#knowing it was literally bred to serve you

[swooningshadow]

fucking a tpup's brain out is really something else. making them completely stupid on your tdick. "bark for me doggy, take it doggy, look at you wagging doggy" its thick dummy pup head all fuzzy and warm for more cock

[david-talks-sw]

Debunking more myths in the GFFA: the Jedi and the clones.

I wrote a post debunking the various myths about how "the Jedi condone slavery", a while ago. Something I had omitted (because it's such a big topic) was the following two statements that concern the clone troopers' relations with the Jedi:

"The clones were genetically bred to have accelerated growth, so they're technically child soldiers."

"The clones were slaves of the Jedi."

Both the above statements are inaccurate, let's explore why. 

"The clones were child soldiers"

Let's get the easy one out of the way first, because it's a logic that cuts both ways. If age is our only determination of the maturity of a Star Wars character, then Grogu is not a baby. He is aged 50, and is thus a middle-aged man.

Who cruelly eats the babies of a woman...

... and knowingly tortures animals for his own sadistic pleasure.

Of course, I'm kidding. Grogu's none of the above things.

The narrative frames him as a cute baby who does innocent baby stuff. Him eating the eggs is played off as comedic, as is him lifting with the frog. To this day, some fans still call him "Baby Yoda".

Conversely, despite the clones being 10/14-years-old, their actions, behaviors, way of thinking, sense of humor, morals etc, are all those of an adult.

Like, Ahsoka is technically older than Rex in this scene.

The scene doesn't portray them as peers, though. This isn't written as "a teen and a tween talking". No, Rex looks, acts and behaves like a grown-up and is thus framed as such by the narrative.

You can make the argument "they're child soldiers", but (unless you're doing so in bad faith) you'd also have to argue that "Grogu's an adult".

"The clones were the Jedi's slaves"

Nope. For all intents and purposes, they're in the same boat as the Jedi, who George Lucas stated multiple times had been drafted to fight in the war.

Again: both the Jedi (monk/diplomats untrained for fighting on a battlefield) and clones (literally bred en masse only to fight) are being forced to fight by Palpatine and the Senate.

Though, on paper, the clones were commissioned by Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas, it was actually done by the Sith (who either manipulated or assassinated Sifo-Dyas then stole his identity, depending on the continuity you choose to adhere to). The rest of the Jedi had no idea these clones were being created.

So while the clones are slaves... they're not owned by the Jedi.

They're the army of the Republic, they belong to the Senate. This isn't exactly a scoop, they refer to the clones as something to purchase...

... and manufacture.

As far as the Senate’s concerned, clones are property, like droids. 

Like there's a whole subplot in The Bad Batch about this very point: after the war, the clones are decommissioned and left out to dry because they literally have no rights, they served their purpose.

The only trooper to ever canonically blame the Jedi for the clones' enslavement is Slick, who the narrative frames as having been bribed and manipulated by Asajj Ventress into betraying his comrades.

Also, the only canonical Jedi shown to ever be mean, dismissive or mistreating the clones in any way, is Pong Krell.

And it's eventually revealed he’s in fact a full-on traitor, hence why the story frames him as an antagonistic dick from the moment he's introduced. He doesn’t represent the Jedi in any way.

We know this because the other Jedi we’ve been shown are always prioritizing their clones’ lives over theirs, if given the chance.

Finally, if we wanna get even more specific... as Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR), the clones belong to Palpatine. 

Palpatine who is a Sith Lord. 

Palpatine who arranged for the creation of the clones and had them all injected with a chip that would activate upon hearing a code-word...

... and forced them to murder their Jedi without hesitation or remorse.

When you bear all that  ⬆️  in mind and when you read this quote by George Lucas...

"The Jedi won't lead droids. Their whole basis is connecting with the life force. They'd just say, 'That's not the way we operate. We don't function with non-life-forms.” So if there is to be a Republic army, it would have to be an army of humans."    - The Star Wars Archives: 1999-2005, 2020  

... narratively-speaking, everything falls into place.

Sidious knows that:

If he orchestrates a war designed to thin the Jedi's numbers, corrupt their values and plunge the galaxy into chaos...

If he wants to draft the Jedi - peace-keeping diplomats who’d never willingly join the fray - to fight in his war...

... then the only way they won't resist the draft and abstain from fighting is if they think joining the conflict will save lives.

So he creates a set of cruel, sadistic villains for them to face, opponents who will target innocent civilians at every turn...

... and instead of lifeless droids, he prepares for the Jedi an army of men... living, mortal people who, despite being well-trained, will be completely out of their league when facing the likes of Dooku...

... Ventress...

... Grievous...

... Savage Opress...

... or the defoliator, a tank that annihilates organic matter.

Thus, in order to save as many clone and civilian lives, the Jedi join the fray despite knowing that doing so will corrupt their values. 

And as the war rages on, a bond of respect is formed between the two groups.

Clearly, the Jedi don't like the fact that the Republic is using the clones to fight a war, but for that matter, they don't like being in a war, in fact they advocated against it.

However, it's happening regardless of their issues with the idea or personal philosophies. Said The Clone Wars writer Henry Gilroy:

"I’d rather not get into the Jedi’s philosophical issues about an army of living beings created to fight, but the Jedi are in a tough spot themselves, being peacekeepers turned warriors trying to save the Republic."

And bear in mind, the Jedi are basically space psychics, the clones are living beings that they can individually feel in the Force... 

... so the Jedi feel every death but need to move on, regardless, only being able to mourn the troopers at the end of every battle.

We see this in the Legends continuity too, by the way.

(that is, when the writers actually try to engage with the narrative)

Also, if you ask the clones, they’re grateful the Jedi have their backs.

When Depa Billaba voices her concerns about how the war is impacting the Jedi's principles, troopers Grey and Styles are quick to make it clear how grateful they all are for the Jedi's involvement:

So the clones aren't the Jedi's slaves. If anything, they're both slaves of the Republic (considering how low the Jedi's status actually is in the hierarchy).

Only I'd argue the clones have it much, much worse. 

The Senate sees the Jedi as "ugh, the holier-than-thou space-monk lapdogs who work for us"... but a Jedi has the option to give up that responsibility. They can leave the Order, no fuss or stigma. 

A clone trooper cannot leave the GAR! If they do, they’re marked for treason and execution. Again, they’re not perceived as “people”.

And it doesn’t help that the Kaminoans, the clones’ very creators, see the troopers as products/units/merchandise. A notion that the Jedi are quick to correct whenever they get the chance.

How The Clone Wars writers describe the clones' relationship with the Jedi.

George Lucas hasn’t spoken much about this subject aside from the quote from further up. But to be fair... the Prequels aren’t about the clones’ dynamic with the Jedi, so it makes sense that he wouldn’t talk on that subject so much.

He did mention that part of The Clone Wars’ perks is that he could:

“Do stories about some of the individual clones and get to know them.”

But that’s as far as it gets. 

So for this part, I'm just gonna let Dave Filoni, showrunner of The Clone Wars and the upcoming series Ahsoka, and TCW writer Henry Gilroy - both of whom worked closely with Lucas - take the wheel. They make themselves pretty clear on how the clone/Jedi dynamic is meant to be viewed. 

Here’s Henry Gilroy:

"In my mind, the Jedi see the clones as individuals, living beings that have the same right to life as any other being, but understand that they have a job to do."

"The clones see the Jedi as their commanding officers on one hand, but also, at least subconsciously, they look to them for clues to social/moral behavior."    

"Some clones may find themselves getting philosophical leadership from the Jedi that helps them answer some of the deeper questions of life."    

"We thought this was a great opportunity to show how the Jedi interact with clones. Specifically, Yoda in a teaching role of the clones, who were socially new, who kind of grew up— who were created to fight, and he really broadened their horizons and helped them realize there was a great big universe out there that was bigger than just fighting and killing."    

And here’s Dave Filoni’s comments:

"I truly believe that the Jedi try to humanize their clones and make them more individual, as Henry says."    

"I think we saw that in Revenge of the Sith, when the Clones were colorful and named under the Jedi Generals, and then in the final shots of the film with Palpatine and Vader near the new Death Star, the ships are grey, the color and life is sucked out. The Stormtroopers are only numbers and identified by black and white armor or uniforms in A New Hope." 

"The soldiers have become disposable to the Emperor."    

"That is something the Jedi would never do."    

"Yoda teaching the clones much like he taught Luke. ‘Cause that was kind of natural for [the Jedi], a natural instinct to take to these clones like they’re students."    

None of the above quotes from two different writers of The Clone Wars, who had many interactions with George Lucas, frame the Jedi and the clones’ relationship in a negative way. 

How much more proof do we need that "the clones were slaves of the Jedi” isn’t the intended narrative?

My point being that while the clones' ordeal is indeed horrible, the Jedi have nothing to do with it. The narrative of The Clone Wars always frames it as the fault of the Sith, the Senate and the Kaminoans.

If you go by the intended narrative, the Jedi were the clones' teachers and brothers-in-arms. The clones and the Jedi were not just comrades.

They were friends.

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ I’m the guy mothers warn you about, the son they’re afraid to have ❞

⇀ Word count: 15k words (sorry ☠️)

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Guess who finally mustered up the courage to write a Coriolanus Snow fic, and holy shit, this might just be the longest once-off I’ve ever written.

My dear @quicksilversg1rl , this fic goes out to you 100x over. I hope this makes up for the fact that I couldn’t put Tom under your tree ☹️ I hope that it’s enough that I put him in your dreams instead <3

════════════════════════

WARNINGS:

dom!coriolanus, some out-of-pocket makes-you-go “wtaf💀” Coriolanus moments, smut, swearing, possessiveness, manipulation, toxic relationship, choking, pet names, degradation, edging, lots of italics and dashes (sorry I was feeling myself (not literally you sicko) ), masturbation, unprotected sex, cockwarming, dryhumping/wethumping(?), fingering/fisting, oral sex f receiving, the therapy you’ll need after reading these warnings

‼️DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE ABOVE-MENTIONED WARNINGS‼️

SYNOPSIS:

Coriolanus had always known you held potential to win the games, from the day he’d laid his eyes on you at the 10th annual reaping. You were the key he’d been missing all these years, and how he saw almost every opportunity unlocked by your presence at that year’s hunger games.

The secret of how he’d risen into power? The answer was much simpler than anyone had expected. You. Sure, Coriolanus had done his fair share of treason and murder to contribute to his status, but it was your victory that had granted him access to the Plinth fortune and made his ambitions possible. He wasn’t a man that liked to share credit, but he thought your performance in the games a worthy enough candidate.

To show you just how thankful he was, he’d invited you to live with him after the games, for however long you pleased, and he’d made it his mission to show you all the pleasures the Capitol and his lifestyle had to offer. He liked having you near him at all times, and he liked it even better when he was inside of you.

What he didn’t like, though? When you flirted with other men, especially when it served to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus Snow doesn’t like sharing, and he doesn’t tolerate disobedience, either. You’d learn that lesson the hard way.

════════════════════════

Coriolanus was a man bred for purpose, like his father before him, and it was a purpose he often reminded you of—a means to keep your neediness at bay, to tame your urge to be at his side every waking hour of the day, a ploy to remind you just how little value you posed to him outside of a night of fleeting pleasure. He marvelled in the opportunity to make you feel insignificant, a false promise too-quickly forsaken the moment your existence captured another man’s desire—a man that wasn’t him.

In the midst of a party he’d rather not have attended, he watched you from a quiet corner of the venue hall, conversing away with a man he hadn’t had the displeasure of meeting just yet. He didn’t know whether you were honestly that painfully oblivious to the desires of the man before you, who clearly wanted nothing more than a taste of one of the renowned hunger games victors, or whether you had deliberately struck up a conversation to get a rise out of Coriolanus.

But when his eyes narrowed on your hand that reached to move a strand of your hair back to the security behind your ear, he knew then exactly which particular game you were playing.

You always did that when you felt subconscious—when you knew you were being watched. It was a tell that Coriolanus had come to identify the more time he’d spent observing you. He’d needed to—it was necessary in order to know the truths you would not tell him. Not out loud, at least. But now, he was pretty fluent in your body language, in more than one way.

He watched you tilt your head to the side in the slightest manner, an act that often sent all the conservativeness of men toppling over the edge. Your lip suctioned into a concentrated bite as you offered small, attentive nods—you were getting him to think you’re interested in what he has to say, pretending not to notice the way his eyes traced your lips and occasionally flickered across your peeping breasts.

The sight stirred an anger in Coriolanus, his fingers tightening around the glass of wine clutched in one hand. He lifted the wine to his lips, taking a sip as though it would somehow quench the imminent fire that threatened to take control of all reasonability. He couldn’t let you get a rise out of him, not in public where he had an image to uphold. Goddamn you and your games, he hated being the one to play it. That had been the fate of you and the districts, not him—Capitol-born and rich beyond imagination. Was this his retribution to pay? Sentenced to your little games after all he’d brought upon you?

You moved a hand to caress the man’s shoulder, offering a sweet giggle. And then there it was, the slightest glance in his direction, fleeting but an obvious beckon for attention. Coriolanus clenched his jaw as you purposefully turned your back on him, his eyes boring into your exposed shoulder blades, framed by a dress that paraded all the right aspects of your body—a dress he’d picked out for you. He hadn’t gone through all that effort to make you look so ravishing, only for another man to enjoy it. It had been for him, a reminder of what his prize would be after enduring this insufferable party.

He’d planned to rip it from you, as mercilessly as he could offer, to toss it onto the floor and you onto the bed, naked and accessible to whatever he desired. However, you seemed hellbent on denying him a good night. He watched you reach for the man’s hand, your motion suggestive as you tugged on him and began to lead him away from the mayhem.

Coriolanus knew exactly where you were taking him.

He watched you weave your way through the dancing bodies, the music falling into the background as he trailed your every move—the way the man blatantly admired the curve of your ass. What an unacceptable circumstance, to think his favourite toy was not his own limited edition—one only he could afford to play with. After all, why had he endured the battlefield of this unfair life to claim a reward that promised power and money and control, only to feel so helpless in his infatuation over you. He hated what primal need controlled him, rendered him incapable of letting you go.

What had it all been for? The poison, the betrayal, the heinous crimes he’d committed—all to prove that he bore no seal of humanity, felt no obligation to love, until you came along, making him look the fool each time you batted a devious lash or wrung those perfect lips around suggestive words. Each time you spoke was like fragments of an enchantment, slowly being made whole and taking its magical toll on his entire being, beginning to claim everything he was—making him obsess, making him weak.

The day he’d gotten you as his tribute, you’d had been nothing more than a mission—a means to secure a prize that would set him for life. But there had been something about you, something that had drawn him in like a sudden whirlpool, now he couldn’t escape the obsession you’d cursed him with. He’d never before felt the burden of caring about another person’s life, needing to know what they were up to at all times.

Coriolanus recalled seeing you for the first time, the day of the reaping, after the tributes had been transported to the Capitol. He remembered seeing you thrown into the zoo display—the way you had instantly found your feet and ran a hand through your hair, made unruly by a rough and sleepless night. Your brows were knitted closely together with unmistakable anger, a look that promised vengeance to the Capitol despite the silence on your lips. Your dress had been made ragged to match your hair, evidence that the bats had showed no mercy toward your pretty privilege. Maybe it had been your looks that had drawn them in, after all.

He’d been ready to deem you a lost cause, disappointed that once again, he’d been stuck with rigged odds. He had been convinced that somewhere beneath that shredded fabric on your skin, you bore the kiss of rabies, doomed to die like countless before you. But he’d seen a few of the other tributes, bearing the same tells of their struggle with the bats in their shredded clothes and tired eyes. One of those amongst the suffering had been your fellow district twelve tribute, Morgan Lark, and he had possessed the worst wounds out of all the affected.

It’d been less than a few hours until the wounded tributes started retching up fountains of white, their eyes glassy and their movements frantically lost on them. Yet there you had sat, watching with perfect control and composure as they had dwindled into mere husks of the people they used to be.

Coriolanus knew then that you had been different—stronger, a tribute that might just prove the risk to be worth it. He’d insisted on investigating the cart you’d been transported in, eager to know the truth behind your journey. Had you truly been strong enough to evade the consequences of the bats? The mystery of it all was pressing enough to consume his every thought. He needed to know. His future depended on it, depended on you.

That evening, after much persistence and a bribe that he honestly couldn’t have afforded, he’d gained access to your cart. There wasn’t much to look at, given that it was nothing more than an empty container, without even the courtesy of a blanket. The scene was almost hauntingly familiar, personal. Nonetheless, he’d paced the walls, eyes searching every aspect of the metal, every dent and hole in the floor. He’d found nothing other than a few rusty nails—nothing interesting, that is until he’d picked one of them up and inspected it closer to find its apex crusted with blood.

