#like it loosens up each panel

[skeyewards]

imposter syndrome suck my sphincter!!!!!!!!!!!!

[cloudwisp]

Husband Wriothesley, who teases you for being a lightweight when you’ve only had one glass of wine during date night as he makes the journey back home with you on his back. You’re an adorable giggling mess, unable to contain your love and affection you reach around to smooch his cheek and playfully bite his shoulder because that’s what he does to you—words alone can’t express just how much you adore this man and you have to channel it through other means. He warns you that if you keep giving him bite marks he might just drop you and loosens his grip to make it seem so. He chuckles at the sound of you squealing as your arms and legs tighten around him and he readjusts his hold on you so you’re secured once more. He wonders how such a sweet thing like you can cause so much trouble. Not that he’s complaining, he actually finds it quite endearing.

Husband Wriothesley, who kneels down to help you slip on your heels after you’re dressed in a gown to attend the evening shows at the opera epiclese. You’re holding onto his shoulder for support while he moves with ease to slide your foot into your beautiful new pair of heels—his fingers gently wrapped around your ankle and thumb rubbing soft circles against the bone for a moment before he works on the other one. If only he could trail kisses up along your leg and inner thigh, but he supposes that will have to wait until later tonight unless he wants to get an earful from you about not wanting to be late. All your husband asks for in return is sweet kisses from you, when you both kissed plenty not even ten minutes ago but it seems he can’t get enough of his darling wife.

Husband Wriothesley, who begins to make drafts and plans for a summer house surrounded by greenery with breathtaking views on the first year of marriage. It’s a different kind of life compared to the apartments next to the bustling streets in Fontaine city, along with the Fortress also being your second home. He includes all the features you’d want in a dream home. Like a stargazing room with glass ceiling panels so you can admire the stars and moon at night. A secret library where you can hideout and bury your nose in books for hours on end, or even a beautiful porch on a wooden deck with cushioned chairs overlooking the verdant field where maybe someday you both can watch your children play together. Wriothesley is more than willing to give you everything you want and more in this lifetime and he always make sure each gift counts.

[suiana]

imagine sitting on a train, expecting a short ride but the ride just never ends. and no, it's not a 'the brakes are broken' scenario.

you were just taking a train to like, a nearby suburb to visit your friends like usual. everything was fine. all things were like what they normally were. ticketing station, the weird old man who tells you that they're watching you, and the cute highschool student who frequently tells you stories about his school life.

you board the train like usual, nothing out of the ordinary. you find an empty seat and put on your earphones. you decide you want a calm and soothing song that day. looking out of the window, you hum softly and anticipate what you and your friends are going to do.

that's when you realize you've seen that sign post two times already.

you nervously look around your surroundings, hoping to find someone else who's also realized what's going on.

but there's no one else in the carriage. oh, wait, actually no. you also have the highschool boy.

"hey kid, um, did you notice anything off? like uh-"

"hm? oh, it's you mx."

the boy's voice is deeper than usual as he continues looking out of the window. you frown at his reaction before trying to get an answer out of him again... only for him to turn and completely scare the shit out of you.

that. that was not the face of a human. not when his eyes were all black and curved into tiny moons. not when his lips were stretched so wide that he resembled the stupid 😄 emoji. not when his mouth looked like a bottomless pit of nothing that could swallow you alive. not when his skin was paper white and his body now elongated to look something like a sexy slenderman if that was even possible. not when he didn't resemble a human anymore.

"darling, what's wrong? you don't like my face? I'm really hurt."

his voice is deep as he continues staring at you from his seat. he makes no sign of movement, merely looking down at you with a tilt of his head before a soft giggle comes out.

what the shit? were you in a horror movie now?

screaming and falling onto the floor behind you, you shiver and try escaping. no, you had to leave. you couldn't die now!

scrambling to the help button, you try to get help. surely the technician could try and get help for you? you desperately press the help button, glancing warily at the high school boy that you were sure was actually a 6009 year old demon that decided to possess a body of a kid for the mere fun of it.

"huh? baby? what's up?"

baby? what? first darling, now baby? what's up with these men? you stare at the help panel before whimpering for help. unfortunately the male voice over the line only fills you with more dread.

"you wanna leave? no can do baby. don't worry, we'll take good care of you."

you don't like the way he said good. what the hell was that supposed to mean? for all you know it could mean imprison you in the train for the rest of your life!

"also I'm in the carriage beside Mr. Driver so if you wanna leave that weird shapeshifter beside you feel free to hop over."

beside... you?

you are suddenly hyperaware of every single thing around you and wait a second, why the hell did you feel a suspicious person breathing down your neck?

"leave my dear alone, you creep."

the air around you seems to loosen up as the weird shapeshifter demon backs up. damn, what good timing. you were just about to thank your saviour when the familiar feeling of dread returns, and even worse this time.

he was a handsome guy. tall, well dressed, and absolutely damn gorgeous. he was wearing all black, a black fedora on his head as he smiles at you with his pearly white teeth. reassurance. yet, you felt as though if you dared to disrespect him, your life would be over before you even knew it.

you stay rooted in your place, your mouth running dry as the male steps closer to you. each step of his felt like a step closer to death and... was it just you or were you feeling light headed now?

"i am afraid i cannot touch you, my dear. for your life will be drained with each fleeting touch. but i must say that it is good to finally meet you physically."

death.

you were so damn sure that the man in front of you right now was the grim reaper or maybe even death himself. your whole body was shaking at this point, his very presence making you feel as though an invisible force was pushing you down into the ground and squeezing you tight. it was hard to even breathe.

"ah, sorry. i forgot living beings are ever so fragile. my sincerest apologies, my dear."

just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, the driver's announcement makes you feel like you're about to throw up.

"welcome aboard the hell train, sweetheart. you are now on the line to ǝɹǝɥʍou. please enjoy the rest of your ride!"

shit, so you really were about to get stuck on this train forever.

[bad268]

Hi! Can I put in a request for Paul Aron x F1 driver! Y/N? It’s be cute for the reader to bring Paul around the paddock and make him say hi to everyone and vice versa!

