interview a week later he says that actually that was “kinda” a lie, and that he hasn’t bought Joe anything but dinner - although now he’ll “have to [buy joe clothes] since that’s out now”. like ?????? First of all just because you “kinda lied” about buying Joe clothes does not mean that you now have to actually buy him clothes? And why did you lie about it in the first place? How badly do you want to buy this man clothes??? 🤨🤨🤨

So we spent the rest of the season completely confused about this story but just kind of accepting that Ja’Marr just says shit sometimes, who knows… and THEN in a groundbreaking (to me) interview with Tee, we learn that actually Ja’Marr has in fact bought Joe clothes: 

“Chase definitely gets Joe right. I’ve seen him buy clothes for Joe multiple times.” 

MULTIPLE TIMES??? and Tee has seen it for himself?? Which at this point means that Ja’Marr has now potentially lied about lying about buying Joe clothes?? For what purpose??? 

I have imagined and talked with beloved mutuals about what could be going on in this situation, presented here with varying levels of realism and hilarity: 

Ja’Marr has never bought Joe clothes and all the receivers are in on a big joke where they’re claiming that Ja’Marr buys Joe clothes just to fuck with him. Because it’s funny and why not.

Ja’Marr hadn’t bought Joe clothes before the interview, but had been planning on doing it and was so excited by the idea that he got ahead of himself and told GQ he was already doing it. And then “since it was out there” he had an excuse to start buying Joe clothes, with Tee as a witness. 

Finally back to the point of your ask (so sorry for all my rambling) and probably the most likely scenario - Ja’Marr tends to exaggerate and Joe tends to value his privacy. 

What I imagine is this, Ja’Marr has probably bought Joe clothes a few times. We already know that he’s bought him grills and he mentioned in a few interviews last season that he had bought Joe some pants. And probably a few more instances we don’t have details on. The man likes fashion and he likes Joe and it seems like he has a gift giving love language! He probably got excited and exaggerated a bit in the GQ interview because again, I’m sure Joe does not “always” ask Ja’Marr to shop for him lmao. And I wonder if the exaggeration is the part that Joe took exception to (if he even did! Joe’s never said anything about any of this! all we have is Ja’Marr’s word which we can NOT trust) - Joe likely doesn’t want the whole world thinking Ja’Marr buys ALL his clothes, he likes fashion too and I’m sure puts a lot of work into those game day outfits, even if Ja’Marr does help out sometimes. Plus he really doesn’t like sharing details about his relationships, even one as public as his friendship with Ja’Marr. (All he says is that he’s one of his best friends and they hang out all the time, Ja’Marr is the one giving details about UFC moves and going to Vegas together and keeping his stuff at his place etc etc). 

Joe likely gave Ja’Marr shit for how he phrased it and honestly sharing it with the world at all. Plus!!! I am always thinking about the timing of the article, coming out right when Joe’s appendix burst. I bet Ja’Marr was worried about his friend, felt bad about sharing some exaggerated details of their relationship, and simply decided to take ALL of it back. Because again, he really seems to only operate in extremes. So to make Joe feel better, instead of just clarifying his quote, he just decided to say ‘nope, sorry, that was a lie, never bought that man clothes in my life 😊' while Tee was probably at his locker listening to the interview like 🤨???

Anyway. that’s WAY TOO MANY words to answer your ask but please know I so appreciated getting it. Any excuse to ramble about these two as you can see!! 

[riacte]

so hey guys i finished dungeon meshi yesterday and i'm still thinking about it

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been trying to figure out a dynamic between neve and rye that I find more compelling, because right now there's not much of anything there for me to sink my little teeth into. but I think I've landed on something delicious with the idea that especially after minrathous gets fucked, rye looks at neve and sees myrna -- someone he feels he keeps letting down horribly no matter how hard he tries not to and can't quite achieve the approval of/connection with that he wishes so it's better to just pull away completely and disengage rather than stay in that unshifting shame. neve is (very understandably) measured and distant with him after what happened, and he's flashing back to his student days of myrna gazing at the perpetually hungover heartbroken heap of a person of him on the other side of her desk every time he missed the deadline of a paper or project like '...can we at least both agree that this is. a bit disappointing. especially considering your potential.' (and him all smudged black eyeshadow and numb ruefulness being like 'sure that's a very kind way to put it myrna thank you'.)