A few of the nails were identical in their blood-coating, not a coincidence. Coriolanus gathered them up into his father’s handkerchief, almost regretting the decision as the rust stained the symbolic, white fabric. He placed them cautiously into his blazer pocket, scanning the cart one last time before making his departure. He made a beeline to the morgue, where the bodies of the five infected tributes had been placed shortly after their passing. He needed to see Morgan Lark’s body, to know what secret you could have hidden in his death.

Once he’d gained access to the corpse, he’d pulled back the white covering. A strong waft of formaldehyde greeted his senses and burned his eyes teary. He had been surprised that the body was being preserved, though he didn’t doubt that Dr. Gual had plans to somehow extract and weaponise the rabies in the next games. The chemicals had instantly become so overwhelming that he had to pull his handkerchief from his pocket, empty the rusted nails onto the tray and cover his mouth and nose with the fabric to keep his nausea at bay.

Coriolanus studied the corpse, struggling to contain his pressing disgust as he laid his eyes on the shredded flesh. The bats had gone to town on Morgan, leaving little sections of skin intact. He’d mustered up the courage to get close enough to inspect the wounds, noting that the scratches embedded along his body were not all the work of the bats. No, some of them had been too deep of a wound for a bat’s claws to commit. He had a very good idea of the origins of those wounds, his eyes flickering to the rusted nails on the tray.

He knew then that it was not strength or immunity that had protected you from the touch of death, but your keen mind and craftiness with sharp objects. Coriolanus had pieced together a rough picture of what had happened: you’d managed to get close enough to cut Morgan with the nails, ensuring wounds that were deep enough to bleed profusely, which attracted and encouraged the bats to attack him. You hadn’t been so lucky to go completely unnoticed by the bats, hence the disheveled dress, but you had sure as hell been lucky enough to have been spared from their bite.

What a clever girl you were, perhaps too much for your own good.

Coriolanus had to admit that he’d been impressed by your cruelty—your drive to survive. It gave you an edge, a promising reason to win. He liked those odds, you were becoming a plausible risk to him. Just what would you have been willing to do to a tribute you’ve yet to meet, if you’d so easily betrayed a fellow district partner?

As he’d left the morgue that evening, he couldn’t deny the smirk that had wound his lips the entire trip back. He knew then that, for the first time in all his years as a mentor, this might be the year that he’d finally claim the Plinth prize.

What a worthwhile pick you had been. He liked good investments, and you had proven to be the best one yet. You’d taken that entire game, playing it smart, staying lost in the shadows and gathering what scraps you could make into a worthwhile means of defence. You weren’t the strongest or the most skilled fighter by any means, but you were smart, and that was a quality lost on many of the tributes. They all marched around, boasting their strength as some sort of show of dominance. They thought it made them ferocious, earned them another hour of life, but Coriolanus knew that it only drew attention, that they were stupid in bringing about a speedier death. You had known that, too.

Coriolanus slipped out of his mind, watching as you’d stopped by one of the tables to grab a snack, making a point to be sloppy so that the strange man would feel honour in being able to wipe your lips clean, spurring on his ego and his erection. You had pulled that trick on Coriolanus many times. He hated seeing you provide that same sort of attention to anyone else.

His attention was diverted to a pair of Capitol business men, who had approached him and were attempting to bombard him with pitches he couldn’t have been more arsed to consider, not when he had something more pressing on his mind—not when you had deliberately stolen his attention away.

How incredibly selfish that you should demand his time even when you were not at his side, or laying below him with your legs spread open and cunt practically begging for his generosity. He didn’t tolerate time-wasters of any regard, so he’d ensure that you made up for it.

He lifted a dismissive hand toward the face of one of the men, who fell silent with a look of indignation, but even he wasn’t fool enough to unleash his temper unto the heir of the Plinth fortune. Had Coriolanus known that murdering his best friend would have come with so many perks, he’d have made a point to bring about that particular death benefit much sooner.

He lifted the glass to his lips, draining the rich wine that had been marinating the depths of the glass for far too long. He beckoned over one of the runners, placing his empty glass onto the tray before turning his attention back to the business men.

He offered an insincere dip of his chin. “My apologies, but I’ve more pressing matters to tend to. Please, do enjoy the beverages,” he slipped between their dumbfounded bodies, before adding, “and the women, if it’d please you.”

Coriolanus manoeuvred his way through the crowd, his eyes not once leaving you, even if he had to watch you relentlessly flirt with the other man. Not only were you good with your hands, but you unintentionally weaponised your beauty, too. He had always thought you to possess an innocence that seemed to frame your features, a natural gift that kept eyes focused on the contours of your face rather than on the schemes of your hands. That had always been your advantage—in the games and in your everyday interactions.

It made him angry that you’d remade his mind in this way. No matter how much Coriolanus tried to remind himself of the purpose he’d been bred for, all that he’d done to get to where he was now, all the people he’d carelessly murdered—there was no denying the truth:

No matter what higher, callous deity he claimed to be, he was only just a man, carved from anger and burdened with otherworldly jealously. All because of you.

Just as Coriolanus had managed to push past the last of the dancing bodies that had been blocking his path, he spotted you leaving through the doors, dragging your new pet behind you. His footsteps were brisk as he made for that same doorway, his fists balling at his sides as he stifled the urge to redirect his anger unto the unsuspecting door man. No, he’d best save that anger for you, transform it into something that would make you suffer, as he’d been forced to endure this evening.

He slipped through the doors, instantly greeted by a much quieter atmosphere, the laughter and music of the event muffled behind the now closed doors. Across the room, he saw you slip into the elevator, glimpsing just a hint of a smirk on your perfect lips as the doors slid closed and engulfed his view of you.

Annoyance pricked at his chest, he’d have to wait for the elevator to come back down. That was too much time gifted to you, time that could easily be used to bring you one step closer to coming undressed for that man. He’d never found himself wishing for a stairwell more than he did right now, but Capitol architecture stupidly insisted that stairs were a concept made only for the districts.

Coriolanus trudged his way over to the elevator, running an impatient hand through his hair as he watched the countdown of the various different floors commence on the monitor. His residence was the topmost floor, an expensive suite that the Plinths had gifted him on his day of recognition. He’d been kind enough to allow you to stay in one of his rooms, to have you in his proximity at all times where you’d more than once enjoyed the free luxury of his lifestyle, and this is how you’d repaid him—by bringing other men into his sacred space.

He couldn’t help but imagine what you were up to at this instant. The thought of you trapped beneath the man on one of the sofas overlooking the city made him bite the inside of his cheek—those were the sofas he’d so often pinned you to, forcing you to admire the view as he admired you, demonstrating his praise for your beauty through the actions of his fingers in your cunt.

When Coriolanus had first met you, he had thought you hated drawing attention, especially when it warranted a much speedier death in the games. You’d always been so reserved, so hellbent on silence as you kept a calculating eyes on anybody who wasn’t you. He’d like that quiet air about you, it was a call for guidance, a plea for somebody to claim your trust—he knew he could have given that to you.

But now, Coriolanus could have laughed at that thought.

You, hating attention? What an odd facade he’d so easily been fooled by—but he’d grown smarter since your first encounter. He knew the real truth now. What a glorious night that had been, the first time he’d taken you to bed. He could still smell the desperation that had trailed from your cunt as his nose burrowed into your swollen and beckoning clit—the way his hands had squeezed the skin of your inner thighs a faint blue in his attempt to trap them against the bed. They’d been so eager to wrap around his neck, to make him prisoner within your euphoria. He’d shown his disapproval by wedging your thighs further apart, an action that earned a shocked moan from you, coupled with a gasp at the growing aggression of his tongue inside of you.

How he enjoyed being the puppeteer of your body, pulling your limbs every which way until you’d been contorted and opened up for him to exploit. You often needed reminding that you were sentenced to his will, made prisoner to his desires.

He could still feel the faint traces of your arousal that had painted pictures across the sharp lines of his jaw, mercilessly freed by the way his tongue had ravished your folds and plucked from you what little dignity and silence you had managed to fashion up until that very moment. No matter how much you’d pretend to feel indifferent to his attention, your body had always betrayed you—it was unashamedly and passionately thankful to his ministrations.

Your pathetic moans still echoed on a loop in the dark corners of his mind—an ear worm he couldn’t discard of, though he couldn’t honestly admit that he’d want anything of the sort. It spurred him on, serving as a constant reminder of his pretty possession, and just how much you needed him—his touch, his validation, his attention. He was the poison-kissed oxygen that you couldn’t help but inhale, fooling yourself that it would somehow replenish the air in your lungs and give you the freedom of living, existing, all the while your every bodily cell came closer and closer to becoming his. It didn’t take much for him to claim all that you were and all that you could be, only the right words and that glorious goddamn night in bed.

He’d completely remade you in his image, branded you with his bedroom generosity, always leaving you with just enough to satisfy, but never enough to last for more than a few hours. You always came back begging for more.

What an attention whore.

At last, the elevator dinged its arrival, the doors opening to welcome Coriolanus inside. He slipped in almost instantly, moving to press the button of the top floor. When the doors finally closed, he became trapped in the air lingering inside, noticing a trace of your sweet perfume. He’d come to admire that scent, thought of it as a way to identify every place you’d been in. But your sweet scent had fused with the musky odour of that strange man, an unpleasant smell that suffocated your own in mere seconds. He could only imagine that same odour plastering itself to your neck and all across your clothes as the man forced himself onto you, enjoying what didn’t belong to him.

After a few minutes, the elevator came to a stop, the doors sliding open to reveal two intertwined bodies at the other end of the lobby. You were pinned against the doors to Coriolanus’ suite, the man’s hands wandering beneath your dress and up your magnificent thighs, shrivelled lips sloppily searching the skin of your neck. Your head was tossed back against the wood, eyes sown shut as you let slip the sweetest of moans, a sound that Coriolanus had claimed as his own.

He barged through the elevator doors, the sound of his angered footsteps earning your attention. You lowered your head to him, watching with a playful smile at what was about to unfold. He ignored it, the satisfaction in that grin, the sense of achievement at your ability to control him, have him trailing after you like a dog on a leash. He’d let you have this moment, to savour its short-lived existence because once he was through with this man, he’d show you just how much trouble you’d caused him.

Coriolanus grabbed the oblivious man at the collar of his shirt, too far gone to think with his brain rather than his cock to notice he’d appeared, and plucked him from you. He shoved the man away, who stumbled backwards with his footsteps serving as clear evidence of mild intoxication. The toad began protesting, before his eyes finally found Coriolanus and his lips clamped shut on a look of realisation.

“You come into my house, drink my wine, enjoy my woman, all without a trace of shame?” Coriolanus snapped, his voice gruff with built-up anger.

The man fashioned an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean any offence, Mr. Snow, I swear by it!” His hands made frantic gestures, eager to exonerate himself. “It was her that came onto me, she invited me back here, suggested we get to know each other better—“

Coriolanus lifted his chin, his glare cold as he stared down his nose at the man. “Are you implying that it’s her fault?” It most certainly was, but if Coriolanus had to endure all that had just happened, he intended to have some fun with it.

The man stilled with a look of uncertainty that passed between you and Coriolanus, his hand moving to scratch the back of his head.

“Are you even a man at all, if you’re so easily influenced by a girl that bats her lashes at you and caresses your arm one time?” He had to ignore the irony in that statement; he could’ve almost been talking into a mirror. “You’re pathetic, blaming your lack of control and better judgement on her,” he said, eyes hardening as he took a step forward, the man simultaneously retreating a step with a gulp.

“Go find whatever excuse of a manhood you claim to have in somebody else’s cunt, and don’t let me catch you back in this building. It wont be words that warn you off next time.” His hands clenched into fists at his side, itching to grab the fleeing man and grace him with a well-earned punch—but he wouldn’t gift you that satisfaction, too.

When the elevator doors closed on the stranger, Coriolanus turned to face you. You were picking at your nails busily, as though the entire interaction had bored you beyond interest.

“What were you thinking?” He snapped at you, inching closer to glare you down.

You glanced up from your hands, offering a mere shrug as you crossed your arms and glanced up at him cheekily. “I wasn’t thinking at all, really,” you admitted. “Just wanted to feel some good things.”

Bitterness found its way onto Coriolanus’ tongue. “Do I not make you feel good enough?” He scolded coolly, his eyes searching yours angrily. “Would you rather I call that prick back and have him stick his two expired inches inside you?”

A hint of hurt seemed to widen your eyes, your expression shaped with confusion. “Didn’t think you cared what I got up to,” you muttered, glancing off to the side.

Coriolanus knew that to be complete bullshit, a feeble play at attempting to settle your own insecurities. He knew what you wanted to hear from him—that you mattered to him, that he wanted you to himself, that the mere thought of another man touching you would send him into inexplicable rage. To an extent, those were all true, but not in the way you'd wanted them to be, not in a way he was capable of giving.

He restrained the anger he felt towards you, knowing that he needed to take a gentler approach. You weren't in a state fit to endure his anger, not now. He needed to coddle you, to keep your emotions intact, otherwise he risked losing you. He couldn't have that.

“I care,” he said at last, moving a hand to grip at your chin. He’d forgotten how soft your skin was, it’d been weeks since he’d been permitted to touch you, business keeping him away from your warmth. He moved your face to his, searching between your eyes and your lips. “And you know that I care, too, or you wouldn’t have put on this little display.”

“You don’t care—not really, Coriolanus,” you snapped, your hand plucking his from your chin. “You constantly remind me that I’m nothing more than pleasure to you, an object you love to parade around, so as long as it’s your name engraved on me.”

Correct, he thought, his hand returning to his side. He gazed at you, the cogs of his mind reeling busily as he cautiously selected his next words. He couldn’t be angry with you, not now when you were so fragilely being kept together by emotion. It mattered what he said to you, even if the words weren’t honest. He knew that you needed reassurance, something akin to love to cling to, to keep you satisfied beside him. The condition that came with having a toy he loved to play with, was having to look after it, to ensure it didn’t break or wear with time.

That was exactly what he had to do with you, so he fed you whatever conniving words he could to keep you indulged in whatever illusion you’d had about your relationship with Coriolanus. A necessary evil to preserve his hold over you. He was selfish that way, but you were far too entertaining to let slip, and he did rather enjoy you—your company and your body.

Truthfully, you did have some sort of hold over him, and he’d let just enough of that truth show to control you, to convince you of his love for you.

“In all my years of existing, I've never once felt compelled to share my life with somebody else," Coriolanus told you softly. He moved his hand to return that same rogue strand of hair back behind your ear. "Not until you. I can't explain it, the way the mere thought of you with another man sends me into an unparalleled rage—to think that he could give you something I couldn't. The thought of somebody touching you the way I touch you. . . It's unbearable, unacceptable." He placed his hands on either one of your cheeks, lifting your head to face him. His words had too easily buttered you up, moulded your face with a look of infatuation. “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have followed you all the way up here. I’d have let you fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, however you want. But the fact is, I care—a lot.”

You still harboured a certain look of uncertainty in your eyes, those damned eyes that made him go feral. He could tell that you wanted to believe him, but you had reservations that he hadn’t yet satisfied with his words. He needed to say more, do more.

“Do you see me chasing after any other girl the way I chase after you?” He pressed on, grabbing your face a little more ferociously, just to sell the point. “You’ve consumed me, reduced any ounce of respect I’ve once had for myself to nothingness. I could’ve had you pawned off the Capitol after the games, to do whatever bidding they demanded of you, but I chose to keep you by my side, to spoil you with everything you deserve for winning the games. Tell me one person who’d be willing to do the same for a district nobody that they held no care for?”

Your eyes had grown teary at his words, your bottom lip quivering beyond your control. You had meant to look tougher, Coriolanus could tell, unmoved by his words, but you were only just a naive girl burdened with the need to be loved. So you believed it, every poisonous word dripping from his lips—lapped it up hungrily like a douse of honey, in fact. Perfect. He was gaining back your trust.

You caved into Coriolanus, his hands falling from your face to wrap around your body and keep you against him. His one hand curled around the nape of your neck while the other wrapped around the small of your back, so perfectly shaped to accommodate his arm. How could he be convinced that you were not made just for him, when every aspect of your body seemed to be carved just for his touch? The hand on your head began to move with rhythmic strokes across your hair, his lips moving to place a kiss on the crown of your head. He rested his chin where he’d placed his kiss, as though sealing in the sensation, before he spoke up.

“You were incredibly selfish tonight,” he murmured. You pulled back subtly to glance up at him with slightly furrowed brows, and he lifted his chin from your head to gaze back at you impassively. “You put me through hell, making me watch as you flirted with that man, touched on him all over as you promised him sex. Do you think that was fun for me?”