Rookie Debuts (Paul Aron X Williams Driver! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (I have so much fun with this <3 also, I love Logan, but I needed to give him appendicitis for this)

Warnings: mentions appendicitis (Logan Sargeant)

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 1751

Summary: The reader takes Paul on a chaotic walk through the paddock.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

You didn’t know what was with drivers and their appendixes erupting recently, but you weren’t complaining as it gave you your Formula 1 debut. You have been a Williams Academy driver since 2021, and you were named their reserve driver while you competed in Formula 2. That means that when Logan’s appendix erupted just before the Hungarian Grand Prix, you were pulled up. It sucked a little because you liked racing against your friends and boyfriend, but you were never going to pass up an opportunity to race your favorite track in a Formula 1 car. 

Paul was more than happy for you! You were the same when he got his opportunity at the Formula E race in Berlin back in May, so it was only fair he was just as supportive. He said he would follow you around like a puppy all weekend (not like it was anything out of the ordinary). 

One thing that you made sure to do on media day was to talk to every driver, regardless of who they were. You did not want to be the new meat on the grid and have no insight. You had raced in Hungry before, but it was just different this time. Paul was busy doing his own media obligations, so you got a head start. You were put on a media panel with Max, Charles, Oscar, and Fernando, and you planned to use that to the fullest.

“Question for Y/n,” an interviewer broke your train of thought, “How do you feel stepping into Logan Sargeant’s car this weekend? How has the grid treated you so far? And is there anything you feel disadvantaged by?”

“I’m nervous but excited, so I can’t complain,” You chuckled. “The grid hasn’t really talked to me yet, but it was announced this morning that I was driving. I’m cutting them some slack right now. As for a disadvantage, I just think I’m not nearly as experienced as the rest of the drivers, and I haven’t trained as much. That’s all I can think of, but if any drivers want to give me some advice or anything,” you mockingly coughed, “it would be greatly appreciated.”

“Break slightly earlier going into turn six,” Fernando said quietly as he leaned toward you. “You’ll want to try braking later, but coming from experience, break earlier.”

“Also,” Oscar piped up, “Use heat on your neck before you train and ice it after. It loosens your neck and helps with recovery.”

“And this track you’ll need quick instincts, so brush up on those,” Max said.

“And don’t forget,” Charles interrupted before anyone else could add more, “This is your first race in a Formula 1 car. You’re not going to be perfect, so don’t be too hard on yourself. How many testing and free practice sessions have you been in?”

“Two testing sessions this year, and I haven’t had a free practice session yet,” You answered.

“See? So you’ve had very limited running in this car. No one is expecting you to be Michael Schumacher this weekend,” Charles laughed.

“Thanks, I’ll take all that into this race,” You chuckled as the panel finished up. Each of you got up and walked out together. Just as everyone was about to split off toward their respective garages you stopped them. “Really, thank you guys. I really appreciate everything you’re telling me.”

“Of course,” Oscar comforted as he gave you a side hug. “We were all rookies before, and we know that this track is probably not the best one to be starting on.”

“Yeah, and if you need any more help or have questions, we’re here,” Charles added, giving you a hug too. Max sandwiched you between them as he also gave you a hug.

“What if I just want someone to talk to?” You asked. “Alex is always with James or George and I don’t know anyone in this paddock.”

“You know us,” Max said blankly. “Whenever we don’t have any race things to do, you’re always welcome in Red Bull.”

“Same for Ferrari.”

“And McLaren.”

“And Aston Martin. We also have Felipe this weekend.”

This weekend was off to a great start. You couldn’t complain. You tried your best to bounce between the F1 and F2 paddocks since you still wanted to cheer on Paul. You were a Paul Aron cheerleader first. Williams Formula 1 driver second.

It worked out well, so you were able to watch almost the entirety of Paul’s sessions before having to go get ready for your sessions. Thankfully though, your physical trainer has taken to helping you stretch somewhere where you could see and hear the race. They only made you head to the garage when you had to look over data and change before getting in the car. 

Then, Paul said he would be in your garage as soon as he finished his post-session obligations. After your first free practice session, he was waiting in the back of your garage by the time you came in. He was still in his race suit since he had to qualify later, but it was comforting to have him there backing you up.

It became a ritual that everyone in Williams came to look forward to seeing after every session. They found it adorable. Some called it young love while others said it was true love. Without fail, you would climb out of the car and immediately run into Paul’s open arms regardless of how the session went. 

When race day finally came, you had made an impact on the grid, showing exactly what you could do and why it was a good decision you were pulled up. Every practice session had you in the top 15, and you qualified eighth for the race itself. You and the team were proud, but no one was as proud as Paul.

The morning of the races, you went in early with Paul. You both wanted to support your friends in F3, but you also wanted to introduce Paul to all of your new friends. 

“Come on, Paul! We have time to say hi before going to see Dino and Gabriele before the feature race, but I wanna introduce you to my new friends!” You exclaimed as you dragged Paul by the hand through the paddocks.

“I’ve met Alex and James already,” Paul chuckled, following behind you blankly but became confused when you pulled him past the Williams hospitality. “Wait, where are we going?”

“To meet my new friends, duh!” You laughed as you continued until you saw Max and Liam talking outside of the Red Bull hospitality. “Max, Liam! Hi!”

“Hey, what’s up?” Max said as he turned to pull you and Paul into the conversation.

“Nothing much, just showing Paul around,” You giggled as you leaned into his side. Paul just stood frozen. “He’s a bit shy if you can’t tell.”

“We can tell. Are you ready for your first F1 race?” Liam chuckled as he returned your enthusiasm.

“As ready as I can be,” You answered honestly before looking over at Paul. “Well, I think I should take him somewhere to regain his sense of reality real quick. I’ll see you guys later!” You bid them goodbye as you pulled Paul over to an empty table. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t fan anyone, but you actually talked to Max Verstappen and he didn’t kill you?” Paul asked. You weren’t sure if he was serious or not, but it still made you laugh lightly. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you’re friends with Fernando Alonso?”

And as they say, speak of the devil, they will appear. Fernando, as if his ears were ringing, comes walking up to you two with Lance and Felipe.

“Hey, rookie,” Fernando teased as he took a seat in front of you. Lance took a seat next to him and Felipe leaned against the table. 

“Hey yourself rookie,” You chuckled, lifting your hand to fist bump him. “What are you three up to?”

“Walking around before sitting in a car for two hours,” Lance replied sarcastically.

“But you’re sitting,” Paul pointed out, causing them to laugh.

“Look at that! Your boyfriend can come out of his shell! Max was just saying how awkward he was with him and Liam,” Felipe laughed.