aside from the 'if I let him get too deeply into this he'll go the way of brom and it'll be all my fault (again)' element, neve thinks rye is dismissing her and her city/being a bit callous in the same way he was after varric's death (listen. how fucking wild must rook's reaction to losing a beloved mentor seem to the rest of the crew who aren't seeing the blood magic paper doll ghost varric the whole time, especially those who got to see them interact. you WOULD think 'there's something wrong with this guy. putting the job first is one thing just not seeming to react at all is another this is fucking freaky', wouldn't you, especially after seeing the warmth in that dynamic in action beforehand.) perfect storm of two people who grit their teeth and turn inwards in pain deciding that not talking about it is their best bet (NEWSFLASH: IT ISN'T) lmao

(rye spent his last year of watcher training on a mostly joyless bender and then got it together enough to finish the eternal orb project last moment in a fevered near-sleepless week instead of the half a year that was intended. emmrich is both astounded and distressed to hear this. "a week? but -- but that is an astounding accomplishment rook!! and also why in the maker's good light would you ever do that to yourself?" ("well you see there was no one to stop me from doing it like that but me. and under those conditions these things tend to happen".) rye was working through/looking up stuff around transitioning and doing every kind of OTHER high level watcher research through that whole time, but ultimately he's an excellent watcher and a terrible student, at least under traditional methods. adhd from here to the fucking moon. touched by something akin to divine inspiration in moments of high tension that pulls all the threads into one coherent unbreakable cord, a bit of a frayed mess in most other settings. in our world he'd be dropping out of a masters program at the very last hurdle in this moment maker bless and protect him)

[amelikos]

Thinking about how Onyx and Sango's first scene together had Sango complaining that he had to tag along with her when Hamber told them both to accompany him to the castle back in HZ024.

Yet they are both pretty much constantly shown attached at the hip. Hanging out together, being together during and outside work, oddly being the most domestic in their group (they know each other's quirks and habits and call each other out on them), implied to get food together (not shown but still, Horizons has a theme of sharing food with those you care about and food as a means of connection). Basically, both of them staying together even when they don't really have to.

[andsotheuniverseended]

Jian is an insufferable brat. unfortunately i love him dearly and want desperately for him to find a happy life. even more unfortunately everyone in the world wants him very dead and its not even for the insufferable brat thing!

[lovinglin]

How funny would it be if I shipped enj0u with my genshin sona instead (lynn)

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

hm the never quite getting enough sleep has left me.... sleepy... started a cup of coffee at 8pm but took a nap in the middle so now its my 10pm cup of coffee

[dreamlandxrunaway]

on the note about smaus and me possibly being back... I contemplated starting a new one... simply from the fact that I keep calling BC hyungnim and now I wanna write fuckery that most definitely will only make me laugh LOL... will I do it, tho? well, considering that it's a smau and not something I have to actively sit down, come up with dialogue (irony ik) that are followed with actions and that I don't have to pay attention to details I most certainly obsess when writing prose... probably still a no bc I actually have so much work to do and don't see myself actually sitting down to figure out a proper schedule that can handle both my work and passion projects... and believe me... there are a few. I just feel bad that people who like 1cdat don't know how it ends yet and I'm the only one in on how our lovebird hea comes about 😭😭😭 that's why I'll keep coming back... until when idk... but I'll try my darnest to finish it :')

and let's be real, I'll def need to write written parts for than one as well there's no way that I'll just leave it at one monster length chapter and that be the only long one :') and I'm not sure I know how to write short chapters... I'm learning... but who knows if that'll actually happen hahahahaha

[yameoto]

RUSSIAN ROULETTE. CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

piltover / zaun civil war

tw; dark!caitlyn, prisoner!reader, blowjob, gunplay, gunjob? gunfucking, drastic power dynamics, degradation, humiliation, bondage, hate sex, bratty!reader, noncon. dead dove. rape. wc; 1.9k ao3 vers.

WHEN Piltover's oh, so fearless leader strides into your humble abode, you can already tell she's having a bad day. Caitlyn's eyes are bloodshot. Hells, she’s still in her uniform. The tresses of silken, inky locks are no longer taut ponytail—stray strands dangling, tangled, cheeks nicked with dried blood. You doubt it's her own.

Your first instinct, as a prisoner chained to the wall and completely at her mercy; is to act like a right fucking brat. Because that’s been working out so well for you, thus far.

“Rough day?” not that you could give a single fuck. “All tired out from gassing out children on the streets? Poor baby."