Your eyes glinted with a hint of guilt, your lips parting with a soft no.

“No,” Coriolanus agreed, his eyes undeniably annoyed as he glared at your guilt-ridden expression. His fingers ventured along your back, finding the zip to your dress, the only thing keeping your body prisoner in the fabric. He tugged at the zip, harshly at first, his need to punish you poking through his actions, but he had to refrain from that for the time-being. More slowly, he began to pull the zip down your body. “I think it only fitting that you should be punished for your little games, don’t you agree?” His eyes flickered back up to yours coolly, almost challenging you to disagree.

The fabric of your dress grew loose on your body, the straps beginning to slide along the slope of your shoulders. You glanced up at him in silence, not wanting to admit the words, but the neediness on your expression told him that you were all game for your punishment—not that it ever was something unpleasant. Coriolanus was always generous when it came to putting you in your place.

“Glad we’re on the same page, dove,” he said, the dress releasing your body at last. It pooled onto the floor around your heels, leaving you barren save for the bra suffocating your breasts. He glanced down at your lower half, faintly surprised to find that you’d neglected the courtesy of wearing any underwear. "Was this supposed to be an apology?" He asked, glancing back at you through a charming smirk.

A smile broke through onto your lips. "I thought it'd make undressing me quicker," you replied, lowering yourself to remove the heels from your feet. You were glad to be free of that hell. They made your calves look good, but they were torture on your feet.

"Well, aren't you considerate?" Coriolanus responded, then paused before adding. "So you knew how this night would end, with you and I nothing but a sexual amalgamation?”

"It was more of a hope,” you replied as you straightened yourself up.

Coriolanus' constraint gave in at your insinuations, his hand moving to caress your cheek, his eyes lowering to your perfect lips that he craved to taste in that very moment. You reached up to deliver the unspoken need onto his lips, but he kept you grounded with a hand around your collarbone. "You're not kissing me with those lips," he told you. “Not after that prick has wiped his saliva all over you.”

His hand left your body to reach into his blazer pockets. He pulled out a key, his hand snaking around your waist to slip the key into the door hole. His face was intentionally leaned close to yours, his eyes narrowed with a mixture of concentration as he struggled to unlock the door, and because he could smell the man’s cologne clinging desperately to your skin. He’d need to take care of that before the evening could proceed, it was a detrimental hinderance to his cock. At last, the doors gave in with a loud click, and he pulled the key from the lock.

He leaned back with a curt beckoning of his chin. "After you,” he said, placing the key back into his blazer, his eyes not once neglecting yours.

You gave him a long stare, almost daring to be disobedient before you clearly thought better of it. You bent over to collect your dress and your shoes before turning to push the doors open. Coriolanus dropped his attention to your ass, which practically begged for his approval as it bounced with your every step. He entered inside after you, closing the doors behind him.

You ventured a few steps into the well-furnished living room of the suite and tossed your clothing onto the nearest sofa, your eyes trained on the glass walls that offered a breath-taking view of Panem. You’d always marvel over the cityscape as if it was your first time seeing it, but in all honesty, it was the fact that the lights of Panem fashioned a different colour each night, and it always seemed to illuminate new buildings and views that you’d never noticed before.

Coriolanus watched you, your hand absentmindedly reaching to hold your elbow as you admired the view—one that you’d already seen countless times before, he thought. He wondered whether you were contemplating your circumstances in this instant, as if the reality of what you’d done had finally started to sink in, and what the consequences to follow would be. He could read you fairly well, but there were still moments that your thoughts were lost on him.

“Are you scared?” He asked, his voice echoing throughout the empty space.

You turned to face him, your hands falling to your side. The lighting was dim, but the amusement etched onto your features were clear. “Scared? I didn’t survive the games only to be scared of you, Coriolanus Snow. Besides, this is hardly our first rodeo. I can’t imagine there’s much more surprises you could spring on me.”

Coriolanus cocked his eyebrows, smiling at those words. He appreciated your effortless wit. Most of Panem’s ladies were annoyingly submissive in their conversation, saying only what they thought he wanted to hear, as though it’d make them more desirable to him. You didn’t need to be told what to say, you just said it, and he was glad for it. Control could be exhausting, especially when he strove to maintain it in almost every aspect of his life. It was refreshing to know that he didn’t have to control your personality, too.

“Good,” he said, inching closer until he could reach out a hand to grab your arm. He turned you around forcefully, cool fingers teasingly tracing the skin of your shoulder as he made his way down to the clasp of your bra. He undid the hook, freeing your breasts from the pretty white lace, before tossing it onto the sofa beside your other discarded items. He turned you back to him, his eyes instantly lowering to the hardened nipples crowning your soft breasts. “Somebody’s eager,” He jested, his voice a soft rumble as his eyes rose to meet yours. “Did you want something from me?”

“You know I always do, Coryo,” you responded, taking your lower lip into a subtle bite.

Coriolanus’s eyes hardened at that nickname. “Don’t call me that,” he demanded. That version of himself had died a long time ago.

Your eyebrows cocked at his tone, your lips momentarily pursed before you asked, “should I call you Mr. Snow instead?”

“Just Coriolanus,” he replied, rolling his shoulders to remove his crimson blazer. Your eyes were stalking his every move. He could tell that you wanted nothing more than to reach out to what little clothing remained on his body and tear it away mercilessly—that you wanted him to take you right here at this very instant. But he was faintly impressed at your patience as you decided against any reckless action, instead opting to wait for his next command.

He folded his blazer and draped it over his arm, his free hand beckoning for you to follow him to his bedroom. “Come on.”

Your eyes followed his footsteps, your disbelief keeping your feet glued to the ground. Coriolanus glanced over his shoulder when your footsteps didn’t commence behind him. Your reaction was justifiable. He’d never once once invited you into his room in all the months you’d lived with him. He knew that you were foolishly thinking that this moment marked an intimate milestone in your relationship, that this act was an attempt for him to show just how much you meant to him.

“Problem?” He asked.

You willed away the dumbfounded look on your face, offering a half-hearted no as you caught up to Coriolanus. As if the sentiment was fragile, you merely walked ahead of him in silence, afraid that one wrong word would revoke the invite.

He trailed behind you as you approached the door to his bedroom. You tossed a glance over your shoulder as you sought out confirmation in your actions. Coriolanus gave a small nod, an encouraging smirk poking through. You smiled back, turning your attention to opening the door. You slipped inside, your attention instantly flying to the furniture that occupied the space. It was modest, very limited to necessities.

The bed, needlessly big, was slightly undone, the comforters left untidy as though he’d just climbed out of bed and the covers half pulled from the pillows—a picture frozen in time. A plate and a mug was stacked onto the bedside table, the previous day’s clothes draped across the sofas near the windows. Your eyes were fixating every detail around the room, as though burning a mental picture into your mind as a souvenir for later.

Coriolanus moved to place his blazer beside his other clothes on the sofa. “Sorry for the mess,” he offered, moving to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. “As I’m sure you know, I don’t usually have the worry of entertaining guests.”

You turned to face him, your eyes lowering to his skilful fingers. “I like the mess,” you responded, making your way over to him. “It feels personal, seeing this side of you—allow me to.” You shooed his hands off the waistcoat, taking his place in undoing the buttons. You glanced up at him seductively, your eyes flickering down to his full lips.

He watched you undress him, slowly but surely, knowing that he could’ve done a much faster job. But he allowed you to take on the role, knowing that it made you feel important, that your body would show him just how thankful you were and how much these little details meant to you. Once you had unfastened the last button, you removed the waistcoat and admired his toned and broad physique, painfully concealed behind his white shirt.

Coriolanus glared at your wandering eyes, wondering whether you were trying to picture him naked. He’d never been fully undressed in all of their little rendezvous, it was something far too intimate for him. And there had only been a few occasions where he’d fucked you with his cock and not his fingers or his mouth. He’d found himself deriving the utmost pleasure when he got to solely focus on how you came undone for him, how powerful his every movement upon you really was.

When your hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, he grabbed at your wrist. “Not yet,” he told you. “You still reek of him.” You frowned at his words, your hands falling to your sides in disappointment. “Come with me,” he said, moving past you toward the bathroom. “We’re going to take a little bath.”

Your interest peaked at his words. “We’re going to bath together?” You asked curiously as you followed after him.

“You’re going to bath,” Coriolanus corrected as he reached the large alcove bathtub. He leaned over to turn on the tap. “I’m going to watch.” His hand trailed the many soaps and balms that lined the rim of the bathtub. He’d made it a mission to collect every scented product he could manage once he got his hand on the money, simply because he could, and he liked smelling good.

“Sounds perverted,” you shot at him, crossing your arms as you watched him draw your bath.

He grabbed ahold of a rose-scented oil and began pouring it into the water. “You didn’t agree to live with me because of my normalcy,” he said distractedly. “But because you knew just how much my so called perversion had to offer your pathetic, little, touch-starved body.”

He tossed a glance at you over his shoulder, satisfied by the red gleam that had snuck onto your cheeks. He turned his attention back to the tub, reaching for a bottle of bubble bath. He began adding it to the water, a few droplets reaching up to stain his shirt.

“In any case,” Coriolanus continued. “It’s the least you could do for me after tonight’s shit-show.” He placed the bottle back against the wall, closing the tap once the water had reached an appropriate level. He unbuttoned the cufflinks of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves, taking a few paces back. He jerked his head at you. “Go on,” he demanded.

You unfurled into a dramatic stretch, parading your breasts as you faced him. “Join me.”

He fixed you with an unwavering stare, not so keen to play into another one of your games. “Get in.”

With one last glare, you turned and dipped one leg into the bath, instantly pulling back with a hiss. Your head snapped to face him. “It’s too hot,” you protested.

Coriolanus moved to retrieve a chair from the corner of the bathroom, placing it a few inches from where you stood. He sat himself down, offering a mere shrug to your words. “Good observation.”

“I’m not going to burn myself bloody just so that you can get off,” you spat.

“Then let’s kill some time while we wait for the water to cool down,” he suggested, his eyes once again tracing over every inch of your exposed body with keen interest.

You looked open to his request. “What did you have in mind?”

Coriolanus’s eyes flickered back up to you. “Touch yourself,” he said earnestly. You paused at his words, suddenly looking self-conscious, before you hesitantly began to caress your breasts. He watched your fingers squeeze and grope at your skin, imagining that it were his own hands in their stead, only he’d be a lot less kind in his touch. Your fingers trailed teasing circles around your nipples, further hardened at your own toying and his intense observation.

“Lower,” he ordered, feeling frustrated at your lack of venturing into your lower extremities.

Your eyes glinted at him, a look that seemed to say greedy. Yes, he was. Who could blame him? He’d grown up starving for most days of the year, now he’d take as much as he wanted.

His eyes fixated the hand that lowered in a painfully slow motion across your stomach, reaching that sweet spot housed between your legs. As your fingers began to fondle with your clit, you threw your head back with a pitiful moan. He knew he could’ve extracted a louder sound. He almost felt obliged to take over, but he had to remind himself that you were undeserving of his touch, that you needed to be punished with the urge to feel him, yet be denied that pleasure.

A few minutes of your fondling had passed before your ministrations eventually became too overwhelming to maintain control over your body. You lowered yourself to the bathmat, your hand not once leaving your cunt. You spread your legs open, offering a broader view to Coriolanus. Your eyes were glazed over as you glanced at him. He tilted his head slightly in approval, feeling his own cock growing interested at his view of your pathetic situation.

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he praised, noting the way your eyes lowered to his pants. He parted his legs slightly to take the pressure off of his growing erection, eager to hide his arousal. He didn’t want you to notice just yet how much he was truly enjoying this. Your movements eventually became more erratic, incoherent sounds spewing from your lips.

“I need you, Coriolanus,” you managed to blabber out, your tired head resting onto the rim of the bathtub, eyes periodically fluttering closed as you alternated between consciousness and whatever universe of pleasure was found behind your eyes. “Please,” you begged.

“You’ll have me soon,” he said, “when I see it fit.”

“I’ve been good for you,” you protested breathlessly. “I’ve done everything you told me to.”

“You have a lot to atone for,” Coriolanus pointed out, his eyes lowering to where your hand had slowed its movements. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

You glanced at him past your tired lids, but you obliged nonetheless, adding a finger inside of your cunt to increase the pressure. He supposed it was fair, if he had refused to place his own fingers inside of you. He couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto lips as he watched a stream of white begin to trail from your opening, recalling how good you tasted. It was a shame, really, that it would go to waste onto the bathroom mat instead of onto his appreciative tongue. From the sound of your pathetic mewling and your ragged breathing, Coriolanus knew that you were growing close to your high. He didn’t intend for the fun to end just yet.

“I want you to continue until you feel like you’re going to cum,” he told you, though he wasn’t sure you’d heard him past you own noise. “And then I want you to stop just before that happens.”

“That’s mean, Coriolanus,” you managed to say.

“You haven’t seen mean yet, dove,” he said. “Now stop talking and focus.”

Your fingers picked up their pace with a newfound eagerness, the knot in your stomach growing inescapably larger, the urge to come undone becoming harder and harder to contain. Coriolanus wasn’t sure you’d obey his command at this point, you looked too far gone to resume control over your own actions. His eyes narrowed, watching closely at what fate you’d choose to follow. Much to his disappointment, you practiced constraint, your hips shooting up with anticipation, only to sink to the floor as you denied yourself the orgasm.

You glanced at Coriolanus past your teary lashes, a silent request for praise. He heeded your need, rising from his seat to crouch beside your slumped figure. He combed the loose hair from your face, wiping away the beads of sweat that dotted your forehead.

“You’re too good for this world,” he murmured sweetly. He felt as though he could have choked on the banality of his words, but the soft look in your eyes as you gazed up at him made it worthwhile. He nodded to your hand, still resting on your cunt. “Show me how good you felt.”

You pulled your hand from its playground between your legs, creamy white webs entangled on your fingers. They pulled a string along your stomach as you lifted your fingers for Coriolanus to study.

“It almost looks like you don’t need my help,” he chuckled, his hand fastening around your wrist to bring your fingers to his lips. His blue eyes bore down into you as he took each of your fingers into his mouth. One by one, his tongue hungrily weaved around them, claiming your juices from your skin.

You gazed at him with a wild look ablaze in your eyes. “Don’t I deserve a taste?” You said. “After all, I did all the hard work. I deserve to taste the fruits of my labour.”

“You should be modest,” Coriolanus said once he removed your fingers from his mouth. “Nobody likes a brag.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” you retorted lightly, your eyes glinting with exhaustion. “I like you.”

“Mhm,” he offered softly, placing your hand gently onto your chest. He reached his hand between your legs, an action that caused your thighs to stiffen around him. “Relax,” he cooed, pressing his palm into one of your thighs, encouraging you to open up to him.

“Sorry,” you said, easing off the defensiveness. “I’m sensitive down there at the moment.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, gazing at your fragile expression. Fuck, he could take you right here. His fingers moved with caution as they glided along the folds of your drenched cunt, gathering up your cum into untidy clumps. He followed a trail of arousal that had traveled down into the cleft of your ass, pressing a teasing finger into your asshole.

You gasped at the sudden invasion, and Coriolanus’s throat rumbled with a chuckle. He removed his fingers and brought them to your lips. You glanced at his slender fingers, not needing much convincing to take them into your mouth. You turned your attention to him as you began to suck at him suggestively, exaggerating your head bobbing as you made a point to cover the entire length of his fingers.

He watched you with a lopsided smirk, enjoying the whore-like behaviour you so willingly offered him. Now and again, he’d thrust his fingers a little too deep, more than what your throat could handle, which caused you to gag around him. Strings of your saliva had begun to slither down his exposed forearm, pleasantly warm on his skin. He imagined his cock in the stead of his fingers, enjoying the same warmth and wetness your mouth had to offer.

When you’d decidedly had enough of licking his fingers clean, you pulled your lips from him with a characteristic pop. Coriolanus reached that hand over the bathtub, dipping it into the water to feel its temperature. It had cooled down considerably, but it was still warm enough for a worthwhile soak. He withdrew his hand and wiped his fingers onto his shirt.

“The bath will get cold soon,” he told you. “Get in.”

“Is that all?” You asked disappointedly.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll show you what I’ve got in stock for you.” He straightened up and took a few paces back as you perked with new resolve and found your feet.

He backed up to reclaim his position on the chair, crossing his legs as he watched you. Your back was momentarily on him as you climbed into the bathtub, the water sloshing a welcome. You submerged yourself into the warmth almost instantly, a content groan reverberating in your throat. His eyes lowered to your hand, which had began to spread the foam of the bubble bath across your bare chest and breasts.

“The water’s so good,” you murmured.