“Ok, I gotta take this guy around to make him meet everyone now,” You said as you stood up and pulled Paul away. “I’ll see you on the track, minus Felipe.”

“Don’t rub it in!”

“I cannot believe I manifested Fernando Alonso to come over,” Paul said in disbelief as you two walked aimlessly between the hospitalities.

“I can’t believe you made a fool of yourself in front of two world champions already,” You teased. After being met with Paul planting his feet and pouting, you turned and placed a short kiss to his lips. “I love you anyway, but you’re my fool.”

“I’m a fool for you,” Paul whispered as he leaned his forehead against yours and pulled you into another kiss.

“Why must I be single?” A voice from behind you two said but it was immediately followed by an “oof”. You two pulled apart and looked back to see Oscar and Lando standing You assumed Lando said it and Oscar elbowed him in the stomach.

“That’s not something I can answer for you,” You chuckled as you approached them. “You guys ready?”

“I think the question is, are you? Any nerves yet?” Oscar asked. “This goes for both of you. Paul, I saw you’re leading the championship, so how’re you feeling?”

“Good, starting on pole, so I can’t complain,” Paul answered.

“I’m also pretty good. Hungaroring is my favorite track, so I’m just ready to have fun,” You added before hearing some commotion behind you. You turn to see a flurry of read running up behind you.

“There you are!” Charles said out of breath. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Why? We have like four hours?” You responded, looking at your watch in confusion before your eyes widened. “Shit!”

“What?” Paul asked.

“Paul!” Ollie shouted as he ran up to you. “Hitech had been looking for you everywhere! You need to be there for pre-race.”

“But F3 hasn’t started yet,” Paul answered confused.

“They’re on lap 18 of 22,” Ollie answered as he pulled your boyfriend away, pulling you in the chain as well. “I’ll make sure someone returns the Williams driver!”

“Or not! I’m starting ninth, and I’d like a free place!” Oscar shouted after you.

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[blueicequeen19]

Methods

Warnings: non-con, drugging, kidnapping, use of toys, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms, choking, throat training

My eyes water as I blink against the hardness of the single lightbulb in the mildew, scented shack I'm being kept in. It was dark when they grabbed me and it appears to be still dark outside judging by the chill in my bones from still being in my bikini. I curse myself for not listening to my brother when he told me not to go anywhere alone. I didn't think that applied to night surfing in my own backyard. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my wrists killing me from being tied together with scratchy rope and suspended above my head.

My brother will make them pay.

I will make them all pay.

"She lives." I turn towards the voice, my hands balling into fists as JJ Maybank steps into the light. I didn't notice him before but I quickly take in the black duffle bag on the small wooden table, a single chair, and a small folding bed.

"You sound disappointed." My voice cracks, my lips chapped and in need of water. I don't even sound like myself.

"More like relieved. I gave you a pretty high dose to knock you out. It would've sucked if I accidentally killed you." Bits and pieces of our altercation start to come back to me and I smirk over the sight of his busted lip. His face remains hard and his eyes stay narrowed. I know I'm in a bad situation and what this is all about but I can't find it in myself to care. If I die protecting my family then I do.

"You're awfully cocky for someone tied up." JJ bites out, stepping closer to glare down his nose at me. I try to seize the opportunity of his closeness but he's quicker, his ringed fingers wrapping around my throat and shoving my back against the wood paneling before I can attempt to headbutt him.

"Don't even think about it." JJ growls, tightening his grip to the point that my eyes water and my throat burns. I thrash against him, worried I'll pass out when he finally loosens his grip enough to let me suck in a rough breath.

"You.. might as.. well skip to... the torture because I w-won't.. talk." I spat, his hand still hot on my throat. His thumb strokes my pulse point as he leans into my neck, his musky cologne filling my head as he inhales deeply.

"You smell like a wet dog." JJ murmurs, his lips next to my ear. I jerk against his hold as his hand tightens around my throat again. "But there are other ways of getting someone to talk." His voice lowers to a sinister whisper that has panic settling deep in my bones.

"Not so mouthy now, are ya?" JJ taunts as he shoves his knee between mine and presses against my pussy, making me squirm and whimper.

"Girls like you who are used to being in control want nothing more than to be dominated. Tied up, held down, and fucked until they can't walk." I jerk against him, unable to speak from the tight grip on my throat as he moves his knee back and forth. I stare up at the ceiling, blinking back tears as heat floods my body and my pussy throbs with need.

"I can feel how hard your nipples are. Still don't want to talk?" JJ whispers, his lips grazing my cheek while his free hand tugs on the strings of my bikini. A scoff leaves my lips, giving him my answer and I feel him smile.

"I guess we'll play then." JJ suddenly steps back, removing all forms of himself from my skin and I suck in a breath as my pulse echoes in my ears. I watch as he shoves the table and chair closer than rummages through the duffle bag. His eyes light up when he holds up a pair of nipple clamps and I bear my teeth in warning.

"Let's start with these." JJ steps back in front of me but hesitates, almost like he's waiting for me to spill but I refuse. I glare at him as he tucks both of the bikini triangles to the side to reveal my painfully hard nipples. It's from the stimulation.

"These would look so much better pierced." I look away as he secures the clamps to each of my nipples, a chain connecting them in the middle, then he tightens them until tears fill my eyes.

"These are going to be so sore tomorrow." JJ chuckles, returning to the duffle bag. My nipples are on fire and I have to take several breaths to calm myself while he searches for whatever it is he wants next. They almost hurt more than my wrists. But I don't care what he does to me now. He'll have no choice but to let me go eventually. People will come looking.

When his bright blue eyes find mine and his lips tip up into a mischievous smirk, I know he's found what he's looking for. Whatever it is, he's able to conceal in the palm of his hand as he steps back in front of me.

"Are you dripping yet?" JJ purrs, his free hand pulling the ties free on my bikini bottoms. They fall to the floor, leaving me bare for him.

"Fuck you." I spat, clamping my legs closed. He tugs on the chain between my nipples and I cry out, my legs immediately opening again.

"Let's start with this." He holds up a small pink vibrator with a string attached that is almost shaped like an egg. He presses it to my lips but I seal them shut until he tugs on the chain again and my lips part on a cry. JJ shoves the toy past my teeth, making me taste the silicone as he forces it in and out of my mouth.