Caitlyn remains silent as she dismisses the guard with a flick of her wrist, and you're still talking. Yipping away like a dog snapping at her heels. "There are other ways to solve wealth inequality than killing all the poor people, you know." Her stare is glacial.

God, the mouth on you.

She’s considered moving you to her family’s personal prisons. Though, keeping Zaun's lauded revolutionary locked-up in the Kirramman's basement would draw a couple eyebrows. The dungeons under the council-room you so lovingly blew up, along with her mother, suffice.

“Paint a portrait,” You sneer, like the little shit you are. A bloodstain clinging to her sole, that she hasn't scraped off yet. "How 'bout you shoot a gloryhole and fuck that instead, princess."

So you do see the bulge she's packing. Good. She's been aching to unload in you, all day.

"I'm not in the mood for talk." Caitlyn says, coolly, shoving the cellblock door open and stepping inside. Clearly. Her cock is pulsing. She hasn't even made the effort of the usual charade, in drilling you with that perfunctory interrogation sequence—for the benefit of the enforcers stationed at your cell. (Shame. you take your petty joys in turning up your nose and spitting in her face, like some structured caricature of foreplay).

You have such tight lips. Caitlyn delights in prying them open.

“Knew you couldn’t resist. Come back for another round, already?” Somehow, you manage to sound cocky, even though there's a smear of her dried cum streaked just below your brow, from just this morning.

Caitlyn tries to be good. She really does. You just make it so hard.

“Hold this for me.” She orders, like you're one of her little soldiers waiting on her hand and foot. A snarky reply about the shackles around your wrists is on the tip of your tongue. No matter. Caitlyn forces the barrel down your half-open mouth anyway, before you could so much as say bang.

“Mmf—“ Cold metal forces your mouth apart. your eyes widen, pupils swallowing up your irises. This is new. For a moment, blind panic seizes your body, because there is a gun in your mouth. It's not like you don't know there's a guillotine with your name inscribed. (All, 'cut the head off the snake', or whatever eloquent, prissy-spun bullshit Caitlyn spits in your ear as her nails scrape the walls of your cunt).

It's been too long. The war could be over, for all you know. Though, you wouldn't put it past her to keep you past your expiration date.

Speaking of, Caitlyn doesn’t even bother to hush you. She only thrusts, further—far enough to bruise your throat and stop your incessant, muffled whining. Your gag reflex triggers. Unbidden, tears sprout, to burn behind your eyelids. Silently, you buck.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic. You’ve taken worse.” Caitlyn rolls her eyes, languidly pushing the pistol in, and out. In, and, out. She guides in smooth, composed motions—never letting up enough to allow you more than seethe, breathing harshly through your nose. “It’s good practice."

The fiifth time you gag, she finally lifts the barrel out. You were never one to waste the opportunity to snark, even if you really should be saving your breath.

“Holding a dress rehearsal for my public execution? I'm. You must really like me, doll.”

“Oh, no,” Caitlyn drags metal, over your lips. It's warm, from the time it’s spent crammed down your throat “for gagging on my cock.”

Even though you’re expecting it, you lash out—momentarily ripping the veil off your faux swagger. Caitlyn tuts, though she gets a vivid lick of satisfaction from seeing you, bare, for once (and goodness, how much effort you take), before shoving the gun back in place. You fix her with a glower that seeps with pure, divine, hatred—chapped lips puckering goadingly around its muzzle. Screaming for her, to just fuckin' do it, already. Caitlyn almost admires how you haven’t lost your rage, your viciousness. It's the one thing you have in common.

She swiftly upticks the revolver, and jerks it out, callous. The roof of your mouth snags on its sharp-whetted sights, and blood sluices down your throat. You can’t tell the taste from the metallic tang of metal. A string of pink saliva connects its spitsoaked barrel to your sputtering lips, chest heaving.

“Don’t have the balls to take the shot, huh?” You spit, as if there isn’t enough of that smeared over your chin, pooling helplessly into your collar.

“Should you be so lucky.” Caitlyn smiles, the bitch, as she swoops downwards, markedly unblemished hands grasping your jaw. Of course, you think, lividly. Of course Piltover’s own general doesn’t get her hands dirty.

Although, she makes an exception for you. How sweet.