“Don’t get too relaxed,” he warned.

“Why don’t you join me, Coriolanus,” you said, your eyes fluttered open as you moved to fold your arms onto the lip of bathtub. You rested your chin onto your arms, glancing at the erection he could no longer conceal. “I’ll take good care of your little cock, that should keep me on my toes.” Your expression beamed at your choice of words, deliberately chosen to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus merely scoffed at your teasing. He had many things to prove, but the size of his cock was not one of them.

“You sure you could handle me, since you’re still so sensitive down there?” He asking mockingly. He leaned back into his chair, his hand coming up to clench his chin, the other grabbing his elbow.

You tilted your head prettily to one side. “Only one way to find out,” you murmured, leaning back against the wall of the tub as you kicked your foot out and onto the edge. Water splashed partially onto the bathmat, but most had been caught by the bare floor.

Coriolanus lowered his eyes to the puddle. “You’re making quite a mess for someone who’s been in here for less than half an hour.”

“Give me an hour and you’ll see just how much of a mess I can make,” you challenged.

He lifted his chin to face you, his eyes narrowing the slightest. This side of you was something he’d never experienced before; you were a lot more daring, undoubtedly brought on by the importance you felt at being allowed the opportunity to bathe in his bathroom and in his company. He’d like to test just how long you could keep up this illusion of bravery, and how quickly you’d drop it when he had you sprawled onto his fingers.

“Come here, then,” he said, uncrossing his legs and spreading it as an invitation for your thighs.

Your eyes snuck a peak at his hard on before you broke away from your slutty pose and climbed from the warmth of the tub. You took a few steps toward Coriolanus, water and soap slithering down the curves of your body and onto the floor.

You stopped short of his legs. “You’re sure?” You asked, eyes making a point of the shirt and pants he still wore. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with a little less on?”

Coriolanus grunted from a place of impatience, reaching out his hand to grab at your wrist. He pulled you into his lap, rough hands guiding your hips to comfortably straddle his clothed thighs. The soapy water coating your body began to bleed into his clothes, his pants the most affected, but he could hardly be arsed in this moment. He just needed to feel you, needed to use you. His fingers gripped at your thighs, his heavenly blue eyes boring down onto your strained expression as he began to forcibly guide your bare cunt over his bulge.

Coriolanus’s movements set a generous pace, endorphins bolting through your core each time his bulge struck your sensitive clit. The texture of his pants was harsh on your skin, creating a friction that seemed to generate copious amounts of heat—screw sticks and stones, this method of fucking could have started all the fires in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lower half instinctively beginning to cooperate as you rocked back and fourth in sync with his guidance.

Your head came to rest in the chiselled crook of his neck, his earthy fragrance fucking heaven-sent on your senses, further engulfing you in bliss. His throat vibrated against your ear with strained moans, they came as subtle grunts that prompted his hands to speed up the pace. He was so eager to feel you, to settle his drawn-out erection. You winced as his fingers burrowed into the skin of your thighs. He’d neglected all caution in your handling, his need to control your movements overpowering what slither of consideration he’d held for your comfort.

It didn’t take long for the stinging sensation to blend with your pleasure, slurred moans pouring from your lips as you felt cum begin to leak from your entrance. It lubricated the fabric of Coriolanus’s pants, offering some relief from the coarse material. You screwed your eyes shut and pressed your face into his shirt, eager to muffle the mewls of pleasure you seemed to have zero control over. His chest rumbled with a breathy fuck, and you felt his body momentarily convulse with the overwhelming feelings your bodies shared.

You turned your head, your nose brushing against the skin of his neck. Your eyes fluttered open, drinking in the view of his adam’s apple, so prominent and manly. It bobbed as Coriolanus swallowed a moan. You brought your furthest hand forward to hook the side of his neck, pulling him against your lips. He didn’t resist, it’s almost as though he was too focused on his own work to pay attention to your own dealings. You littered sloppy kisses all across his neck, placing extra emphasis around his adam’s apple. You kissed all around the bulge before giving into your thoughts and dragging your tongue over it, leaving a sloppy trail in your wake.

The warmth and wetness of your tongue on his throat made Coriolanus release an unexpected groan, a hand leaving your hips to wrap around your throat. You let slip a chuckle at his action, and he held you out in front of him, his cold eyes glaring into yours as he decided to brutalise his movements. You moaned loudly, the sound strained as you forced it past his suffocating hold on your neck.

“Coriolanus,” you choked out breathlessly, your hands sliding along his broad shoulders. “I need you inside of me.”

“You’ve waited this long,” Coriolanus muttered. “You can wait a little longer.” His hold on your throat grew tighter, your vision starting to blur behind a mixture of fresh tears and your compromised oxygen.

He watched your eyes flutter closed and your teeth clench as you inched closer and closer to your edge, your nails digging through his shirt and into his shoulders, steading yourself against his aggression. His singular hand on your hip began to cramp at his incessant groping and steering, but he was beginning to feel his own orgasm approaching, and that was motivation enough to push through—that, and your whorish desperation.

He released his grip on your neck, the air returning to your lungs as a cough and a splutter. He hooked the nape of your neck and pulled you into the comfort of his shoulder, urging you to rest your tired head there as he finished you both off. With both hands once again firm on your hips, he picked up the pace. He rested his chin onto the crown of your head, his eyes fluttering closed as he allowed the scent of your conditioner to swallow his senses.

With each movement, he brought you down harder onto his cock, craving rougher strokes. The squelching of the cum coating your folds and spreading along his pants was music to his ears, and he gritted his teeth to bite back his ragged breathing so that he could continue to hear the way he’d transformed your cunt. He could feel his own pre-cum trickling from his tip, the warmth spreading along his shaft by the generosity of your wet folds. Fucking hell did he yearn to be inside of you, almost as much as you craved him, but he had to be stronger than his own desires.

It didn’t take long before every nerve tracing the length of his cock began to fire rapid impulses, the prolonged stimulation proving to be too overbearing. His lips parted with strained breaths, the black abyss behind his eyes beginning to birth a cosmos of anticipatory stars. The image built and built until he thrust you one last violent time along his cock, his hips rocking up into you, delivering just the right ounce of pressure before white engulfed his vision.

His grip on your hips loosened, his ears buzzing with the aftermath of his high. He hadn’t even realised that you’d come undone before he had, your whimpers and vulgar pleas lost in his concentration. The only evidence of your orgasm was the new patch of wetness that had marked his pants, a generous mixture of squirt and cum.

Your breathless voice sounded at his ear as you moved your head from under his chin. “I want to feel like that all the time.”

“That can be arranged, dove,” he chuckled hoarsely.

You felt his hand leave your hip, the skin there instantly growing cool. He dragged his fingers repeatedly along the wisps of your hair. It was as though he were petting a dog, only his touch was a lot gentler and more intimate. You allowed your eyes to flutter closed, your lips parting with a content sigh as you waited for the ecstasy of your orgasm to dissolve. You rested your chin on his shoulder, listening to the calm of his breathing, focusing on his hand caressing your hair.

You pulled back to glance at him, his eyes questioning as he returned your stare. Your attention moved to his lips, they looked so soft and plump, not nearly red enough. You’d been robbed of the opportunity to nibble on them, to contort them between your own lips, to taste the wine he’d downed at the party. You didn’t think you’d be properly satisfied until you got your wish. Did that make you ungrateful?

Coriolanus offered a faint smirk, your thoughts loud and clear. How selfish of him, he’d forgotten to kiss you during your little ride. Not a train-smash, he had the entire night to make up for that. His hand on your hair tightened there, forcing you into his vicinity. You wanted to protest at the hairs pulling at your scalp, but you hadn’t gotten the chance, not when his lips silenced yours in a hungry tumble.

He didn’t kiss you as often as you would’ve liked, but when he did, it was always imbued with passion, his movements erratic like he’d been starving and you were the first source of food he’d encountered in days. You got lost in the movement of his lips, the pace so fast that you couldn’t properly match it, though not for lack of trying. You allowed yourself to be swept up in his kiss, accepting that he was in control.

Coriolanus moved his hands to grab ahold of your breasts, his attention marvellously divided between fondling them and tracing his tongue along the inside of your mouth. You moaned into him, the sound muffled and lost to your entanglement. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, offering a sharp nip that caused you to wince in surprise. You felt his lips broaden in a smug smile, his hands neglecting your breasts and trailing a seductive path down your waist to deliver a crisp spank to your ass.

The skin stung where he’d struck you, but he was so quick to soothe the ache with gentle rubbing. The curves of your ass fit so perfectly into his palms. He pulled his lips from yours, not sparing even an instant for you to process his movements before his sharp nose found sanctuary in your cleavage. He littered kisses there before moving to plant a trail around the circumference of your breasts.

“Coriolanus,” you moaned, your head lolling back.

He hummed against your skin, a halfhearted acknowledgement. His hand found its way between your thighs, his middle finger sliding between your labia where beads of your brand new arousal waited to greet him. He slathered his fingers in your juice, lubricating the skin before he slid his finger into your entrance.

Your entire composure collapsed at that, the built up suspense of needing him inside you satisfied at last. Your entrance clamped around him at first, the sensation always forgotten with how few and far apart these glorious moments were spread, but within a fraction of a second, you melted onto his finger.

You nibbled at your lower lip, the bite deepening as Coriolanus’s teeth found your nipple. He alternated between tugging at your hardened buds and swirling his tongue around and all over it, mischievously marking steaks of saliva along your skin. A few seconds later, his ring and index finger joined the party within you.

Your grip on his shoulders lowered down his back, eagerly clawing at the hard and chiselled muscles, but his damned shirt got in the way. You pulled back, Coriolanus’ lips robbed of your breasts. He glanced at you, his fingers continuing their thrusts. Your hands flew to tug at the buttons of his shirt. The first few you’d managed to undo, but you had finite patience for the others, resorting to an aggressive tug that split the buttons from the fabric.

“Are you going to pay for that?” Coriolanus jested lightly.

“I’m sure there’s plenty more shirts where that one came from,” you said hastily, yanking the sleeves down his broad shoulders.

You instantly dove in to kiss at his chest. He’d never been excessively muscled, but he was still strong and toned, his frame broad and absolutely mouth-watering to gaze upon. Your hands wandered along his chest, sliding along his shoulders and down his arms. You attempted to tug his shirt all the way off, Coriolanus aiding your motion as he momentarily pulled his fingers from inside you.

He rolled his shoulders and removed his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. You glanced at his torso, now completely exposed to you. You couldn’t stifle the smile on your lips, thinking that he looked a lot like a male stripper—bare-chested yet still clothed from the waist down, presenting himself on a chair. All he was missing was a sexy dance of some sort.

Coriolanus frowned at your gawking. “What’s on that mind of yours?”

You pursed your lips. “Nothing,” you answered, placing a kiss on his lips. You moved to murmur in his ear, “now If it’s not too much to ask, would you kindly stick your fingers back inside of me?”

When you withdrew to look at him, Coriolanus wore a wicked smirk. “What a slutty thing to say.” His fingers returned to your cunt, but instead of easing his way inside, he opted for his whole hand at once.

You didn’t know whether you were more shocked at his gesture, or the way your cunt had easily welcomed him. His movements were considerably less cautious than before, but you didn’t care about that now, only that he was finally inside of you. You let out a lengthy moan, so eager to verbalise your appreciation. Your hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading them together as you tilted your head back.

You closed your eyes and focused on his hand inside you, how each thrust grew deeper and closer to your sweet spot. It’s as though he’d already mapped out your insides, his fingers knowing exactly which way to wander. Gods, you truly didn’t know whether you or Coriolanus enjoyed this more. He kept up a regular pace for a while, and you’d quickly grown impatient and needy for his brutality.

“Faster,” you complained.

Coriolanus slowed his movements, coming to a complete stop. He wholly expected the miserable look on your face as your head snapped down to face him. How could he allow you to think that he was here to serve you, as opposed to you serving him. He wasn’t just going to hand you what you wanted, life certainly hadn’t been that generous with him. No, you’d have to work for it.

“Okay, we can go faster,” he said, cocking his head slightly. You regained a spark at those words, but it quickly blew out at what came next. “But you’ll do it yourself, since you’re unsatisfied with what I’m giving you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—“ you attempted to protest, but Coriolanus cut you off with free his index finger pressing against your lips, his lips fashioned in a hush.

“No talking,” he murmured. “Just get to work.” He beckoned down to your cunt, his hand motionless inside of you.

Devastated at having to do the work yourself, you crossed your arms around his neck, your expression adorably resentful as you lifted your hips and began to ride him. Coriolanus lowered his free hand to rest at your hip, his attention wandering to your breasts. He couldn’t have ignored them even if he tried, not when they were bouncing inches from his face and calling out for attention. Your moans quickly commenced, your hips already starting to tremble with your next orgasm. You tossed your head back, your movements becoming uncoordinated, like your body had already started to give up.

Coriolanus felt your walls begin to clench around his hand, glancing up to glimpse your face. “Look at me,” he called to you. Your head lowered to face him at once, your eyelids drooping. “Are you going to cum?” He asked, and you nodded eagerly, followed by a strewn out moan.

Good, he thought. His hand on your hip began to press against your movements, interrupting the pace you’d managed to get going. Your eyes widened as your orgasm retracted into a dissatisfying gasp, the high that had been building instantly collapsed at your sudden lack of movement.

“Coriolanus,” you snapped, your tone coming across as a whine. You’d become frustrated with his teasing, and your body shared the sentiment. Your clit ached now, exhausted tremors seizing every muscle of your body. “You’re being a dick!”

“No,” he countered, pulling his hand from your entrance. He looked condescending as his eyes flickered across you face. “I’m punishing you, just like I promised. You’re getting exactly what you deserve, but you’re spoiled and used to getting your way.”

You didn’t have anything to retort, so you glared at him in silence, ignoring the hurt that his words had inflicted upon you.

“Don’t pout,” he murmured, wiping his wet hand along your thigh.

Then, without warning, he hoisted you up at the thighs and manoeuvred you bridal-style from the bathroom towards the bedroom. He lowered you onto the undone comforters of his bed, leaning down with you to place a swift kiss on your furrowed brows. He straightened up at the foot of the bed, his hands reaching for your calves.

“You want to cum?” He asked, his fingers wrapping around your legs to pull you down the bed and closer to where he stood. “I’ll make you cum, over and over again.” That was a promise.

Your lips parted with shock, words scattering from your tongue as his hands travelled over yours knees and grabbed at your thighs. He pried your legs apart, exposing your cunt to him. The last view you captured of him was the way his eyes traced your exposed lower half, a barely noticeable smirk pulling at one corner of his lips. Then, his head dipped into you, his tongue flat and rough on your folds.

You threw your head back into the sheets, your fingers instantly curling into the material as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded and preventing you from getting carried away into another universe. Coriolanus was conscious to strike his nose against your tender clit every so often, clearly enjoying the way it sent a jerk through your body. It was like his own personal control-switch to play with. You were too exhausted to limit the noises that you produced for him, so everything came out a loud and blabbering mess. You didn’t ever want to stop being touched this way.

Coriolanus was a clean man. He liked to keep his hair tamed, his jaw void of any developing beard that he felt would deface his appearance. But it had to have been a week since his last shave, you thought. You could feel the faint stubble poking through, grazing your intimate area as he ravished you below. It was the perfect addition to your arousal, adding just enough noise to push you into overstimulation.

You fought the urge to lift your lower half from the sheets, to greedily claim a deeper thrust of his tongue. He wouldn’t take kindly to that, and you didn’t think you had the capacity to endure any more teasing. Instead, you opened your thighs even wider, your hands releasing the comforter to grip at your breasts.

Coriolanus approved of your behaviour, his praise coming in the form of his tongue up your entrance. You let slip a breathy gasp, your jaw clenching at the lightning that seemed to obscure your vision.

“Fuck, Coriolanus,” you drawled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Please—let me cum!”

He hummed against your clit, the vibrations serving as the fucking icing on top of this sex-themed cake. You core knotted, your breath catching in your throat. Your eyes screwed shut, the pressure building and building and threatening to spill over as Coriolanus’ tongue picked up the pace. He twirled your clit around, his fingers pinching at your thighs, and just like that, your body released all the tension of the evening.

Your chest bobbed up and down with heavy breathing, not feeling as though you could bear to open your eyes. It’s only when you felt Coriolanus’ warmth withdraw from your thighs that you lifted your head to glance up at him. He straightened up and met your gaze with an impressed look, his perfect lips offering a smile—a genuine smile. The sight set off butterflies in your stomach. He was proud of you and your performance.

“You did well, dove,” he praised.