"Suck on it. You want it wet." JJ demands, his eyes dark with desire. I do as he says, staring up at the ceiling as the droll starts to drip down my chin. When he yanks it from my mouth, followed by a string of saliva, he spins me around to face the wall before I can protest.

"What are--." My words trail off with a startled yelp as he yanks my hips back and spreads my cheeks.

"Wait--wait--!" I cry as he squats down behind me.

"Ready to talk?" JJ asks, looking up at me with hard eyes. I bite my lip, refusing to give in as I shake my head.

The toy is pressed to my hole and he slowly starts to push it inside me. Burning pain practically blinds me and I cry out, fearing the pain will never end when it finally does.

“Now?” He asks, sliding his hand between my thighs and chuckling by what he finds. I hate him. HATE. HIM. I'm shaking and sweating from the fullness, my clit throbbing in tune with my heart rate. I feel him move then the thing comes to life, vibrating inside me.

A choked moan leaves my lips as he forces me to turn and face him again. The vibrations are low enough to be irritating but not enough to get me close to an orgasm yet I can’t stop my legs from shaking. His expression is mocking, like he’s trying not to laugh as I whimper and squirm in front of him. I hate him even more.

“I bet you’ve never had anyone back there before, have you?” JJ taunts, smiling as he taps something on his phone and the vibrations increase. A startled noice slips past my lips and I quickly clamp them shut, glaring daggers back at him. He pockets his phone and grabs my hips, yanking me against his chest. Pain shoots through me from the pressure against my abused nipples but I refuse to make a sound.

“I’m going to fill all your holes if you don’t talk.” His voice lowering in warning as he speaks in my ear. I lift up on my toes, the buzzing driving me crazy with need. I wonder if I can cum without any vaginal penetration or clit stimulation. I’m teetering on the ledge as his warm hands start to slide up and down my waist in an almost soothing manner. The light touches raise the hairs on my arms and send sparks up my spine.

“I hate you.” I growl through clenched teeth, my pussy pulsing almost painfully as his hands start to drift lower but never giving me what I need.

“And I want to hate fuck you.” JJ murmurs back, the tip of his tongue suddenly sliding along my neck and making me whimper. I can’t focus. There’s too much stimulation. A finger brushes over my clit, making my hips buck and a loud moan escapes me.

“Please..” The word slips out of me before I can stop it. I try to lean into his touch but he withdraws, resorting to light touches that have me squeezing my eyes shut.

“Squeeze your legs together.” JJ demands, stepping back and unbuttoning his tented cargo shorts. I’m burning with anticipation as I watch him free his painfully hard cock and stroke himself a few times. I’m too busy watching him that I fail to listen so he steps forward and yanks on the chain connecting my nipples, making me cry out and tears spill.

“Last chance to talk. I get wanting to be strong for your brother but he’d sell you out in a heartbeat. You have to know that.” JJ growls, the heat of his cock burning against my stomach. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak anymore. I’m blinded by desire and know that I’d end up begging him to fuck me.

“How do you think this is going to go?” JJ reaches between us to guide his cock between my thighs and through my slick wetness. My eyes threaten to close as he moves in and out between my lips without slipping inside.

“What will he think when I send him a video of you begging me to fuck you? Will he cut his losses or try to find you?” I shake my head, whimpering as I roll my hips to meet his movements. I’ve never ached to be filled so badly in my life.

“You’re awfully wet for someone who hates me.” I try to turn my head away when suddenly the vibrations in my ass increase and I sob loudly, his hands tightening on my hips.

“I’d only have to put the tip in and you’d make a fucking mess all over both of us.” His pace increases as he thrusts his cock between my pussy lips.

“I can’t..” I’m shaking violently as I peer up into his bright blue eyes. Everything hurt and was buzzing with need.

“Tell me where your brother is and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll make you cum so hard you pass out.” I whimper when he leans in to kiss along my neck, the heat of his body burning me alive. I can’t think while his cock is being thrust between my thighs.

“I don’t need you to make me cum.” I bite out, glaring at him as I move my hips in time with his thrusts. JJ gives me a wicked grin before halting my movements with a firm grip on my hips. I growl in frustration as he steps back, dick swinging before he turns to rummage through the duffle back again. When he pulls out a wand vibrator the size of my forearm I nearly start sobbing.

“Wait.. JJ..”

“Start talking.” JJ growls, turning the wand on high and running it down my stomach towards my mound.

“I can’t tell you where he is because I don’t know where he is.” I cry, tearing filling my eyes as he stops less than an inch from my clit. I’m shaking uncontrollably. I can’t catch my breath. I need to cum so badly I can’t see straight.

“I don’t believe you.” His eyes are murderous as he moves the wand to my clit and I suck in a breath to scream when four of his fingers force their way in my mouth. The pleasure is so intense that it quickly turns painful. Tears fall as I gag around his fingers and he makes me cum so hard that everything goes black for a few seconds.

I lose track of how many times I cum. I’m practically convulsing and tears are streaming down my face while I gag around his fingers. My pussy is sore beyond anything I’ve ever felt. Not that I ever had experience before this.

“You need to work on that gag reflex.” JJ clicks his tongue, smirking at all the droll sliding down my chin as he forces his fingers to the back of my throat.

“A slut like you should be a pro by now.” JJ sneers, removing his fingers from my mouth and putting them in place of the wand. I’m fighting to catch my breath, my jaw aching as he toys with my labia, massaging and rolling the flesh between his fingers.

“I’m not a slut.” I pant, just as one of his fingers penetrates. His eyes narrow for a moment as he pushes in just a little deeper before they widen in disbelief.

“No fucking way.” JJ whispers, shaking his head with a smirk without withdrawing his finger.

“I told you.” I snap with what little strength I have left. My body was aching to be filled. I could tell with how crazed I felt from just his finger half inside me. I was seconds away from fucking myself on his hand.

“This just got a lot more fun.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - VI

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, divider by animatedglittergraphics

6. creature of the night

In the back of the yellow taxi driven by the faithful Chas, John makes a point not to touch you. You are so heartbroken by the events of the past half hour that it does not even register that Chas is driving you somewhere other than your mutual apartment building, until you pull up in front of a dilapidated storefront declaring “BOWL, BOW, BOWL” on the neon sign. 

“What…?”

“My friend Beeman’s place. Somewhere to lay low,” John explains, throwing open the door of the cab.  