Caitlyn foregoes further fanfare, pushing you downwards. Your limbs fold in on themselves—a lion, declawed. The feeble thrash of your arms, bound at the wrist and hastened to the iron-wrought wall—are no match for the demanding brace of Caitlyn’s thighs as she slides gracefully to her knees, elegant hand seizing you by the throat.

"But I’d make such a pretty martyr," You wheeze, hyperaware of the click of Caitlyn’s belt unbuckling. All of a sudden, you miss the cool sensation of a pistol in your mouth.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, adores this angle. How your eyes sear. Jaw clenched, hollows sucked in rage and hunger—as if you would blow the brains out her head if you could. Seething, at how she has the opportunity herself, but denies you the satisfaction.

Instead, you get this. She untucks herself at a leisurely pace, almost marvelling at the way her cock descends in a mighty shadow, darkening your face. You scowl. Her free hand shoots out to smush your cheeks, the moment you bare your teeth and open your mouth to talk back. So predictable.

“Perhaps if you didn’t spit your food out at the guards, you’d have the strength to put up at least a little fight.” Caitlyn teases, too lightly for the context, as she lines up her flushed, swollen tip against your furiously jammed lips. A gob of pre-cum spouts from the slit, marring your cheek

"Maybe I was saving myself the trouble of hurling it up after we're done."

Caitlyn rolls her eyes. Pushes her head up against your pursed lips. “What are you? The world’s most grating ventriloquist?” She remarks, snide. She's weary of playing games. She needs it, now.

How she's grown so painfully hard, over this whole ordeal. You'd think she’d feel shame over it—so turned-on by something she sees clearly beneath her—but who wouldn’t get off on using their worst enemy like this? You'd do the same, if you were in her position.

At least, that’s what she tells herself when she shoves her cock down your throat.

"Ah.." Caitlyn shudders, the same time muscle memory has you sucking. Her neck arches back in open relief, hips bucking as she presses you, nose flush against the trimmed strip of dark pubes.

Her strokes are torturously slow. The most humiliating thing is the plap, plap, plap sound of her balls slapping against your chin, resounding in the empty dungeons. there is no audience—probably because nothing about this screams Noble House of Kiramman—or even legality. then again, neither does launching nukes into Piltover's place of governance. Tomayto, tomahto.

She withholds her moans for your own benefit, just so you can listen to the obscene sound of yourself, suckling along her dick. Caitlyn’s drags are lazy, relishing the beautiful suction of your lips. Slips herself far enough down your throat, for your swallows to turn to audible gulps, as you try not to choke.

She's not quite yet done. Her fingers dart downwards, twisting your panties aside.

“I don’t even know why you bother wearing these. They’re disgusting.” Rock-hard, a sore reminder of how routine this has become. She hooks them on her pistol, before promptly flicking them across the room, revealing the miserable, glistening wetness of your cunt.

Fuck. Your pussy is sodden like a cat left in the rain, dripping all over the carpet—much to your self-loathing. Caitlyn’s smirk is unrepentant.

“You're getting off on this? You're even dirtier than i thought.” She muses, as you glower hotly upwards, cheeks full of her. “I do hope you used your tongue.”

You're briefly confused by the comment, because, well—you are using your tongue and more—until the slick heat of your pussy swallows cold steel, and you gasp—walls straining, clenching around the foreign intrusion. Caitlyn eases the revolver in, with surprising gentleness. not that it does you any good.

Your spine arches off the wall, mangled noise ripping from your throat. Caitlyn shoves her length in, deeper, an impromptu silencer. “Don't whinge, darling.” she husks, knowing you loathe the pet-name. "It's unbecoming."

She never hurries, despite having places to be. Is it her fault that it feels so good to fuck your throat, like this? To pulse her gun in your cunt, almost playful, as she watches with the hooded eyes how your pussy greedily slurps the pistol to its hilt, before coming out again, glazed with the evidence of just how filthy she knows you to be. Her finger slides over the trigger, voice coming out in a breathy murmur.

“Bang.”

Caitlyn cums in thick, gooey spurts down your throat. Her head lolls back, shoving your head to practically kiss the sharp angles of her pelvis as you take it. Of course you take it. All your bravado, and still, you swallow her load like a beaten dog lapping at water, all the while, her pistol stretches you open. You don't plan it. God, it's like your body has a life of its own—a Pavlovian response, to the taste and feeling of Caitlyn trickling down your throat—but you orgasm like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Your legs quake, limbs jerking, shoulder-blades scraping against the gritty brick walls as your entire being yanks itself upwards, like a marionette on strings.