You beamed at his compliment, words not easily extracted from him. The sheen on his jaw caught your attention, your heart jolting with shame to see him absolutely doused in your juice. It trailed well down his neck and onto his chest, making a point to follow the natural contours of his pecs.

“I’m sorry—“ a hand flew to your mouth, hardly believing that you’d produced a mess of that magnitude.

“Sorry?” Coriolanus mocked, his perfect teeth flashing in a laugh. “Don’t be. It’s a compliment. You show your appreciation like a real woman, just the way I like it.”

You watched as his hands lowered to his red trousers, his fingers moving to undo the button. You glanced back at him in alarm.

“You didn’t think we were done just yet?” He asked, his smile turning wicked as he unzipped his trousers and pulled it down. “I edged you twice,” he explained. “And I’d like to think I’m a fair man. So,” he paused and lowered his underwear, which freed his erection. “I owe you another good time.”

He stepped out from the last of his clothing, towering over your body as he inched his way toward you. “I won’t lie, though,” he murmured once he’d reached your ear. “I’m doing this mostly for me. I think I’ve waited long enough to feel you, really feel you.”

You glanced up at him, your eyes large and pleading like a pathetic mutt begging for scraps. “I don’t think I can take any more, Coriolanus.”

“Did it feel good, what you did just now?”

“It felt like heaven,” you told him softly.

“Then this time will feel like being completely reborn,” Coriolanus insisted, his hand relocating hair from your sticky face. “And even if it doesn’t, you’ll push through because this is your punishment, and punishment is not always meant to be enjoyable.”

You glanced off to the side, hating how much the cold look in his eyes stirred something inside of you.

Coriolanus found satisfaction in the way his words kept you silent. He grabbed your chin and turned you back to him, his thumb pressing into your lower lip before he planted a hollow kiss in its stead. He placed his forearm beside your head, leaning onto that side as his other hand reached down for his cock. He gave a lazy pump across his hard length, a pathetic attempt at spreading his pre-cum. He didn’t need to do any better, not when your drenched cunt offered enough lubrication for him to enter without a struggle.

And it did, without a single hitch, as he pushed himself inside of you. Your soft gasp sounded in his ear, his attention still trained below. Once he was sure he was properly inside of you, he turned his head up and placed his arm on the other side of your head. You felt so warm and welcoming, definitely a lot more relaxed than the previous times he’d stuck his cock inside of you.

He began to thrust, not having much patience to start slow and gradually build up the pressure. This entire evening had been leading up to this moment, the opportunity for him to be in this exact position. He’d spent all of his patience, now he just needed to finish what he’d set out to do. He was pleased to feel your hands snake beneath his arms and take up a hold on his back, that is until your nails suddenly sunk into his skin.

He let out pained moan, his gaze growing fierce at the satisfaction on your face. Two could play that game. He withdrew his length a far way out, his tip almost slipping from your entrance entirely, before he rammed himself back inside with an animalistic thrust. His tip collided with your g-spot, a harsh and sudden greeting to the sensitive area.

You let out a scream, your stomach lifting against him. Before you could process the shock, he rammed into you again, and again, and again. Each time, he returned with the same force, and not once did he fail to miss his target. Your nails in his skin continued to sink deeper, the both of you reduced to nothing more than grunting and gasping.

The bed creaked with every movement, the room echoing with the raw percussion of your skin-on-skin contact. Coriolanus bucked into you with such aggression that he began to moan with every sway of his hips. His hands, trapping your head on either side, slipped behind your head to grip at your hair. He yanked, opening up your neck to him. You moaned as his lips buried against your skin, the tip of his nose flattening into you as his teeth sought out your skin.

His movements became jerky, his teeth gritted as he grunted against your neck. You slipped a hand from his back to bury it into his hair, fastening your fingers around his blond wisps that had turned curly from the sweat of his activity.

“I’m going to cum,” he breathed into your neck, his hand flying to one of your thighs. He pulled it up to wrap around his lower half, his thrusts growing violently needy. “Fuck,” he spat, then called your name desperately. You felt too good, especially now that your walls seemed to clench around him—he knew that you were close, too.

Your second orgasm arrived, the hot wetness pooling around his length. He couldn’t maintain his control anymore. At last, he gave himself over to his pleasure, his movements becoming sluggish as he felt his release inside of you. He didn’t stop his thrusts, not until he felt himself empty every last drop inside of you.

Coriolanus collapsed beside you, his hand finding your cheek and pulling your head against his chest. For many minutes, nobody spoke, each one struggling to regain their breath. His other hand held your lower body against him, keeping his cock secure inside of you. He could feel your mingled juices leaking along his thigh and onto the sheets, a mess he didn’t mind right now.

You burrowed into Coriolanus’ arm, a tired sigh leaving your lips. “Fucking hell,” was all you could manage to say after an ordeal like this. Tonight had been his most brutal fuck thus far.

Your body ached everywhere, and you weren’t sure your swollen clit would ever forgive you for what you’d brought upon it. You supposed it served you right for trying to make him jealous by flirting with another man. You’d never stupidly test his limits that way again, that was for sure. You two laid in comfortable silence, riding out the last of your highs.

“Coriolanus,” you called to him softly, your fingers playing with his. “Do you love me?”

Coriolanus tilted his head down to you, his eyes widening at the sudden question. His lips parted to say something, but he quickly bit on his tongue. It was clear that your need for his attention had grown into something more profound, that you’d started to care about him in more than just what he had to offer your body. He turned his gaze up to the roof. “My position doesn’t permit me the time to love,” he answered carefully.

Your hair shuffled against his arm as you sat yourself up to face him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He turned his gaze back onto you, calling your name softly. “I have goals to achieve in this world. It leaves little time for relationships.”

Your eyes held disappointment. “Then what’s the point of all of this?”

“The point,” Coriolanus said, taking your hand into his, his thumb rubbing comforting circles across your skin. “Is that we keep each other company, offer a comfort that others couldn’t gift us even if they tried. We satisfy each other in ways that only we know how to.”

“So I’m just a source of entertainment to you?” You snapped, attempting to pull your hand from his, but his grasp on you tightened.

“Am I anything different to you?” He asked, his tone level, his cool eyes challenging. “Don’t mount a high horse, not when you entered this knowing exactly what you were in for. I take care of you and I make you feel good—that’s plenty more than you would’ve gotten back in the district and in any other location in the Capitol, for that matter. Would you rather go back to your district, back to a cold bed and an empty stomach with nobody to rely on? Maybe you’d rather I put you on the market for as some Capitol slut looking for her next sponsor. I can make that happen—“

“No!” You interrupted, your hard eyes thawing with a look of horror, like you’d recalled all the terrible memories of your life in the district. It was far from pleasant, a past you’d have liked to forget for good. You had nobody, nothing to return to.

As for the Capitol, you knew that there were infinite weirdos and perverts that would marvel at the opportunity to get their hands on a hunger games victor, especially one that had been branded by Coriolanus Snow more than once. You could only imagine what sort of prize that made you, a collectible to be displayed. The thought made your stomach turn.

“I don’t want that,” you said, your head lowering in defeat. “I just want you.”

Coriolanus’s eyes raked across your figure, so slumped in submission and hopelessness. He realised then just how much he’d broken you, reshaped you into a lapdog that would only eat directly out of his hand. “Good,” he murmured. “I want you, too. Only you.” His free hand moved to cup your chin, tilting it to face him. “And maybe. . . you could teach me how to love.”

Your eyes widened at those words, the hand clasped in his going stiff. He tugged at you, pulling you into him. Your head found its way nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his chin moving to rest atop your head. He continued to play with your fingers, his other arm cushioning your neck and holding you against him. He felt your breathing slow into an easy sleep, your warm breath flushing against his chest. He closed his own eyes, breathing deeply at the sweet scent radiating from your hair. He allowed it to lull him to sleep, mulling over your interaction.

He’d known the truth for years already—that his heart bore no capacity for love. It had saddened him, at first, made him feel as though he’d been formed wrong in the womb. His father had loved his mother enough to bring him into this world—his cousin, Tigris, had loved him, too, to the point where she’d have sacrificed everything to ensure that he’d survived the war. Sejanus, too, had loved him like a brother, trusted him with all that he was, and it had ultimately killed him.

All his life, Coriolanus had been cradled with love, but he’d been forever cursed with the inability to return it. It had taken him years to accept it, until one day, everything had clicked into place.

Perhaps he wasn’t meant to love, not when the world had become a disastrous mess in need of order, in need of somebody to bring it to that stage. He knew then that he could offer the order that Panem needed. Peace came at the cost of blood, and blood came at the cost of strength. Strength meant that love had no place and no say in the hard decisions to be made, for its love that made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was a weakness. He didn’t bear that weakness, and he never would.

As for you? Well, you were somewhat of a complicated matter as of now. When it came down to it—the decision between you and his destiny, he’d choose destiny without a doubt. But for now, he’d keep you close. He’d shower you with attention, spoil you with his touch, offer you everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. And once you’ve lost all worth to him, he’d discard of you.

Coriolanus knew that his path was one headed straight for the top, to claim the title of president of Panem. All that he’d done to get here, everything that he’d achieved up until now, it was all just the beginning. He was glad now—that he could not find it in himself to love anyone. It left him free of any liabilities, gave his enemies not even a fraction of power to hurt him.

For it’s the things we love most that destroy us.

════════════════════════

You MUST know I had to include that iconic line

Anyways, I’m sincerely sorry that this fic is like 15k words. I always tell myself to keep it simple but I’ve literally got no say over what happens once my fingers start typing away. I hope you all have enjoyed this read. I’m not TOO sure how I feel about it, but I think I’ve just gotten to the point where I’ve proof-read it so much that I honestly can’t stand it anymore.

This is my first every coryo fic and it was incredibly daunting to write, considering that he is such a complex character to portray and because I unintentionally resorted to flowing between his and the reader’s perspective, which I usually hate, but shit happens. I’ve never read the books (I am getting them for my birthday yay) so it was difficult to get inside of his mind given that I’ve never trod there before. In any case, I hope that I did his character justice in this blabbering mess, even if I did add my own sadistic twist lmao.

MERRY CHRISTMAS MY LOVELIES🎄

Your comments & reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you!! ~

I take requests (so long as I’m comfortable writing it) <3

════════════════════════

[reiding-writing]

I feel bad for sending one request after another but like okay hear me out, Spencer is cold and it's very obvious that his skinny ass purple scarf doesnt do much, so reader lends him theirs and he gets really flustered because it smells like them 😭

scented scarves [ s.r ]

Summary:

Vegas was a pretty warm city even in the winter, a stark contrast to Quantico’s freezing temperature. Needless to say, Spencer wasn’t fairing very well in the cold, and your offer of your scarf leaves him flustered and mildly overwhelmed.

WARNINGS: n/a

pairing: spencer reid × gn!reader

genre: fluff

wc: 1.2k

masterlist!!

a/n: this one’s pretty short but i hope it suffices nonetheless!

thank you for the request, you’re welcome to send as many as you want <33

It was -2 degrees celsius. 28 degrees fahrenheit.

In other words, absolutely fucking freezing.

The joys of living in Virginia.

It was blatantly obvious which of your team members were acclimated to the colder climates, or more accurately, who wasn’t.

Anyone who walked into your office, profiler or otherwise, would be able to tell.

Garcia was wrapped up in a chunky knitted sweater, a pair of thick tights under her skirt as she padded across the bullpen back to her tech dungeon with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands.

Prentiss was wearing a shirt and a sweater, her hands held out in front of a mini heater on the top of her desk in a desperate attempt to warm up her extremities so the rest of her body would follow suit.

And Spencer…

Spencer was sat cross legged in his chair with two pairs of socks on, a knitted vest over his shirt and a cardigan over his vest, his signature purple scarf wrapped around his neck and covering his chin as his hands gripped his coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping him from turning into a human icicle.

Poor Spencer Reid. Vegas really didn’t serve him well when it came to Quantico winters.

If his trembles weren’t so adorably funny you’re sure you’d feel bad for the boy, but instead you’re muffling a laugh as you walk across the bullpen to sit at your desk beside him, disposing of your bag under the table and unfurling your chunky knitted scarf from your neck to drape over the back of your chair.

One of the pros of being born and bred in Virginia is that you didn’t have to worry about freezing from the inside out.

Spencer’s eyes follow you as you take your seat, and you swear you can see him shudder when you remove your scarf, as if you removing a layer of warmth made him colder.

“You good over there?” You can’t help the amusement painting your face as Spencer stares at you like you’ve got a second head.

“How are you not freezing?” Spencer’s tone carries genuine bewilderment as his eyes scan what you’re wearing, a pair of black slacks and a white shirt, alongside a semi formal blazer that you also shed to lie over your chair.

“It’s climate acclimation Spence, you of all people should know that,”

His expression doesn’t change at your answer, continuing to blankly stare at you like some foreign species that had just invaded the earth. “I know that- logically… But still i’m literally shaking from how cold it is,”

“That’s what happens when you’re a Vegas baby who moves to Virginia,” You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly as Spencer huffs, taking another sip of his hot coffee in attempt to regulate his body temperature back to something warmer, tucking the narrow purple strips of thin-knitted fabric under his chin to expose his mouth to the mug.

“That scarf isn’t going to do you very much you know, it’s basically a glorified fashion piece,” You weren’t trying to knock on Spencer’s scarf by any means, it’d become a staple of his office wear, one that you definitely weren’t complaining about, but in weather like this it wasn’t really doing him any favours.

“I know…” Spencer sighs at his own intolerance to cold weather.

You’d think having worked in Quantico for half a decade would have stopped him from turning into a human icicle the minute the temperature dropped into the negatives, but no, of course it didn’t. Of course he continued to feel like he was sat in a bathtub full of ice despite having four layers on. Of course he did.

You push your chair back from your desk, the noise of it’s friction against the cheap carpeting of the floor drawing Spencer’s eyes to you once more, and to you bring yourself to your feet and pull your scarf from under your blazer with a small amount of struggle before walking over to him, the scarf stretched out between your two hands.

Spencer doesn’t have the time to question what you’re doing before your scarf is wrapped around his neck, immediately engulfing him in a cocoon of extra heat that his own scarf failed to provide.

He didn’t have time to thank you either, as you departed with a ruffle of your hand in his hair towards the kitchenette to fix yourself a coffee.

At first he’s confused.

Then he’s warm.

And then the lingering scent embedded in the yarn hits his nose and he flushes a bright pink, thankfully hidden under the knit.

Of course it would smell like you. It was your scarf. Your cells would cling to the yarn as you wore it and leave a permanent trace of you behind.

But it smelled like you. And any lingering molecules of coffee in his sensory neurons were immediately overridden with your scent instead.

Any conscious sense of being cold had left his body. His trembling had seemingly stopped, his brain too focused on your scent invading his nose and making him feel fuzzy inside.

You returned with your cup of coffee soon after, Spencer still coming to terms with his reality as you take your seat again. “You look much warmer now,”

You half insinuate the flush on his cheeks, although he’s unsure if you recognise the origin behind it or if you genuinely just believe that your scarf has helped insulate his neck and warm up his face. Which it had, but not as much as your scent had done.

Spencer’s normally sharp mind stumbled over words, and he couldn't help but fidget with the ends of the scarf as he tried to formulate a response.

"Yeah… thanks," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact, his cheeks tinged with a subtle blush.

His reaction brought a soft smile to your face, alongside a small chuckle at his seeming inability to form a full sentence. "You're welcome Spencer, but it's just a scarf,”

But for Spencer, it was more than that, it was a tangible connection to you. The combination of your proximity and the familiar fragrance leaving him pleasantly flustered and mildly overstimulated.

As the day unfolded, the team couldn't help but notice the change in Spencer's demeanour. Teasing remarks were exchanged, and Spencer, although still focused on his files, couldn't escape the playful banter.

At the end of the day, you approached him, a twinkle in your eye. "I think you should keep the scarf," you suggested, "You need it more than I do."

Spencer's shy smile revealed his appreciation, and he nodded, holding onto the scarf as a cherished memento of a day that had unravelled his usual composure.

[moongreenlight]

I will never stop comparing all the 141 boys to dogs in my fics. Unfortunately I am unable. Thanks but no thanks. Wdym they’re not a pack of strays? Wydm ‘pack’ mentality doesn’t directly translate? Literally what are you not understanding?

Wdym Price isn’t an Anatolian shepherd? Bred specifically to be a guardian of livestock? His life’s purpose is to defend? He instinctually knows how to keep the structure of the pack intact? Pointed corrections made by a bite to the throat or baring his teeth that may seem drastic to some, but his herd understands that it’s a necessary evil? Gentile giant to those who he’s serving for and with but an apex predator to anyone else?