“Thanks, Chas,” you say, because John never seems to find it necessary to do so. 

“Sure, y/n,” answers the young man. “Hey John–” 

John slams the door shut on Chas’s question. 

“You’re so mean to him,” you sigh.  

He only answers that with a snort, coughing to the side. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” 

He leads you through the doors, and up some stairs to a living space above the bowling alley. It is long, with high ceilings, white subway tiles, and crumbling lead paint on the paneling. A bank of windows stretches all down the wall. 

It’s an interesting space, but the windows could be a problem for you, come dawn. 

“There’s a big closet in the other room,” he assures you, like he can read your mind. 

He directs you into a chair at a long table, and all business, starts loosening his tie. 

“John…wait.” 

“You don’t have time to wait. You look like shit, and his blood will contaminate your ability to fight him.” He cocks his head, looking down at you. “Unless you don’t plan on fighting him? You looked pretty cozy when I found you.” 

A thread of heat dances down that connection between you, and you pause with surprise as you recognize it for what it is. Jealousy? After the way he’s avoided you? Is he fucking kidding right now? 

“You look like shit,” you counter, and you realize it’s true. His skin is sallow; there are dark circles under his eyes. He was always slender, but now he borders on too thin. You know he doesn’t take care of himself, but this is beyond the usual abuse. Was he not sleeping or eating because of you? You think on what Wick said to you. He doesn’t look good. I won’t have to wait long for you. What the fuck did that mean? “Are you ok?” you demand, standing to examine him more closely. 

“I’m fine,” he grouses, backing away. 

You don’t believe him, and the two of you stand in the kitchen facing off with each other, both pissed, though you suspect, for different reasons. 

Somehow you know if you keep pushing him, John will just refuse to talk to you at all, stubborn bull of a man that he is. So you change tack, appealing to the know-it-all in him. 

“What…is he?” 

“John Wick is a hybrid,” Constantine explains matter of factly. “Half human, half vampire. Your perfect predator. They have to drink vampire blood to stay alive, and they can live a long time.”

“He drank my blood,” you admit, touching the marks at your throat that still have not healed. Usually such an injury would have sealed over by now. “But then…he gave me some back.” 

Constantine snorts. “Yeah, I saw that.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. 

“He said…I reminded him of someone he once knew.” 

“When you’ve lived as long as he has, probably everyone reminds you of someone,” John scoffs. 

“He slaughtered all of don Juan’s vampires, at Perla. Juan was going to hold me hostage to bait you. But then Wick came up the stairs, and…Jesus Christ. It was a massacre.” 

“Yeah. He does that.”

“Juan got away, and Wick…spared me.” 

“Spared you, huh? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

Your annoyance spikes. “You know, for someone who has been avoiding me like the plague, you sure seem to care about who I kiss!”

“You can makeout with whoever you want, sweetheart, I couldn’t care less. But what the hell were you doing at Perla?” 

His tone suggests he might feel otherwise.

“Hunting.” 

“At the Master’s own club? Are you kidding me?”   

For a moment you are taken aback, and then you really see red. “I didn’t know it was the Master’s club because you’ve never fucking told me anything, John!” Seething, you go on, “You didn’t have to fuck me. You didn’t have to feed me. But it would have been nice if you could have at least prepared me!”

In the end you are toe to toe, and points to John for not flinching while your eyes are flashing orange and your fangs are bared. 

“I tried,” he insists through his teeth, a lot more calmly than you. “But everytime I’m around you…”

You share blood and body fluids, is the short of it, and you know he’s not wrong.  

You let out a long breath, trying to calm down. The following inhale does not exactly help you; it’s all John, his yummy cologne and the scent of his skin and that beautiful essence coursing beneath it and jesus fucking christ no wonder he hates you. 

You retreat, turning your back on him, trying not to cry, trying not to yell, and trying not to tackle him to the floor to drink him down.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and you mean it. “I didn’t know how to control it.” You think about that golden thread between you, and the way don Juan taunted you, and the name slung so freely by the vampire hunter like it was an insult. Maybe you have an inkling of why John’s been avoiding you like the plague. “What did I do to you, John?”

“I know you didn’t mean to.” 

He sounds as miserable as you feel. 

“Mean to what?”

“You made me your creature, y/n. Familiar, human servant, famulus, bonded, thrall, Renfield. You want all the names for it?” 

You turn to look at him, your heart breaking all over again. “I just…liked you, John.” 

More than liked him, apparently, but you’d rather die than admit it now. 

He nods, suddenly very interested in a stain on the wall, his jaw clenching. “I liked you too,” he admits. “But this is…not good.” 

You feel that light inside you, that warmth that is a part of him, somehow, a part of you. You tug on it, and he can’t help but look at you then. “It feels good?” you say.

“Yeah.” He takes a step closer towards you. “But if I was damned before…” Another step. “I’m really fucked now.” 

You shake your head, at such a loss. What kind of a God would forsake his children so freely, if not a complete sadist? Isn’t he supposed to be all love and forgiveness?

“We’re not bad people, John.” 

“I know. It doesn’t matter. There are rules.” 

“You know, you’ve never told me…why you think you’re going to Hell?”

“Because when I was a teenager, and driven to despair living in an institution because of the things God gave me the gift to see…I killed myself. I spent two minutes in the fiery pit before they brought me back, but it was enough. It’s…pure agony, y/n, and it lasts for an eternity.” 

Your lip quivers as the magnitude of what he’s telling you sinks in. Growing up, Heaven and Hell were such abstractions to you. Something you suspected your parents threatened you with just to get you to behave. But hearing him say it like this…you believe him. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, John. Can it be undone? Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” 

Sadly, he just shakes his head. Does that mean it’s irreversible? With a heavy sigh he sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, pulling over his bottle of Ardbeg and splashing a couple fingers into a glass. He doesn’t offer you any–not that you’d want it, but still rude. You shouldn’t be surprised by now. “I admit I didn’t think you could even do it yet, you’re so new.” 

You think about the power the two of you called up, the last time you were together. You’ve always been fire together, even when you barely knew each other. Isn’t that worth something? How is that not something gifted by God, if indeed that motherfucker does exist?

“Are you ready now?” he asks, sounding resigned, pulling his collar aside again. 

You look away, because the sight of his bare throat affects you like a teenager with a PLAYBOY centerfold, making you flush all over. Jesus Christ, will you ever not want him so much? 