When she pulls the revolver out from your cunt, this time; it is creamy white that strings from your helplessly pulsating folds to its hollow. You hiss, cheeks burning, panting—scrabbling back. An animal backed into a corner.

Caitlyn holsters her revolver, dripping with your sweat, your blood, your cum. Always on her person, yet as uncocked as the day it was minted—chamber still full. It’s only purpose is to fuck you stupid. She stands, buckling her belt back up, as you lie there.

“I'll break you, yet.” She promises.

Blood rushes between your ears, back scratched to all hell, bruises at the back of your throat. She’s splattered all over you. You grin.

“Should you be so lucky.”

Caitlyn scoffs, and iron bars screech shut behind her. You know you'll see her again, come sunrise. Or; you’ll know sunrise, come Caitlyn, again.

Tomayto, tomahto.

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

[vaguely-concerned]

the things it adds to both of the characters involved that lucanis used to have a thing for viago could not have been more tailor made to be for me. literally the ideal thing to come out of this game for me personally and specifically and spiritually. I mean I'm teia x viago trash until the day I die and nothing will ever change this (and with the best will in the world and even the power of lucanis' big beautiful soulful eyes, that would never have worked out even if viago DID somehow understand he was being propositioned. which I'm not convinced he did. the mutual 'so. snakes are pretty cool huh. and. knives. also' awkward energy without someone of teia's charisma and people skills involved to mitigate it... it would have been dire), but on so many levels I find it so incredibly charming for what it says about them both that the (one-sided) attraction was there once.

what's more, it means the man about whom this legendary paragraph was written:

Viago was not a typical Antivan. He liked facts—checklists, numbers, precise measurements. Heart palpitations, clammy hands, tight pants—Viago did not like these things. In fact, he would go so far as to say he hated them. Mild curiosity was his favorite mood.

has got some of the hottest coolest deadliest people in thedas down so catastrophically bad it's got them acting unwise. teia had to wait a UST-drenched decade for him to be ready to take his fucking gloves off for her. and she did!! the tetchiest most neurotic least approachable little vetinari knockoff of a man you ever saw has game for days and days and lives rent free in heads for years. in eight little talons viago consistently feels so inadequate up against dante and it's like. man I'm shaking you by the lapels you have what he'll never have. the ability to bewitch body and soul with your terrible personality and long thin legs. do not waste the gift you've been given go get her she's waiting!!!

(lucanis is really good at reading people, so I wonder if maybe he saw through all of that to some of the steadiness and incredible capacity for warmth and tenderness in specific interpersonal relationships you see viago have with teia when he finally opens up enough, and maybe that was part of it. either way it's so perfect that both he and teia have regarded viago with this affectionate intrigued amusement. lucanis still seems pretty fond of him in a 'viago continues to be exactly himself no matter what else happens or goes wrong. comforting universal constant' sort of way, he brings him up quite a lot in party banter.)

you've seen lucanis' game in this day and age, arguably or at least hopefully older and wiser -- can you imagine how catastrophically bad it must have been back when he presumably handed viago, most paranoid man in thedas all years running, a knife like this expressed everything it needed to. people give him so much shit for the cake moment being his big romantic lock-in, but considering where we started that is GROWTH and I for one am so proud of him fhsdkjaf.

also I wonder at what point vis-a-vis that whole Situation teia and viago met for the first time, leading us to ask... just how much was it a matter of lucanis simply being ignored out of a lack of interest on viago's part (tbf, not entirely unlikely). how much was it lucanis truly not managing to make himself understood. (all but certainly. literally how would one understand that. I think it says some sweet things about rook and lucanis' dynamic that they -- somehow -- DO pick up what he's putting down in a similar scenario presumably b/c they know him pretty well by then haha.) how much was it viago interpreting the romantic move as a death threat from one of the most dangerous people alive and freaking out. (1000% and indubitably.) and how much was it andarateia steal-your-girl cantori turning up and thus setting off whatever spectacular, volatile, awesome-in-the-original-sense chemical reaction between the substances of her and viago's souls that goes on to this day and makes everything else kind of a side note at best. a gentle mix of several of these things, perhaps. ...god I love all these characters so much

[moongreenlight]

“Realistic Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley headcanons” and then it’s just the fun police.

Mdni. Nsfw below cut.