Wdym Gaz isn’t a border collie who learned how to herd from Price? Follows in his footsteps by quickly learning to nip at the heels of stragglers to keep them in line? Loves learning new tricks because he’s agile and always needing stimulation? Insatiable need to work and see tasks through not only well but to be the best that’s ever been?

Wdym Soap isn’t a Belgian malinois? Snapping his jaws and vibrating with kinetic energy that’s just begging to be harnessed and used to his handler’s aid? Wicked smart and playful until he’s instructed to work? Needs constant attention and supervision and structure in order to reach his full potential? Quite literally sniffs out trouble and offers his full dedication to stomping out the problem? Competitive and destructive until his efforts are focused on something more productive? Needs a firm hand to be his motivating force?

Wdym Ghost isn’t a Doberman? Forced into a dogfighting ring and set loose to the streets by a group of well-meaning protesters like that was any better? Cropped ears and docked tail and freckled with scars where fur won’t grow? Conditioned by years of trauma to immediately bare his teeth and snarl to project a vicious front if made uncomfortable? Who’s rehabilitated into something much more palatable by the structure of a pack?

What do you mean dude?

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

Idk if anyone else shares this opinion but what they did to toothless’s personality (let alone how they changed his design…) in the third movie was just… so dumb.

He acts like a stupid, horny dog for a majority of the movie, and in ninety percent of the scenes the light fury is in. He doesn’t have the natural, catlike personality he had in the first two movies; and the writers of the third movie’s reasoning for it is because he’s been “domesticated”… like all domesticated animals all act like… overgrown dogs. When none of the other dragons that the Vikings have act anything like toothless.

Why the fuck would an animal that is supposed to be known for its INTELLIGENCE act anything like THIS

Simply because it has been around humans???

And before you yell at me about dogs being like that; modern dog breeds are a far shot from their ancestors. In some cases, dogs like toy breeds have been bred over generations to be nothing but PETS. They do not serve a logistical function, and as such they are very dumb in comparison to other animals.

And even then, I know from experience- an animal like toothless- who shows a wild, more feral and catlike personality is not going to randomly start displaying traits where it acts like a completely different animal because they’ve been “domesticated”. Which they haven’t. Domestication takes years upon years of selective breeding. Toothless has been living in human captivity because for the longest time, he had a disability- and he STILL DOES- that would cause him to be unable to be rereleased into the wild because he is unable to fend for his goddamn self. (Once his prosthetic tail fin breaks HE IS DEAD.)

Wildlife rehabilitation doesn’t work the way httyd3 is trying to portray it does. Realistically, toothless would never have been rereleased back into the wild simply because the person felt that dragons needed to hide. Toothless would eventually die because he did not have someone to care for his tail fin.

I’m sorry this went on for so long… but httyd 3 did literally every single character so damn dirty.

[psychopasss4]

PPP Novel is out❣️

...just in time for the Lunar New Year Eve, Feb. 9th. 🎉

Noitamina Shop will hold Arata Shindo-kun's bday campaign and at the same time promotes the PPP novel sale 🥂🥳.

Have you already prepared dried persimmons? 🤗 You know, in ancient times people used to wind-hang outside Hoshigaki, thus the Japanese lantern shape we know about today were taken from. 📸 Google Images.

Quick Review:

During the premier of PPP movie before the Global launch, fans kept asking Dir. Shiotani about

The meaning of empty liquor bottle in Kogami's desk.

Why Kogami removed his jacket during his balcony scene

And his answer were simple. Kogami didn't know the difference of wearing it inside or outside. At first, I thought it was some kind of a funny little joke, or I didn't understand the words full well (I'm not a full-bred Japanese though I studied Nihonggo way back in grade school).

But if you read the PPP novel, you will realize Kogami isn't fully adjusted from his traumatic experiences as a mercenary overseas 🤧. So he doesn't feel how to act just as he used to when he's back.

And ofcourse, we all know he and Saiga only emptied the liquor after long hours of chatting and Tonami profiling.

2. It's interesting that the writing team have taken the pulse of the fans during the Q&A session, thus some points in PPP novel is what we might've expect after all 🤭.

3. Some may say it's nothing new. As it seems the writing team pretty much remain loyal to the movie summary. But if you read between the lines, you realize how it is a bit forgiving & fan-serving, compare to the movie itself 👍🏻.

4. The locations...last minute alterations... 😆😂.

5. And ofcourse the last time Akane spent with Saiga on his detention cell 😭. She literally blame herself for asking him to come to them on Dejima in MoFA's HQ to retrieve the Stronskaya Papers a day after. Which we all know ended tragically.

6. She pulls the trigger. She question the justice. Which quotes the same kind of line from PP3 novel when she's writing her thoughts down in an analogue typewriter. From that scene she thought of Kogami's action and how Sybil judged him for that.

But in PPP novel, no doubt she puts into consideration the life of Atsushi Shindo and how he was used as a pawn, only to be a master pawn who puppets the life of another pawn like what happened to Akira Ignatov.

Aswell as Akira Ignatov's sacrifice. He volunteered to be a puppet for the sake of the future generation. For the sake of his brother in particular 😢😓😓😢.

7. Frede-chan's holding back and being indecisive to keep the truth about the mission to Kogami. Is like keeping her phone number to her crush 😹🤭. Sure, she's just conscious how would Kou-chan would react since she knows Saiga and him are pretty close 😮‍💨.

8. The writing team did a pretty good job by staying true to their plot work. They know what they're doing. As if taken up some piece of advice from Gege Akutami 😅😂.

9. The last scene is pretty much heart-aching but well executed 😘🤌🏻❤️

10. The General was a medical AI but I wonder if the creator of Sybil also created that?... how about BiFrost? Oh hello, Season 4! We're waving at you ☺️😀!

11. Many hate Akane for trying to control Kogami, again?! Let me get this straight, SHE ISN'T CONTROLLING ANYONE!

There's a MASSIVE difference when he a.) first pulled the trigger against Makishima (out of revenge) and when he b.) pulls that against Tonami.

Akane knows it best.

a) She doesn't want him to be a person swallowed by revenge like Sasuke (Naruto).

b) She hopes Kogami is back for the better but instead he acted again with his animal instinct which indicates he can still be easily outplayed by emotions instead of not letting it get the human out of him.

Akane still looks up to Kogami. She knows he was labeled as a latent criminal by Sybil. But the way Kou acted is like proving to Sybil that their labeling of him as latent criminal was right. And if there's one thing Akane isn't fond of, that is proving Sybil right.

So it's not about Kogami. It's about her campaign against Sybil's false and unfair judgement! So don't mock her! 😖

Lastly, PPP novel is enjoyable because a lot of fans are exerting efforts to translate it to English for fans abroad. Kudos to you all❣️

Not everyone have the time, capacity and dedication you've spent. Including me, I'm not good in translation. So thank you. You are the heart of PSYCHO-PASS franchise global expansion ❤️🥰.

End of Review.

Okay, so that wasn't a quick one 😋 sorry about that. I just hope you guys have a wonderful day. Have fun and enjoy everything that you do!

🥰🤗

Meanwhile, the original crew of PP1 are in their podcast discussing how the series have been progressing so far 😋😂

Nah! It's just a trace sketch of CD Discussion Vol. 1

🤣🤣🤣

[achaotichuman]

Acotar Rant Time

The amount of shit Rhysand says about Tamlin that's just straight up not true is so annoying. The main reasons people hate Spring boy is just because of whatever Rhysand or Morrigan has conjured up to make the Night Court look better.

I'm fairly certain it was Morrigan who went on her little tangent about how Feyre would have been 'bred like a prized mare' at the Spring Court. When Tamlin literally mentioned in passing having a SINGLE son far into the future. At the tithe he told Feyre his son would continue on with the duties of High lord, then added, someday. SOMEDAY he didn't want a kid immediately, and I highly doubt Tamlin even wanted children for the sake of having children, it was a duty he would HAVE to fulfill, it wasn't optional, he needed an heir. I have my theories if Tamlin had a choice he wouldn't ever have children. Especially since it is mentioned oh so many times that he wanted to go off in a travelling act, I doubt he even wanted a relationship. I also find it so, so difficult to believe that Tamlin would have wanted more than one child because he grew up in a household with older siblings. He damn well knows the competition in a place like that. He carries the trauma of it everyday! He would never want to inflict that on his kid!

Then there's Rhysand. He was the one who carried on about how Tamlin should've tried to get Feyre out from Under the Mountain. He did! He sent her back to the human lands to get her away from Amarantha! It was Feyre's choice to go Under the Mountain. She could've stayed in the human lands and lived a rich, lavish life, and she chose to go after Tamlin. Not to mention, Amarantha had been waiting for Tamlin for fifty years, she wasn't about to give him any chance to run. Rhysand actually said to Feyre Under the Mountain that eyes and ears were on Tamlin at all times. If Tamlin tried to get her out from Under the Mountain, he would've failed and signed Feyre's death warrant. Not to mention human Feyre used to be badass as fuck and would've absolutely scoffed at Tamlin if he tried to get her out from the Under the Mountain, she loved him and the Spring Court. She wouldn't have left even if given the chance.

Then there's what Rhysand said about Tamlin locking Feyre up because 'he knew she was gem'. Now, what Tamlin did to Feyre was abusive. He did become abusive during that period of time towards her, none of what I'm about to state disagrees with that. However, if you're going to hate this man, hate him for legitimate reasons. Tamlin never locked her up 'because she was a gem he wanted to hoard'. That's a straight up lie. It is stated many, many times throughout Acomaf and Acowar that Tamlin locked Feyre up because in his mind that was the only way to prevent her from getting into danger. He had an actual concern, and that concern was valid, but he took it way, way, way too far. He never should've locked her in there. I'm glad that Feyre got away from that situation. But he never *wanted* to hurt her. Tamlin has never been a malicious man (cough unlike Rhysand cough) His abuse towards Feyre was terrible and she absolutely was right in getting out. But none of his abuse was ever designed to hurt her. When it comes to narcissists, or self-serving abusers, their abuse is carefully crafted, it is designed to hurt. Tamlin however never intended to hurt her. It wasn't crafted to break her. Tamlin's mental health is completely fucked, and I highly doubt he ever came out of fight or flight mode, if you've ever been stuck in fight or flight mode, you'd know it fucking sucks. Every single little thing becomes a massive threat. And in his fucked mind Tamlin was convinced the actions he was taking were the best course of action to protect her from harm, not to cause it. Obviously, this does not excuse his actions, but it does help to explain them, and knowing what drove you to do things is the first step in being able to take accountability and then work on it.

Not to mention, Tamlin has taken accountability, he knows he's fucked up. He helped bring Rhys back to life, told Feyre to be happy because he knew that couldn't happen if she was with him, then he fucked off back to the Spring Court.

And you know what really drives me up the fucking wall? When Feyre insisted she was stronger now and didn't need protection from the sentries and Tamlin responded with "my family were fae and they were killed quite easily." Like that is a valid fucking point! They were killed very easily! Tamlin would be extremely traumatized from that! He probably blames himself for not protecting his mother! The death of his family is most likely one of the core reasons for his extreme paranoia! Am I saying he was justified in his actions in protecting Feyre? No! What I am saying is that you cannot hate him because of his intentions! Hate him for his actions, fine! But never once throughout this entire goddamned series did he intentionally want to hurt Feyre!

Anyway, this post is quite long, sorry for that. In summary, hate Tamlin all you want, but at the very least hate him for the things he actually did. I'm probably missing a ton of other things Rhysand's straight up made up about Tamlin, but these are the main things I've found people hate him for. Tell me if I've missed anything.

[djuvlipen]

You actually have to be brain dead if you believe Romani women are oppressed for our ~gender identity and not for our biological sex. You listen to trans activists and they tell you "misogyny is hating women and a woman is someone who identifies as a woman." But Romani women never could and never can identify out of our oppression, because it is sex-based. Just look at history. For 500 years Eastern European Romani women were raped by their white 'masters'. During the Atlantic slave trade, Western European Romani women were shipped off to American colonies and sold as slaves on plantations to be bred with black slaves. They were literally called "breeding slaves". During the Holocaust, Antonescu's army established brothels consisting only of Romani women, who were also forced to serve in brothels in Nazi concentration camps. Still today Romani women make up a large portion of the women trafficked and forced into prostitution in Europe. Are they oppressed because they identify as women? Could they escape all of this by just saying "actually I go by he/him"? No, they are oppressed because misogyny is about being oppressed for being of the female sex. In this context, saying otherwise is victim blaming.

Several European countries (Germany, Sweden, Czechoslovakia) forcibly sterilized Romani women over the course of the 20th century. Misogyny against Romani women has always been about controlling our bodies, our reproductive abilities, sexually assaulting us. No one would want to identify into that and not wanting to suffer that doesn't mean you're not a woman.

That's why transactivism doesn't mean anything to Romani women who know just a little bit about our history. When you're constantly assaulted and persecuted because of your biological sex, it makes no sense to turn around and say "womanhood is a feeling, misogynists target the people who feel like women"

[usedtobethelegendcreator]

Alright. Alright. If I’m going to be hoodwinked into this fandom, I’m going to have some fun while I’m at it.

Alastor was a radio host in early 1900s New Orleans, Louisiana, and I’m gonna show you why.

1. He and Mimzy knew each other in life. I know we can’t really hear Alastor’s actual voice, but when the static clears up a little (happens maybe three times in the show so far), he does have a fancy accent. Mimzy, on the other hand, has a distinctive Southern drawl. And her reference to jazz—New Orleans was essentially the birthplace of jazz.

2. Look at Mimzy and Rosie. They both knew Alastor in life (it’s at least implied in Rosie’s case). They are both wearing clothes a fashionable New Orleans lady might conceivably wear in the 1900s. Mimzy is dressed for a club, and was either a dancer or a singer. Jazz might have been her dominant genre. And Rosie is dressed for a posh night on the town with friends.

3. Yes, those are Southern drawls. I grew up with that shit, I know what it sounds like.

4. His apparent love of jambalaya. I can not tell you how many times jambalaya has been served as a main dish at a Louisiana get-together. And I’ve never seen it anywhere else in the USA.

5. But, you may ask, what if Alastor isn’t American at all? Listen to him. Listen to him speak. That’s a New Orleans attitude right there.

6. New Orleans is literally known as SIN CITY. No WONDER he’s powerful.

7. He seems like the kind of guy who would love a Mardi Gras parade.

8. As for what he may have done…to this day, Louisiana doesn’t give a flying fuck if you’re a serial killer. Don’t get caught, and the cops will probably go back to their beignets. It’s the mothers and their guns you have to watch out for. And Alastor has the perfect voice for a tiny Louisiana kid to be completely fooled. Shit, I would’ve probably gone off with him without a second thought (if my mother wasn’t unusually paranoid).

9. His position in society would have likely protected him from any serious backlash. Louisiana has a very community-focused culture. In any given town, especially back then, everyone knew pretty much everyone. New Orleans included.

10. His deer motif. I don’t know if you know, but hunting is still a big thing in Louisiana. In the early 1900s, it would have been a perfectly acceptable pastime.

Source: Born and bred in Louisiana. 25% Cajun, 50% French. Alastor would fit right in and have the time of his life. Also…picture him eating a beignet.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

out of curiosity, do you have any preferred headcanons for how tall the members of the Batfam are? who's the tallest to shortest?

listen I don't have exact measurements but I do have vibes. I'm going to say right out of the gate that I simply do not hold with DC artists and their habit of Russian nesting dolling the Robins so they're each a little bit shorter with age, it's a useful visual shorthand but it's also not my truth even if I sometimes agree with portions.

for instance: I do have to concede that Bruce needs to be the tallest of the Batboys in order to enable a lot of his whole schtick, especially your modern era Batmans who are built to be tanks as opposed to the sleeker, more acrobatically-oriented Batman of earlier ages. Batfleck honestly had a great build for it, 6'4 and built to loom.

on the other hand, I Know what male gymnasts look like and Dick came from a whole family of them; he doesn't need to be SHORT short but brother he is not the tallest Robin by any stretch. he's 5'8 if he's Lucky, likely shorter. and he's fine with it! he isn't insecure about being a compact king!

I strongly dislike the recent development towards drawing adult Jason as a brute, but I have long enjoyed the headcanon that he would have had a hard growth spurt after Bruce took him in and he didn't have to worry about food insecurity. he is absolutely taller than Dick but, HOT TAKE, I don't think he's a Lot taller. as Red Hood he's definitely exaggerating the difference with chunky boots + his stupid full-face mask for extra height, + his jacket and all his gear make him look taller and broader than Nightwing in his little skintight getup. out of costume they physically look much more similar.