Even with your belly full of dhampir blood; his pulse calls to you with a siren’s song.

His heart beats for you, your deepest instincts whisper, even while your head knows it's all a wishful thought.

“I can find someone else, John. I’ve caused you so much trouble.” 

The sound he makes at the thought of you with someone else low in his throat is nearly a growl–but then ends in a violent cough.

You take a step closer. “Are you sick? Do you have the flu or something?”

He actually laughs at that–then coughs some more. “No, I don’t have the flu.” 

“Then what?” 

The bitter curl of lips he offers you hurts your heart. “The irony is, I’d probably be dead by now if not for you.” 

“What?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“I’m dying, y/n. I’ve got cancer.” He spits the last word, as though he finds it utterly absurd, like an insult God has personally bestowed upon him.

You feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, a ringing in your ears like you were at ground zero of an explosion. Cancer? All the things this man has faced…and…he’s got fucking cancer? 

“How long have you known?” Your voice cracks with the effort to keep it all in.

“Not long.” 

“Prognosis?” you ask quietly, fearing the answer like the monster under the bed. 

“Not good.” When he sees your lip trembling he adds, “Please don’t fuss.” You don’t have much blood to spare, but you feel the sting of tears start to well in your eyes again. “And definitely don’t cry. Come on, y/n.” The admonition turns into a coughing fit. He turns his head, covering it with his sleeve. When he lowers his arm you see the stain of blood from his lips, and your heart hits rock bottom. 

“Oh my god. You should be in a hospital!” 

If you can sense so much, how did you miss this?

“Well…I’m kind of busy trying to save the world right now. Whatever Hell’s cooking up this time, it’s big. I can feel it. If I don’t stop it…nothing up here might matter anymore anyway.”

“Ok…what do we need to do?” 

He snorts. “We? Oh no. You’re staying out of it. I leave you unsupervised and you get tangled up with the Master of the City and the world’s most dangerous dhampir in one night?”

You clench your jaw, trying to hold it in. Your despair, and your frustration, because for someone so smart this man sure can be a fucking idiot. 

“John, you should be in treatment!”

He shrugs, paying you that rueful half smile that ties your heartstrings up in knots. It would be a full on grin for most people. You realize that he would fucking hate it if you started weeping all over him, but this form of expression of your grief for him is acceptable. This, he’s actually enjoying, the weird bastard. 

This man is going to be the death of you. 

You are on the verge of chewing him out when he tugs at that connection between you, and that golden coil inside you flares to life. You shudder, closing your eyes, hardly able to keep yourself from crawling into his lap. You’re trying not to be a horny mess in the middle of this serious discussion–and failing badly. 

“Feel that?” 

“What is it?” He has so much more experience with this metaphysical stuff than you. 

He chews on his answer for a long time, before finally admitting, “I’ve been doing some reading. I think…we’re bound.” 

“Bound how?” 

“Our life forces,” he tries to explain. “We can…feel each other. It’s how I found you tonight. I felt you calling me, I knew you were in trouble. And we make each other stronger. I think…you’re keeping me alive, for now, but I don’t know for how long. The cancer’s still getting worse, just…slower.” 

“You should have told me.” 

“I…didn’t know how,” he admits. Most people would have added, I’m sorry, but not John Constantine. 

You finally get up the courage to take another step closer, standing between his spread legs. You reach out to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the line of his dark hair around his ear. You should have noticed immediately that he was looking gaunt. His eyes close under your touch, a long sigh escaping him, and you sense how horrible it’s been for him to carry this burden all alone. Always so alone, your John, and mostly, by his own choice.  

“If you need money for chemo I’ll get it for you.” 

His lips twist with amusement at hearing that. “Yeah? You gonna rob a drug cartel for me, Miss Vigilante?” Such is the state of the American healthcare system, that such extremes might be necessary.

“That’s not a bad idea.” 

He laughs, then regrets it as the coughing takes over. “Jesus. I’m sorry,” you say, patting his shoulder.  

“This is why I can’t be around you,” he snarks deadpan. “I’ll lose a damn lung.” 

You sigh, unable to stop yourself from thinking about the woman you saw him with last night. 

“Does…Angela know?” 

He blinks at that. “No, why would she?”

“Isn’t she…your girlfriend?”

Again, he starts to laugh, then forces himself to be still, squeezing his eyes shut. “What? No, we just met.” His dark eyes are practically sparkling as he looks up at you now, unbearably smug. He thinks this is funny, and you are so not going to tell him you were ready to chew through the concrete of your apartment building after seeing them together. “She’s helping me with a case. Or I’m helping her. The demon half-breeds are up to something big. I think they’re after her.” 

“Oh.” You are the worst, because rather than sympathy for that poor woman, all you feel is relief. “I…that’s awful.” 

“Yeah. I warded her apartment while I’m trying to get to the bottom of it. If she stays put, she should be fine…in theory.” 

“Oh. That was…nice of you.”

You can tell John is fighting not to smirk at you. “Yeah, that's me.”

Annoyed by his cheek, you insist, “You like her though. I could tell.”

“She’s alright,” he answers, interested in a knot in the table suddenly.

“You want her. I guess I don’t blame you. She’s pretty cute.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“I’m dying, for one.”

“All humans are in the process of dying.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just saying. Better not waste your time.” You're interested in the floor too, as you say this. The thought of him with another woman claws at your insides, but you try to handle it like an adult. 

“You trying to get rid of me now?”

“Did I ever have you?”

If you’d still had to breathe, you would have held your breath, waiting for his answer, yearning for some acknowledgement of what is between you. But he only shakes his head, at you or himself you’re not sure, pouring himself another drink.

Your heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a cold, cold lake. 

“You trying to clear your dance card for John Wick?” 

“You mean Jardani?”

“Oh, Jardani?” he singsongs mockingly, fluttering his lashes. “No one’s called him that in this century.”

“Fine. Whatever his name is, the answer’s no. He scares the fuck out of me.” 

It’s mostly true, though maybe not for the right reasons. 

“You didn’t look too scared, in the alley together. You looked like you were going to eat each other.”

You kind of did exactly that, and you didn’t know it was possible to blush as a vampire, but goddammit there it is. Cherry red heat, blistering your cheeks and the tips of your ears. 

“I don’t have to take this from you,” you growl, turning to go, though where you have no idea. 