- It makes me want to scoop my fucking brain out with a spoon when people say that Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is some shy, anxious soft boy. I really do not believe he’d need to be coddled after a nightmare or babied when he’s feeling angsty. He is fine, y’all. Please don’t call paw patrol.

He is a soldier. He’s a war criminal. He is traumatized to the point of numbness. He is fucked up and weird and insane and honestly I think that we should all let everybody have their thing.

I cannot fix him. I do not want to fix him. I can only make him worse.

- Sorry but I just cannot write him having any kind of romantic feelings toward Soap. I like writing their dynamic more brotherly.

Furthest they’ve gone is ‘locker room gay.’

Like Johnny sends him dick pics on occasion because he thinks it’s funny and it pisses Ghost off.

That being said, I do read the occasional Ghoap fic. I’m not a perfect person. Sometimes it’s just yummy delicious.

- Feel like he’s the kind of freak to intentionally go to the gym without headphones. Something about discipline. Opting to just stare at the wall in front of him while he’s doing cardio or counting repetitions of exercises.

But on the rare occasion that he does indulge himself, he has a playlist of like 5-6 songs he likes and when it ends he just goes back to silence. Divorced dad rock. Chorded headphones only.

- Doesn’t have the debilitating commitment issues as people paint him out to have. Just commitment-phobic. Obviously stems from his past. He’s got that sexy deep rooted fear of abandonment or something horrible happening to people he actually lets close to him. But he’s not completely turned off by the idea of romantic attachments or close friends, just a little hesitant to open himself up to that kind of opportunity.

Probably very cagey about romantic partners. Doesn’t want the guys to know about you. Doesn’t keep pictures of you around his bunk or anything like that. He’s worried it’ll somehow compromise your safety. Worried about you getting swept up in his work.

- Women’s rights? Or Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley? I really do think he’d love to have a partner who lets him provide *everything* for them. He just wants to serve and protect. Wants his bird to be in a gilded cage all nice and safe and reliant on him for survival.

Doesn’t even really like the idea of you going to the grocery store by yourself. Would prefer if you just stayed put and tended his home and cooked him meals and let him dote on you and provide everything you could ever need.

- Has a really strange understanding of technology. He’s fine with the newer military stuff. That’s his element. He can do electrical wiring, set up a TV, install security cameras. That’s all whatever. But a cell phone? He doesn’t give a shit enough to keep up with the new updates and all the new things you have to learn when you get a smartphone. Wishes he would have kept a flip phone.

Texts like this: [OK. See youtonight.]

MAYBE has a private Facebook with no profile picture where the only things on his wall are Price wishing him a happy birthday every year.

His camera roll is like; 97 accidental screenshots of his Lock Screen, a few pictures of him and the task force boys, the inside of his pocket (another accident), a sunrise, a few cool things he found on missions, 34 pictures of Soap and Gaz when they took his phone.

- Insufferable in the early stages of trying to date him. Little to no communication other than basically demanding you meet him somewhere. Texting or talking on the phone? Like pulling fucking teeth. You think he’d rather be dead.

It was a headache getting him to go out in the first place. Maybe you worked at a bar where the guys would come to have a drink after a long day. He’s a little stand-offish but he’s handsome and he knows how to banter well enough for you to be persuaded by a coworker to slip him your number after you complained one too many times about a shit hookup or yet another terrible first date. It takes him nearly two weeks to phone you.

“Didn’t think you’d call.”

“Didn’t think I would either.”

He takes you out once, you think he seems sort-of interested, then he doesn’t phone or text you back for three days. You get over it. A few more dates in. You can tell he’s a bit more relaxed. A bit more open. You’re less worried that you’re a terrible conversationalist. Then he goes on a month long deployment without saying anything in advance. Radio fucking silent yet again. You want to tear your hair out. When he finally gets back, he’ll text you something like [Atthat pub you like. Drinks ?] completely out of the blue. You think you may actually go insane.

- Once he’s gotten used to you, it’s like the sole purpose of his life is to be your protector even if you’ve only recently convinced yourself he may want something casual. You’re small and grab-able. He knows how nasty people can be and what think when they see you. He needs to know that you’re taken care of, kept safe from such a scary world.

So he’ll just linger around you. All the time. Standing behind you when you’re at the till at the store, staring down the cashier who was only trying to be friendly when they asked if you had any fun plans for the rest of the day. Big arms folded over his chest. Looming so largely he threatens to eclipse you without taking a single step forward. Eyes burning a hole into the poor person who hastily finishes the transaction without another word.