I also super hate when Tim is drawn as a skinny short little waif, genuinely there's no reason for that. that's a little American rich boy who grew up on milk and white bread, there's no reason for him to look like he has Victorian urchin wasting disease. fuck this, Tim is taller than both Dick and Jason. same energy as the improv kid I went to high school with who was 5'11 but cool about it.

completing the circle and fully reversing the Robins, I know that other fans have pointed out that Damian's Asian heritage conspires against him being hugelarge as an adult, but genetics are a grab bag and I think he deserves to be Bruce-sized. adult Damian can pick Dick up and put him in the fridge if he wants. at present though his growth spurt is really taking its sweet time and he's hovering around Cass-height (see below).

Duke is hovering in a zone right between Jason and Tim but everyone forgets that and imagines him being taller because the little bat ears on his helmet give him a couple extra inches.

a lot of older comics, especially the Dixon run, frequently have Selina drawn like she's tall as all hell, and I honestly love that for her. 5'11, Megan Thee Stallion kind of build for her.

Cass is frequently drawn as tiny to an extent that is, frankly, implausible and borderline upsetting (if memory serves she literally got folded up and carried in a backpack once?) but listen: she's certainly not tall. I'm willing to offer her 5'3 as an absolute maximum. also literally no one asked but Michelle Yeoh is the Lady Shiva of my heart and shes 5'4, so that's canon To Me.

however tall Dick is in your head I want you to add one (1) inch and that's Barbara. this is so crucial to me.

Steph is like a deeply average 5'4 and a half, and I realize this Does mean that I've Russian nesting dolled the Batgirls (at least in order of appearance in comics, not the actual order they Batgirls) and I am Fine with that. throw Harper Row in here too, she and Steph are just chilling being average height gal pals.

Helena is freakishly tall by Italian woman standards, by which I mean like 5'7.

this is vile and I'm sorry to the Robins but unfortunately Jean Paul is a genetically engineered freak bred to kill so he's probably taller than all of them save for an adult Damian. 6'2 to my miserable boy. beginning to think I was lying when I said I didn't have exact numbers.

so I think in descending order the lineup I've created is Bruce, JP, Selina and Tim, Duke, Jason and Babs, Dick, Helena, Steph and Harper, Damian, Cass.

did I skip anyone vital you want to know about?

[linkspooky]

Same anon for the Gojo post - loved your reply and mostly agree. However, although I see his motivations similarly + think it will come to bite him v soon, I kinda sympathise with him as I feel it's the role his strength has pushed him into. Like yes, he has people that care for him but the power difference is so extreme that he has to stand alone even when he's literally melting his brain to keep up. imo Gege might want to show that that much power in one person is inherently not a good thing

Continuing the discussion from [this post] and [this response], I agree anon Gojo is in the end a product of the system that he hates so much. Perhaps that's why Gojo's attempt at rebellion against sorcerer society is so flawed, because in the end he is still the Golden Child of that same society. In traditional Golden Child fashion there's basically no thought paid to the hardships in Gojo's life and he's not really seen as a person outside of his ability as a sorcerer.

Gojo's entire character is a meditation on having unlimited strength, and the limitations that come with it. He even realizes pretty early that all the strength in the world doesn't mean he's always capable of doing whatever he wants, and that he'll be able to save everyone he wants to save. My friend justapanda made a meta on how Gojo's actually one of the most limited characters in the series because of the nature of his strengths. I can list off the similiarities between Sukuna and Gojo all day, but unlike Sukuna, Gojo for the most part uses his strength for the masses and sorcerer society as a whole.

It seems only natural that not only would having the strength to fight a small nation's army single handedly alienate you from your much weaker peers, but also carrying sorcerer society on your back and working alone would only further serve to distance you from others.

Not only does Gojo continually work alone, none of his fellow teachers or sorcerers have any idea who he is - like as a person. There's an extra in volume ten where a lot of the main cast is interviewed about Gojo and they all just say some variation of "he's the strongest".

None of them say anything personal. On top of that we know for a fact several of the people who work with Gojo, including Nanami say that they can't stand him as a person but respect him as a sorcerer.

There's a pretty simliar character in Tokyo Ghoul who occupies the same spot that Gojo does as "The Strongest". An unnatural talent that puts all the other investigators / fighters in the CCG to shame and someone so unshakably strong he has no compettitors and seems untouchable in battle.

On top of that he seems to have no life / role / friends outside of his job. There's even a similiar scene wher eone character tries to interview everyone else to learn more about him.

In a twist it's revealed that despite Arima being the strongest character in the story, with a genius and talent that many people envied was someone with little to no agency over their own life. They're a natural born fighter yes, but in this case that's literal. He's a born and bred child soldier and that's the only thing he was ever allowed to be.

He's a character born to fight and kill ghouls, and nothing else. Even though he's perfect at what he does, he hates his life, he hates that he was born only to kill and he wants out of it. To the point where he turns against the society that made him just like Gojo did, even if he's one of the most respected members of that same society.

However, even if Arima wants to destroy the society he's a part of he's too big of a cog in that machine that he can't really see himself living in the new world. As one of the old guard when he destroys the old society he plans on dying along with it, and that's exactly what he does. He's too much of a product of the society he came from to exist without it, or eevn imagine anything better, the most he can do is destroy the old and hope someone else will make something new.

Arima and Gojo are characters who are similiarly people with talent that would supposedly allow them to do anything in life, but are actually rather limited in their agency. They're both stuck in the role that they were born in.

I'd say the difference is that Arima is much more self aware than Gojo will ever be. Gojo knows that he's lonely, he knows that there's something wrong with the society around him and he wants to fix it, but I think despite the fact that he did come to the realization that strength won't save everyone he still uses strength as his go-to problem solver.

His solution to the child soldiers that Jujutsu Society makes and sacrifices is to just... make stronger child soldiers. He says his goal is to destroy things and shake them up but he's not really out for destruction he's just making a regime change and putting his people in charge instead. Gojo knows Jujutsu Society is wrong, but he can't quite decode the "might makes right" that's been programmed into his head.

Having put that much power and responsibility on Gojo's shoulders may have just permanently rewired his brain to where he can't see himself existing outside of his role or any life outside of one as the strongest sorcerer like Arima's own tragic existence. Arima at least is self-aware enough to know that he doesn't want this life though, whereas Gojo is still charging ahead being Gojo.

You mention Gojo is literally melting his brain fighting alone, and just this latest chapter Kashimo even says something along the lines of even if it saves Gojo's life or beats Sukuna don't inrevene in the fight because this is Gojo's fight. Gojo's pride at being the strongest, is apparently more important than his life or the grand scheme of things.

You know priorities, but it does make sense this is tragically the only thing Gojo has really to base his identity around. Arima can't imagine a life in the better world he wants to create, whereas Gojo only know sorcerer society values of strength.

It makes me wonder if we're going to get a similiar ending to Gojo as we are to Arima. The tragic nature of being the strongest and his role as the golden boy of sorcerery society has just made it so that he can't really imagine a better world than the one we have right now, even if he wants to change or shake up sorcer society he's just too entrneched in it.

Arima ends his life by committing suicide to help bring down the CCG, whereas I don't see Gojo committing suicide but it's possible that the same way Arima died to bring down the old society with him Gojo might similiarly die alongside Sukuna. As a way to show that the old way of being a sorcerer and prioritizing strength over everything else is dying as an ideal and Gojo's students are going to rise up and replace him with a new way of doing things.

Which would make Gojo's character tragic in the same way Arima's is. Someone who genuinely wants better for the world but is unable to grow and adapt in time and therefore can't survive in the new world they want to create.

[engelfeather]

Fangs and Fur: chapter 10

Cool air blew against them as Angel entered the store. He felt how the human squirmed around a bit, seemed like it was a bit too cold for him. That didn't really matter though, he just had to make sure Xavier was nicely hidden in his fur. He didn't need anyone asking questions about him, let alone find out about Xavier to begin with. They'd take him away from him and he didn't want that. This was his human.. and he wouldn't want to share. Plus from all of his people he knew the most about humans, how frail they were, how they popped under his boots and how fun it was to crush them up in his mouth. He could practically feel their squirms in his maw already!

He let out a small purr which alerted the cashier. Their dark blue eyes looked at him, as they furrowed their brows and bared their teeth. Their light blue fur seemed to quite literally sizzle. Getting up from their chair, they stared at Angel intensely, clenching their fist. "It's you again! You still owe me money, remember?" Angel sighed and shrugged dramatically "It is what it is, I don't have your money at the moment.. hey maybe next time you're lucky and I'll remember." The cashier guy just growled, yet seemed to back off. Crossing their arms, they sat back down on their chair. Angel gave them a big grin and quickly made his way to some of the aisles.

He stopped in the middle of the aisle and gently petted his companions head, who was still shaken up by the current encounter. However Angel didn't seem to really care and instead bent down in order for Xavier to see the aisles that were meant for smaller people. "So.. you can show me what you can eat here and I'll just prepare you a nice meal with the items that I will then choose, alright?" Xavier cocked a brow "What you choose? I want to choose what I want to eat." the giant sighed, rolling his eyes and glanced down at Xavier. Between gritted teeth he hissed "Unless you want to cook a meal on my giant stove alone, I'm the one choosing the meal, got it?"

Xavier scowled and looked away. He'd cross his arms, yet the fur around him kept his arms in place... Like some gross furry prison. He wasn't even sure if this giant monster felt the need to shower in the first place. Xavier continued to pout like a little kid, until the corners of his mouth began to ache. It wouldn't have been a problem to him, though even the short period of time being around Angel made him feel pathetic. These emotions were new to him, never before had he felt like this. He hated his frail body, seeing how weak it was compared to the giant, who held his life in his hands. . . Or paws or whatever you would call them. The way none of his actions truly had any effect now only fed this strange, disgusting, new feeling. Even his own meal was chosen by the colossal beast, as if he wasn't even human. A person with thoughts and feelings, rather a toy or a.. pet who couldn't survive on its own. A creature bred to be held captive, a creature whose only purpose is to serve and entertain.

Anger began to boil in him again, it could've cooked up a whole meal, even for someone like him. He wanted nothing more than to scream, to rip out strands of fur and make himself known and show this world that he was of importance and not just some animal. Yet, not only was his voice merely a whisper to these giants, his diminutive size and the fear of angering the one who tore off his favourite leg stopped him. He paused.His favourite leg? Now even his own mind was against him, making sure those grueling feelings within him grew darker, and thus harder to bare. He felt so betrayed by himself.

How could he even think such things.

Lost in his own headspace, the sudden feeling of cold metal pressing against his face made him jolt up. "If you're done grumbling around like the stomach of a bear, can you help me choose the food items you can eat? I can't read your mind, ya know?" Xavier let out a huff, at least his own thoughts were in control of him.. for the most part at least.

Turning his attention to the can, he noticed that the image displayed on it, resembled that of a tomato. Sure, the colours were slightly off and it's shape was a bit different, however, overall it resembled a tomato. With an annoyed sigh, he gave Angel a yes in the form of a grumble.

What Angel thought to be a smile of happiness, that he was giving by bringing the human here, was in reality a smirk coming from Xavier, who enjoyed the fact that he could choose how to respond to him. Regardless of what Xavier's true intentions were, for just a moment, both of them were happy.

Even though Xavier knew he'd get on Angel's nerves, only answering with grunts and small nods, and risking losing another leg, he also knew that Angel would have to wait until they were back at home to let his frustration out on him. Though his anger would've surely be gone by then. And even if not, seeing Angel force a smile, trying to hide his feelings, made it worth the risk. After another gesture of acceptance to one of the food items Angel had shown him, his eyes wandered to the floor. There, near one of the small isles, was a tiny woman wandering around. She barely reached Angels ankles, yet didn't seem to mind and continued her shopping. She was wearing a nice pink dress, with a big white bow, that gave off the illusion as if she had big puffy wings. For a second he thought it was a human, that perhaps Angel lied to prevent him from leaving or crying out. Yet, to his pity, upon closer inspection he noticed small, inhuman features that clearly painted a different picture, such as pointy ears, golden eyes and small black markings on both their face and hands. Upset that the feeling of loneliness returned, in a sarcastic tone he whispered up to Angel "Oh look! Another tiny person, are you going to eat them too now?" Angel let out an indignant gasp. He glared at Xavier, snarling at him and growling loudly "I don't eat every tiny person I see! Urgh, I have enough of y-" A shrill noise, which resembled that of a hiss, from below cut Angel off. The woman seemed to have heard what Angel said and didn't look all too happy by his words. With a surprisingly loud voice, she hissed back "How could you say that! Are you trying to make me scared? What the hell is wrong with you for thinking of doing that! Oh... wait till your mother hears about this, young man!" She approached him, leaving a trace of sparkles behind, and kicked his foot. With that, she flicked her hair, let out an annoyed huff and floated away.

Xavier's mouth was gaping in surprise and joy of the sudden outburst and bravery coming from the lady. Looking up at Angel, he saw he was visibly upset, with a big frown and wide eyes, like a child that accidentally broke something. That only making the situation funnier to him. Trying his best not to burst out laughing "h..heh- what did she mean with.. telling your mom?" Angel shot him a deadly glare and, behind gritted teeth, uttered "She often buys pastries at my Mother's bakery.. and sometimes they have a little chit-chat about work, life and.... me." Angels ears twitched and slowly dropped down, pushing Xavier over the edge. Without warning, he burst out laughing, having to grip Angels fur tightly to steady himself. Tears of genuine joy rolled down his cheek, as he laughed about how embarrassing the situation was for Angel. Angel on the other hand didn't like this humiliation one bit, however before he got the chance to snatch up his little companion and shove him down his throat to shut him up, the cashier called him over. With a groan, he shoved Xavier down into his fur again. At least that muffled his laughter.

Clenching his fist and holding his bag, with the items he needed for a nice meal in the other, he marched over to the register. Forcing a smirk when he approached the register, he kept a distance so the cashier wouldn't notice anything off. "That lady complained that you were saying something about.. eating tiny people? Man.. I know you're weird and all, but do you have to scare off customers like that? Just keep what's on your head to yourself." The Cashier said nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair and stretched his arms, as if he was used to Angels weird comments. "Oh! Hah, that-.." Angel paused, thinking of how to cover himself, before getting an idea, "You see, as an entertainer, I have many roles I have to jump in! This.. was just me accidentally blurting out one of my characters thoughts.. to make them more.. authentic when it's time to present them, hahaha!" The cashier sighed and shook his head. With a gentle, yet stern voice he responded "Be more careful with your words next time, the lady wasn't all too pleased, thats for sure. Sigh, now get out of here before I kick ya out.. and get me my money, you know I charge for extra food. Oh and.. say hi to your mother from me when you go visit her, those cream puffs were immaculate." A mocking grin formed on the cashier's lips, saying those last few lines, seemingly knowing that they'd upset Angel. Clearly hurt by those words, he turned away and stormed out of the shop, taking the items with him, as he heard small chuckles.

They not only came from the cashier, but also from Xavier, who had listened to their brief conversation. Glaring holes into his fur, he plucked Xavier out of it and shook him slightly. "It was not funny at all! It's.. it's not my fault my mother has so many damn connections!" Angel growled, "you... You guys can't just make fun of me like that!" Xavier, on the other hand, had to try and force himself to stop "Cmon big guy, it was kind of funny.. and stop shaking me, unless you want your fur to be covered in barf " Angel shrieked and stopped almost instantly. The more Xavier looked into Angel's puffed up, blushing red face, the more he began to slowly feel a bit bad for laughing at him, his wide, glassy eyes, as if he were on the verge of crying, made that feeling grow. It was like staring into the eyes of a puppy, which was partially adorable, yet on the other hand uncanny. He didn't want to feel pity for this giant, especially when he looked at him that way. Though as he glanced at the bag Angel was carrying, realising he had just walked out without paying, the guilt washed away like mouthwash.

How could he not pay underpaid workers? They were trying to make a living and he didn't even give the man a dime. In fact, he didn't even remember Angel taking a wallet with him. Was Angel so used to stealing items, he stopped taking money with him? And was the money that angel owed, the cashier was referring to? Then why would he allow Angel to shop further.. to further undermine the work cashiers were doing. The job he himself did. He should've called the cops! Unless.. they didn't have those. Not even a justice system for people who wanted to make a living. The happiness he felt was now replaced with resentment, again. Though before he could comment on how disrespectful Angel was, he heard a quivering voice coming from Angel "Im.. I'm trying to get you food so you don't die and you repay me by laughing at me! Just wait till we're home! Oh.. I'm gonna-"

He stopped mid-sentence. His ears twitched and his pupils dilated, as he looked around frantically. He slowly backed away, trying to re-enter the store, yet, to Xavier's surprise and confusion, a loud thud was heard, causing Angel to stop. As Angel hastily turned around, Xavier saw how the doors were now barricaded with metal bars, preventing anyone from entering.