“Hey, wait.” He catches your hand in his, and you are reminded somehow of the last time you were together. You have the control not to throw him onto the floor this time, just looking at him from under your lashes. 

“I’ve been waiting, John,” you finally say, and there’s no accusation in it now. Just resignation. Because if what he says is true–you’ve got the time to wait, but he definitely doesn’t. It seems surreal, that he could actually be fatally ill.

He sighs, and you marvel at how much this man can convey with the expulsion of some air. Annoyance, and maybe even some regret.  “I warned you, when this whole thing started, that I’m not boyfriend material.”

Why does hearing him say that hurt so much? You feel the sting of tears again, but you don’t let them fall. “I never expected you to be my boyfriend, John.”

“Then what did you want from me?” 

He seems genuinely curious, maybe as confused about all this as you are, and looking down into his soulful dark eyes you realize you don’t actually have an answer. You have all these feelings for this man, all this emotion that feels like a goddamn electrical storm crackling inside you, and yet…what did you want from him? Chocolates? Flowers? Love poems? You fucking knew better than that. You weren’t going to date like a normal couple. You weren’t going to move in together or meet each other’s parents. “I don’t know,” you admit, sounding as surprised as you feel. “Just some acknowledgement, maybe, that I meant something to you. 

He lifts an eyebrow to that. “Okay. Consider it acknowledged.” 

Somehow, this doesn’t exactly satisfy you. Disgusted, more with yourself than him now, you try to retreat again, but he won’t let go of your hand. 

“I like you, y/n,” he says with emphasis, squeezing your palm like there’s something you’re supposed to be reading between the lines. “But I don’t have anything to offer you except a target on your back. I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”

“Is that what you really think?”  

Does he hate himself so much?

“I know it, y/n.” 

You can’t help but think of the joy you’ve felt in his arms. The pleasure, and the triumph, and the utter elation. That is why you have chased him, you realize. Because in the fleeting moments in which you catch him–you feel like you’re on top of the world. No one else has ever come close to making you feel the way John Constantine does–and if you say any of this out loud you’re afraid he’ll roll his eyes and laugh at you. 

With his handsome face in your hand you lean down as though drawn by a string, hoping to show him how you feel instead. Can’t he feel it, through this connection between you? The way you adore him? You think you feel it start to glow, and if you can invoke that magic you shared before, then surely he’ll understand. Maybe he will value himself more, if he understands how precious he is to you. He watches your approach with parted lips, his eyes fixed on you. But at the last minute he turns his head, and you freeze with mortification for his rejection. 

“You’ve still got dhampir blood in your mouth,” he says quietly, not meeting your gaze. 

He’s not wrong, of course. You didn’t exactly have a chance to brush your fucking teeth–and maybe that is pretty gross. 

You disgust him. 

You are a bloodsucking creature of the night, and even if he’s dying inside, he’s a demon hunter to the bone. 

Why you ever thought he could love you, is anyone’s guess.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Halt!”

Across the common, three suspicious figures freeze, glance behind them, and then resume walking as casually as they can.

“I said halt! Do not move! Cease all function!”

Milling nervously towards each other, Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest pause, shifting the three massive cardboard boxes they hold each.

“Hi, Annabeth,” Will says, smiling innocently. Cecil and Lou Ellen match him, eyes wide, expressions angelic.

Annabeth stomps over to them, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She is entirely unmoved by the cherubic display in front of her. Nico stays right where he is, hidden by the shade of Cabin Eight.

“Explain yourselves,” Annabeth orders.

The three stooges exchange a look.

“Whatever do you mean,” Lou Ellen asks, shifting the boxes to free up her hand only to place it delicately over her chest. “Why, we are only helping our dear friend William —”

“Our dear, dear friend,” Cecil adds.

“— carry these many boxes of medical supplies, so as to lower his great burden —”

“Massive burden,” Will says sagely.

“— and free up his evening in order for him to spend his limited time with us, his most cherished friends.”

“Especially cherished,” Will and Cecil chorus together.

Unable to bite back a smile, Nico rolls his eyes so hard his skull hurts. They’re not even trying to not get caught, at this point.

Clearly agreeing, Annabeth scoffs. “Yeah, right. Boxes down, all three of you. You’re being detained for suspected illicit substances.”

“Annabeth!” Will cries, mock outraged, “after all I do for this camp, you would accuse me of being — illicit?! Me?! The outrage! The insult! The impugn, the —”

“Can it, Solace. Open the boxes.”

Huffing in perfect unison, the three of them carefully lower their boxes to the ground.

“Tape off.”

Intentionally slowly, they run a nail along the edge of the packing tape.

“Flaps open, guys, c’mon.”

With flourish, the trio fling open the thin cardboard panels. Inside each box is rows of bandages, packaged syringes, sterile bands, tongue compresses, and more that Nico can’t name.

“See?” says Cecil, gesturing grandly. “The shipment just came in from my dad.”

Annabeth’s eyes narrow. “Your dad is in a conference with the rest of the Olympians right now, Markowitz.”

“Well,” Cecil says, and then nothing else.

“He meant it in the royal sense,” Lou Ellen pipes up in his silence. Cecil nods frantically. “You know, ‘just’ as in, like, recently, as in this morning —”

“Do you three think I’m stupid —”

“It’s just medical supplies! You can look through them if you want —”

Even if they weren’t acting like criminals, Nico knows his friends. He knows his boyfriend, especially, and recognises that damn look on his face. He can also physically see Annabeth’s stress ulcer coming back.

Closing his eyes, Nico fades into Cabin Six’s shadow. It’s a quick jump, so the stretch is easy, and the darkness bows easily to his hold. He reappears silently behind the group, taking advantage of the setting sun, and darts out to grip Lou Ellen’s arm.

“Boo,” he whispers.

She shrieks at the top of her lungs, jumping three clean feet in the air. Coincidently, the boxes of medical supplies flicker, turning into a truly baffling amount of instant mashed potato boxes as her grip on the Mist loosens.

“I knew it!” Annabeth shouts.

On cue, all three doofuses turn to Nico, jeering and complaining about ‘ruining the fun’. Nico’s glare is ineffective on Doofus #1, but the other two can be cowed. He focuses on channelling the flames of hell to reflect in his eyes like his father showed him until they look away, muttering at the ground.