Walking silently next to you in the evenings after you’re both off work; close enough to brush shoulders, but that’s about it. Listening to you chirp on about your day. Occasionally offering a small grunt of acknowledgement or a few words of interjection. Always walks on the side of the path that he thinks could pose you the most immediate danger. Shielding you from what may lurk in a darkened alley or a hedge or a small thicket of trees.

Scary dog privilege, but like… for when you go to fill your car up with gas in broad daylight in a good part of town and he insists on standing out there with you. ‘Just in case’ If he even lets you out of the car in the first place.

- AND OFF THAT POINT. I think once he’s decided that he’s actually fond of you, it goes from zero to a hundred so fast it makes your head spin.

Like the last time you spoke, it was still unclear on if you were keeping things casual or not and now you’re at dinner and the waiter just asked him if the two of you wanted dessert and Simon just grunts “dunno. Ask the missus.” ??? He sucks so bad I NEED him.

- As much as I love an overly possessive and jealous Simon, I saw this tweet that said “My girlfriend can wear what she wants because she’s a hoe and I knew that before we started dating” and it changed my life.

He’s secure enough not to need to cause a scene if someone makes a pass on you in public. He understands that you’re attractive and that other people are bound to find you attractive too. (Not that he doesn’t still want to pull their fingernails out one by one, threatening them and everything they love for daring to exist near you. He’s just got better control over himself than that. King.)

He knows he’s better than any of your other options. Nobody else could keep you as safe as he could. They don’t know the world like he does. They don’t know how breakable you are. How sweet and naive you can be.

Not to say he isn’t overly jealous and possessive, he just won’t pitch a fit in public.

LIKE dragging him to the bar with your friends and he sits at the table with all of your drinks. Him watching you dancing out of the corner of his eye, seeing some prat come up and grab your ass in passing. Or a group of guys dancing with your friends getting a little *too* close to you for his liking. He doesn’t do anything while the two of you are out- not wanting to ruin your fun. But that night after you’ve gotten back to his flat (He insisted. Closer to the bar. Uber was cheaper.) and he’s tearing your miniskirt off like it’s personally offended him. He’ll be a little rougher. A little more liberal with the marks his mouth leaves on your collarbones and inner thighs. His strong hands will grab at the fat of your hips a little harder than he should- leaving bruises where his fingers dug in. He’ll lean over you while you’re split open with his length, snarling down at you. “Had everyone’s attention tonight, didn’t you, pet?“ “You like havin’ eyes on you?” “Greedy fuckin’ slag.” “Can’t appreciate what you have.” “Need a reminder of who you’ve got to impress.” Maybe he’ll take you in front of a mirror, massive hand fixed on your jaw. Jerking your face up so you have to look at yourself being ruined by him. How pretty and slutty you look when your makeup is ruined by the tears he’s fucking out of you.

- He calls you ‘bird’ or ‘pet’ more often than anything else. A little on the nose for how he treats you. Like you’re some small, frail thing that can’t go a day without him. Stripped of your natural survival instincts and instead leaning on him for support and comfort and food and shelter. Just how he likes it.

GOD he’s a fucking freak. Gross and mean and fucked in the head. Makes my stomach hurt. I hate him. I wish I was schizophrenic so I could vividly hallucinate him.

[eaterofman]

Yandere Harem Coworkers x New Hire Reader

Now with a part 2 <3

Good news: You landed your dream job! Bad news: Your coworkers are fucking insane.

CW: Yanderes, workplace harassment, possessiveness, implied stalking, power dynamics, dubcon touching

You hadn't expected a job like this to come so easily.

It really had been a dream job from the moment you laid eyes on the job posting, and they'd even offered you better during the interview! They'd even thrown in an extra sign on bonus! You couldn't believe your luck. You were finally going places.

Really, how could you say no?

Your interviewer was the HR manager, Leon Jacobs. He was a stern looking man, clearly in his late 40's, and didn't seem to have a single flaw in his appearance. His age showed in the beginnings of grey hairs atop his tidy, shortcut black hair, and the creases beneath his eyes. His appearance was beyond intimidating. Dark, scowling eyes picked you apart from behind his glasses as you fidgeted in your chair. Whatever nightmare of an interview you thought was coming, never happened. Instead, you were surprised when he almost immediately offered you not only the job, but an even better salary and bonus than was advertised. You were almost too stunned to speak, as he held out his hand to shake, his dark expression lifting with the slightest twitch of his lips. You took his hand shakily in agreement. In your excitement, you didn't notice the way his hand gripped yours a hair too tight, or how his touch lingered for a few moments longer than it should have. The way his gaze intently followed your figure as you walked out was also missed by you.