The Cashier, now visibly disturbed, was hiding behind his register, shaking his head violently as Angel frantically tried to get back inside. With frustration, he exclaimed "Let u-.. Let me in! Let me in!!" Though the cashier didn't make any effort to open up the door and rather rudely replied "No! Unless you get me my money, you're not coming inside! Everyone for themselves!" With that, the doors fully shut, with a metal wall fully sealing the entrance shut. Xavier grew more and more irritated with each passing moment with Angels sudden change in demeanour. These feelings only grew when he saw how people were running away, surprisingly not from Angel for once, yet something else entirely. Even Angel was now quickly walking away from the store, clearly distraught by.. something. His eyes darted around, trying to look for.. something.

A child could be heard crying somewhere behind them, with people trying to soothe them, as they escorted them away by the hand. Despite the lack of the ability to smell fear, from the way everyone was acting, nothing but terror was in the air, only fuelling his own fear. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to ask Angel ".. What the hell is going on. Why.. why is everyone acting up. . . . Oh man, I- I don't like this at all.." Angel let out a hefty sigh, taking a sudden turn and pressing himself against the wall, to allow others to pass by swiftly. Barely paying attention to Xavier flailing his arms around, waiting for a response. He tried to focus on something, as he answered Xavier, a bit annoyed "You can't.. hear the alarm? Seems like your ears are horrible too... What even is good about your bodies other than they taste quite good?" Xavier, not enjoying being in the dark, quickly snapped back "That was unnecessary. A- and.. no. I can't.. hear any alarms! What's this supposed alarm even for? And get to the point this time..! " Rolling his eyes and looking back down at Xavier, Angel huffed "Well I'm sorry that I'm trying to concentrate, to know where I should be heading. Right now, our only goal is to get away from that thing."Before Xavier can ask what "that thing" was supposed to mean, a loud roar could be heard in the distance.

Xavier tried to muster up a response, yet the sight of a large, purely black beast, raising itself to its feet, towering over the buildings themselves, made him lose his voice. Not only did it remind him of when Angel attacked his own city, this creature.. thing .... Or whatever it was, looked so disturbing, so unnatural, it truly shook him to his core. It let out another bloodcurdling screech, smashing one of the nearby buildings with one of its large claws, tearing it apart. Xavier's head was racing, but the only thing that came to his mind was more questions. Where the hell did that thing come from? Was this just another one of Angels people? Or was it something else entirely. Why did it seem as if these people were used to it, did this happen often? Yet in the end, only one question remained

Would they make it out alive?

Prev chapter:

[ormrin]

Humans are also disgusting!

See Sirius!

We all know that people are weird, or rather menacing. This time, however, I will tell you two facts that will surely make you add the label "disgusting". And I don't mean that humans aren't appreciated as a food from their terrifying terrestrial predators. So the topics will be as follows: Human horrible food and then human eklhaft "error - tics", sexuality and childbirth.

As far as food is concerned, you probably already know that humans usually like to eat animals - I heard that some even when they are still alive! Some species of these animals are trainable and some are even intelligent like our groks! They even say that in history there were HUMANS WHO ATE OTHER HUMANS! How about eating an animal stuffed with minced meat?! So human eat animals stuffed with other animals! They also spread the minced meat on their sliced loaves of big baked dought made from milled grain, which - you won't believe it - is just a type of grass that they've force-bred to the point where they've pushed it to produce dozens of seeds on each stalk. Such a loaf is called a "bred", I reckon it is near to word breathing because bred from the grass was so needed. Humans also eat RAW FISH, even OCTOPUS, WHICH WE KNOW ARE BOTH INTELLIGENT AND BEAUTIFUL! THEY HAVE EIGHT PRETTY TENTACLES. I only have these two multi tentacles of mine. However, humans are able to eat insects, including worms! And they say sometimes they don't bother killing such creatures. If a human offers you the so-called "cheers", then do not eat it, because it is a SULFUR TREATED AND COAGTENED LIQUID, WHICH WAS ORIGINALLY SUPPOSED TO SERVE THE SO-CALLED "MAMA-ALL" ANIMALS TO FEED THEIR OFFSPRINGS! And people have the audacity not only to take food from animals' bodies, but also to label even themselves - as "mama-alls"! People eat this "cheers" either uncooked, melted - and even smoked, just smoked and even so-called "try". Trying is therefore also the word for the process of putting the so-called "but - terra", which is the crushed most fat part from that feeding liquid of one kind of the mama-all animal, or the squeezed juice from grains or exceptionally from nuts. People literally squeeze nature just to make food taste a little better! On top of that liquid goes cheers coated in powder - milled grain. This keps on the cheers thanks to the previous rinsing of the cheers in the inside of the egg of a bird raised also for meat. If some of you didn't think it is widely wrong, then I think my next talk on the topic that HUMAS DRINK POISONS will convince you of that!

So, I hope that I have prepared you enough for what the human eklhaft "error - ticks", sexuality and procreation entails. That first part of the double word is ERROR which is not a mistake, because people find undressing themselves exciting to watch - at least it's limited to cases where the person undressing is of the gender requested by the observer. People's sexuality is indeed much messed up, especially these days. We all know that humans, except in very rare and apparently deranged cases, only have two types of sexual organs. If any of you were not sure of the gender of the observed human - for example, when you meet the human in a very thick spacesuit - then the gene scanner will conveniently tell you the gender. Lately though, it seems like a lot of humans have gone crazy. Instead of psychotherapy for individuals who have trouble identifying with their gender, they allow them to undergo sex reassignment surgery and even human majority stupidly support fools who are demonstrably gender-normal but still claim to feel like the opposite gender, ambivalent, neutral, or neither! Although in human history there were so-called "EW - NUHs", i.e. men who had their genitals removed, but even by mistake their original gender was not genetically removed. In addition, there are people who are sexually active also or even only with individuals of the same sex! This will probably be another reason why they haven't completely over-breeded yet. However, the main reason is the use of medication for females against conception and a special sexual sleeve for males. At least the male sleeve also protects against sexually transmitted diseases.

The female sexual organ is such a gap between the legs, however, it does not look pretty! If you're thinking that it doesn't matter, I'm adding specifically for you that WOMEN POUR OUT URINE THROUGH THAT SEXUAL SPOT! Phew, isn't it? Even humans have a joke about why their mythical creator let the waste flow down through the middle of the entertainment zone. Oh yes, people use sexuality for fun rather than reproduction! Oh, and WOMEN GIVE BIRTH WITH THAT LEG GAP TOO! The male sexual organ is also between the legs and also is used for pouring urine out, as some of you may have guessed. That organ looks like a small antenna - and to me the idea of pouring out urine or reproduce through an antenna seems shitty! In addition, it would be incorrect to assume that it is antenna as beautiful as we Siriusians have on our foreheads. THE MALE REPRODUCTIVE ANTENNA EXTENDS, RAISES AND LETTING OUT A MUCUS WHEN EXCITED - AND YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE THE SPRAY OF THAT HORRIBLE LOT OF REPRODUCTIVE MICROORGANISMS FROM IT!

If you feel sick, take a break - eat a human dry food called "kit-cat", which is fortunately don't made from the animal called CAT as are also human super strong building machines called. I already shared my experience with the C creature, do not miss it... But that human dry food snack can be dangerous if you have problem with digesting glucose.

Human conjugation - specifically for sex, driven by their strange drive for too much reproduction - goes something like this. The male behaves suspiciously nicely to the female and when her responses look promising, he keeps getting closer. The man is BRINGING PROVOCATIVE SYMBOLS TO THE WOMAN SUCH AS DEAD REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS OF PLANTS, he many times invites the woman to drink and eat, gives gifts, etc. The resulting couple then often WALK TOGETHER WITHOUT ANY GOAL OF THE TREK! People call "DATEing" correctly the whole absurd activity, which can be even months long. But sometimes it goes furiously fast! If a human suggests to one of you that he or she finds you interesting or even attractive and on top of that invites you to a so-called "coffin", then really refuse it! People also use the word for their burial capsules - big enough just for one human. So it probably won't surprise you when I tell you that the DRINK CALLED "COFFIN" IS AN ADDICTIVE DRUG AND FOR MANY KINDS OF NON-HUMANS IT IS POISON! If you do accept the relevant invitation, HUMAN SEXUAL BEHAVIOR BECOME SUPRISINGLY SOON! Yes, humans are capable of sexual behavior even with *partners* they hardly know and I heard there are PEOPLE WHO HAVE SEX WITH ANIMALS! If you're about to puke, it's your fault - I've warned you well in advance.

A chapter unto itself is human birth. First, human childbirth is full of effort and pain, and secondly, only the mother gives birth and feeds the child for frighteningly long time! The mother feeds the child with a liquid produced by her glands, which are in sometimes large bulges on her chest. I don't understand why people don't make that cheers out of this creational fluid of theirs. AND A MOTHER CAN HAVE MORE THAN TWO CHILDREN AT THE SAME TIME, LET GO OF SEQUENTLY - THEN EVEN MORE THAN HALF A DOZEN!

I will not refund the entrance fee to fainted persons - as you can see, the humas taught me their over-assertivity!

[themculibrary]

Clint And Natasha (Clintasha) Masterlist 4

Links Last Checked: June 5th, 2024

part one, part two, part three

And to hide that would be so dishonest (ao3) - Secret Identity (magnetgirl) T, 7k

Summary: On SHIELD orders, Clint and Natasha attend a four day couples retreat at a winery for the holidays. They find more than they expected.

Baby Don't You Want To Go (ao3) - Saelind T, 5k

Summary: Natasha does not like Chicago. But Chicago helps her, in so many small ways, to understand Clint Barton.

Back to You (ao3) - chezamanda T, 531

Summary: After all is said and done, Natasha knows who she can turn to.

burnt toast sunday (ao3) - ashlearose13 M, 16k

Summary: Clint tattoos people for a living, but he wouldn't be able to put up with all of the infinity symbols if it weren't for coffee. Specifically, coffee made by Natasha Romanov. The girl he has a real life, big-boy crush on.

or, the tattoo shop/coffee shop/plant??/ballet mega-au that no one asked for.

Dear Natasha (fanfiction.net) - javct T, 3k

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Natasha is left in a coma and Clint writes letters to her; in hope that she can hear. "Dear Natasha..."

Grumpy Coffee Kitten (ao3) - rebelmeg harley/shuri, mj/peter, bucky/darcy, clint/natasha T, 26k

Summary: When Clint Barton, the owner of Bean There, Brew That, takes off on an extended vacation, he leaves his coffee shop in the hands of his trusted sidekick, Darcy Lewis. Darcy is not prepared for this, but that’s not going to stop her from keeping the shop going, keeping her sassy baristas in line, and maybe getting a tiny bit smitten with the new regular that started showing up, looking like a sleepy assassin and cooing at his coffee.

Bucky Barnes is a former soldier trying to deal with the effects of PTSD, at the encouragement of his best friend and not-actually-a-therapist Sam Wilson. It might have been sort of an accident the first time he steps into Bean There, Brew That, but it’s a first step in a really good direction. He likes the coffee shop, he likes the people that run it, and he definitely likes the sugar-soaked monstrosities that they make for him on a daily basis.

What could possibly go wrong with putting a recovering veteran in the hands of a bunch of sarcastic baristas with access to legally addictive stimulants? The answer is… not much, actually.

In the Red (ao3) - enigmaticblue T, 2k

Summary: Natasha has a lot of blood on her hands, but she hates the feeling.

Iridescent (ao3) - kibbledor T, 6k

Summary: Natasha has been terrified six times in her life, and she runs it like a cycle in her mind to remind herself that she has always seen worse. When Clint falls into a coma, however, she thinks perhaps she hasn’t known terror at all.

Keep Her In the Air (When She Ought to Fall Down) (ao3) - Telaryn E, 8k

Summary: Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff were born - and in Natasha's case bred - to serve the Alliance. No one cared when they began sleeping together; under Alliance law an Operative like Natasha could take as many sexual partners as she liked so long as it didn't interfere with her duties.

A baby would interfere. As would the very deep and very illegal feelings growing between the Operative and her favorite sniper.

Now married and on the run for a new life on the Rim, with a baby due literally any moment, Clint and Natasha cross paths with the crew of Serenity.

like a clock in a thunderstorm (ao3) - shellybelle E, 3k

Summary: Natasha is a quiet mind raised in silence, Clint a whirlwind raised in chaos. In the early days of their partnership they are drowning under the weight of unanswered questions, and when the heavens open, Natasha breaks, and Clint is a good man after all.

Observing and Listening (ao3) - execution_empress G, 1k

Summary: Tony notices something about two certain master assassins and Bruce joins in observing.

Of Languages (ao3) - QueenRiley N/R, 8k

Summary: After a life spent immersed in secrets, it was difficult to let go and learn to live without them.

Our Last Days (ao3) - enigma731 G, 1k

Summary: The property looks mostly abandoned, the fields barren, save for occasional patches of lanky corn stalks, growing rebelliously toward the sky. A few yards away to her right is the skeleton of a rusted-out car, like a sun-bleached skull in the desert. But there’s something about the house--faded white, with a dramatically sloped roof and a long porch--that resonates in Natasha's bones, that undeniably belongs to Clint.

Or, the obligatory 'Clint has a farm' fic.

Say Anything (Else) (ao3) - enigma731 T, 5k

Summary: "I got married." Clint glances down at the ring on his hand, the exaggerated nonchalance of the movement telling Natasha that his surprise is feigned. He’s been waiting for her to ask. "Her name is Bobbi, and I'm pretty sure she's the smartest woman I've ever met."

“So you met her three weeks ago,” Natasha says slowly, trying to put the pieces together in her mind, “and you fell in love and you married her in that time, while also working a S.H.I.E.L.D. op?” She can’t quite keep the skepticism out of her voice.

In which Clint is a car crash, and Natasha learns what it means to be a supportive partner.

Snippets of Life - Fantom Of The Fiction T, 8k

Summary: You know, Nat has naturally red hair. She likes to lay in bed on rainy mornings. She has this spot on the back of her neck she likes me to rub. You know, Clint’s hands may look hard and tired, but I have only ever known them as soft and warm. And he seems to like to fall asleep on his stomach. And he has this ridiculous habit of stopping for coffee everywhere we go. Major fluff.

The Company You Keep (ao3) - geckoholic E, 8k

Summary: The first time doesn't really count for either of them. They don't glorify it in hindsight or put more into it than what it was: playing with fire, slowly dragging your hand over a flame you know could burn you alive.

Clint and Natasha get to know each other in the biblical sense the first time they meet and don’t catch feelings until later.

The Last Great Border Town Hotel (ao3) - ignipes T, 4k

Summary: Natasha has a lot of weapons in her arsenal. Trust hasn't always been one of them.

the world's a little blurry (without you) (ao3) - DeltaLaurier T, 3k

Summary: Natasha falls into a coma, and the team (but mostly Clint) copes by writing letters to her.

what a wicked game to play (to make me feel this way) (ao3) - taylorswift M, 60k

Summary: After you win the Games, you lose.

OR

the hunger games au.

with your finger on the world (ao3) - ashen_key T, 4k

Summary: "We use their own weapons against them,” you say. “Humans are very good at killing each other, particularly from a distance. It'd be a shame not use the capability after they've so helpfully provided it, don't you think?”

Loki grins, the expression as bright and blinding as new snow. “I like the way you think, Agent Romanoff.”

OR: Natasha has a specific skill set; Loki heartwashes her at the New Mexico research centre, and events turn out very differently.

[ftm2bbw]

You know you'd be a good mother. You're so well designed for it. I mean, just look at yourself! Look at those wide hips you sport, your swollen and heavy tits, and that fat, juice ass that jiggles behind you. You're practically begging to be bred, aren't you?

It'll feel so good. To finally serve your purpose, the biological need that's been driving you and has driven your ancestors going back millennia. Breed. Reproduce. Give birth to a new generation. It'll feel so good to be full, to feel your body swell up, to feel it do what it was meant to do from the start.

God, and you're going to get so fucking fat doing it. Your tits will swell with milk and the pregnancy hormones, feminizing you by the day, help all those calories stick to you. Pregnancy cravings force you to keep stuffing your face until you can barely breathe, rubbing your inflated belly and palming your massive, leaking udders.

Just lay back and let it happen. Let someone cum inside you. Let their seed reshape your body into the perfect woman, the ideal of fertility.

Goddd I can literally never stop thinking about it. It feels so forbidden but I can't help but fantasize more by the day. The hormones, the growth, the pleasure. The utter and brutal transformation, the undoing of over a decade of transition. It would break me, in more ways than one.

But it makes me so wet.

And I bet it would feel so, so good...