"We're so happy to welcome you to the team. Our team will make sure your time working here is as pleasant as possible."

Your trainer is a well respected man, Warren Pen. Warren is a huge man, easily towering over you. While he'd be otherwise intimidating at his size, his warm expression and demeanor quickly puts you at ease. How could you be afraid of him, with his warm brown eyes and bouncy red curls and gentle smile? You quickly learned that he must have a pretty high position in the company. His office alone was almost as big as your entire apartment! The office they give you is nearly as big, much to your surprise. Warren reassures you that it's not a mistake, that they just want you to be comfortable in your new position. You are so very important to the company, after all. As he helps you settle in, you're amazed by his generosity and kindness. You're too happy to question why there's such a big office space right next to his open for you, or why such a high ranking worker would be assigned to train a newbie. You're initially confused about why all your other coworkers seem to cower away from him... until you see him lose it on a poor intern. His demeanor changed from a gentle giant to a raging monster within the blink of an eye, screaming at the intern over a simple filing mistake. You find yourself suddenly on your toes around him, waiting for a verbal barrage over one of your mishaps, but it never comes.

"Don't worry, I'd never treat you like that. They deserved it. You're doing perfect."

Your department's boss is a man named Jax Wright. Jax is a charming man, and the childhood best friend of Warren. He's slim and tall, with black hair and a slightly rugged appearance. He always seems to be in a rush, hair usually rustled and a 5 o'clock shadow a constant on his face. Yet, he somehow takes time out of his busy day to visit you. Or, more accurately, he finds the time to corner you when you're alone or with Warren. You don't want to lose this dream of a job, so you don't mention the way the childhood friends always find a way to crowd around you in the more narrow hallways or the breakroom. They insist you have lunch everyday with them, why would you want to eat by yourself? You really shouldn't deny your superiors' lunch requests, y'know. You ignore the lingering touches as he leans in far closer than necessary to examine your work, hands placed possessively on your shoulders. He loves to give you overwhelming praise, even for the most minor of accomplishments. You're afraid your other coworkers will think the worst of you because of the special treatment, but they seem to be avoiding you nearly as much as they avoid Warren.

"Good job. You're exceptional as always. It's been an absolute pleasure to work with you. Keep being good and you're bound for a raise."

With the rest of the department seeming to avoid you like the plague, you start to believe that you're stuck with just the overbearing childhood friends to talk to. That is until the secretary, Jake Moor, begins to talk to you. Jake is flamboyant, to say the least. He's bright, from his beaming white smile to his wide array of cute, colorful ties he matches with his suit. He's young, in his early 20s, and his bright blonde hair only adds to his youthful appearance. He's almost too much, talking at light speed and somehow being more touchy than your boss. He always finds a reason to pull you into hugs, or rustle your hair playfully. It doesn't bother you much though, he's just being friendly, right? And you really don't want to lose one of the few friends you have in the department. He has some sort of treat for you everyday, usually a homemade meal or pastry you have to find the time to eat alone before you're coworkers steal you away to have lunch with them. His cheerful nature motivates you to stay with the company, he really is your "beacon of light". You even find yourself giggling to yourself as he sends you silly motivational cat pictures throughout your day. He's so cute you don't even question how he got your number when you never gave it to him yourself. You do find it a bit odd that he knows exactly where to go when your car breaks down one day and he gives you a ride home, but you'd told him you lived in those apartments on the east side, remember? He'd never use his position to look at confidential paperwork. Never.

"I brought you in some cookies I baked last night, and here, I even made some dog treats! I've never made them before, let me know how he likes them! How did I know you have a dog? ...you told me, remember? Silly!"

As the weeks pass, you start to become more accustomed to your coworker's odd mannerisms. They still wear on you, but the money is just so good. You need it, where else would you even go? There's no chance you'd find anything near as good, if you found anything at all. You needed this job, Jax and Warren's overbearing natures aside. At least you had Jake, who always seems to know exactly what you need whenever you need it.

You can tough it out... right?