“We still don’t have any illicit substances,” Will insists, glaring right back. Nico sticks out his tongue. He crosses his eyes like a four year old. How immature, honestly. “So we’re just gonna take our stuff and —”

“Absolutely not, Golden Boy. Put that hand away.”

Wisely, Will draws slowly back from the boxes, tucking his hands in his pocket.

Annabeth stares, hard, at the three of them, flicking her dark eyes from the potatoes and back. The tips of her worn-out converse tap slowly on the packed grass, tip-tap-tip-tap, as they all squirm.

Understanding suddenly dawns on her.

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, for the strawberry plants.”

They squirm harder.

“Oh, you godsdamn bitches.”

“It would’ve been really funny,” Cecil mumbles, staring at the ground. “Rain making the ground turn into a sea of mashed potatoes. Like Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs.”

“The only meatballs around here are the ones clogging up your skull!” Annabeth shouts, which doesn’t quite make sense but sounds clever coming from her anyway. “Who was gonna clean that up, huh? Magic?”

“I mean, probably,” Lou Ellen says, promptly shutting up at Annabeth’s glare.

“And you, Will! I cannot believe! Where is that responsibility you’re known for, huh?”

Will pouts. “I can be responsible and do fun things.”

“Fun, he says. I’m going to fucking kill you. The one day I’m left in charge, I cannot believe —”

“If it helps, it’s less about you and more about April Fools being tomorrow,” Cecil interjects tentatively. “Like, we were going to do this whether or not Chiron left.”

Annabeth glares darkly. “Of fucking course you were. It’s always you three, I swear to the gods. I should have known.”

“It’s honestly kind of embarrassing for you guys, stopped before you’re even started,” Nico adds. He smiles smugly at them, relishing in their rolled eyes and mocking hands. “Like, everyone expected this. You did this to yourselves, honestly.”

“Boo, you jag,” Lou Ellen protests. The other two knuckleheads joint in the booing, Will taking it an extra stop forward and blowing a raspberry, both thumbs pointing down. Nico responds with a bright grin and two middle fingers.

“Enough,” Annabeth says, rubbing her temples. “Extra chores, all three of you. Go help the cleaning harpies until sundown. And not another peep of complaint or I’ll have you on chores tomorrow, too.”

Without another glance at them, she turns around and walks away, muttering at least you caught it early at least you caught it early at least you caught it early over and over to herself.

“Pretty sure you guys have physical labour to do,” Nico says brightly when she disappears into the Big House. “I’d get started on that, if I were you.”

“Butthead,” Cecil mutters.

“Kiss-ass,” Lou Ellen agrees, making a face.

“Traitor,” Will whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he walks past.

Nico watches them go, standing guard over the boxes in case they try to come back for them.

He can’t help but think that they all look a little too jovial for having their plans ruined before they even started.

[vilentia]

Falling Together (Part One)

Steve Rogers x reader

Part Two ->

Y/N Y/L/N stood at the foot of the Avengers Compound, her fingers clutching the strap of her satchel as she tilted her head back to take in the sight of it. The building was enormous, sleek, and modern, its glass façade gleaming under the late morning sun. Somewhere inside that fortress of technology and heroics was Tony Stark—her new boss, self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist. The compound was tucked away in upstate New York, surrounded by rolling green hills and dense forest. It looked nothing like the offices and lecture halls she had grown used to in Boston. A light wind ruffled her hair as she took a deep breath, trying to steady the slight tremor in her hands. It wasn’t every day you started a job working for the most famous team of superheroes in the world. Inside, the compound was even more impressive. The sleek design extended into the cavernous lobby, where polished floors reflected the sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hum of unseen machinery vibrated faintly beneath her feet, and the air was cool and faintly metallic, like stepping into the future. “Miss Y/L/N?”

Y/N turned to see a man in a neatly pressed suit approaching. He had the air of someone who could command a room without raising his voice. “I’m Happy Hogan,” he said, extending a hand. “Tony asked me to show you around. Welcome to the Compound.” “Thank you,” Y/N said, shaking his hand firmly. She didn’t want to seem nervous, even though her stomach was twisting itself into knots. Happy led her through a maze of corridors, each more futuristic than the last. Glass panels in the walls occasionally revealed glimpses of labs filled with glowing equipment, rows of computers, and the occasional blur of someone in a lab coat rushing by. “You’ll be working directly with Mr. Stark,” Happy explained as they walked. “He’s…unique, let’s put it that way. Keeps things exciting.” Y/N smiled, trying to hide her apprehension. “I’ll do my best to keep up.” Happy grinned. “Good luck with that.” The tour ended in an expansive common area that felt more like a high-end lounge than the headquarters of Earth’s mightiest heroes. Plush sofas were arranged around a massive screen on one wall, and a sleek kitchen with gleaming appliances occupied one corner. A balcony overlooked the sprawling grounds outside. Y/N’s eyes swept the room, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Steve Rogers was sitting at the far end of the room, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he read from a tablet. Even seated, he exuded a quiet strength that was impossible to ignore. He looked up as they entered, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers for a brief moment. Happy waved a hand in Steve’s direction. “That’s Captain America. He’s usually around if you need anything. Good guy, but don’t expect him to loosen up too much.” Y/N nodded, forcing herself to look away. She’d seen photos of him, of course—who hadn’t? But in person, he seemed larger than life. There was something about the way he carried himself, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, and yet he bore it without complaint. “Welcome,” Steve said, his voice calm and steady. “Thank you,” Y/N managed, her voice betraying none of the butterflies in her stomach. Happy clapped his hands together. “All right, let’s get you settled in. Stark’s expecting you in the lab.”

Tony Stark turned out to be exactly as chaotic as Y/N had expected, though in a way that was almost endearing. He talked a mile a minute, his hands constantly in motion as he rattled off instructions, ideas, and the occasional sarcastic comment. “You’re my buffer now,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “When Fury calls, you answer. When Bruce needs a break, you tell him. And if Rogers starts complaining about outdated tech again, you let me know so I can conveniently disappear.” Y/N’s lips twitched into a smile. “Got it.” “And don’t let anyone fool you—this place looks like it runs smoothly, but it’s held together with duct tape and sheer willpower. You’re here to make sure it doesn’t all fall apart. No pressure.” “No pressure,” she repeated, hiding her nerves behind a confident smile. As the days turned into weeks, Y/N threw herself into her work with the determination that had earned her the job in the first place. She quickly became indispensable, organizing schedules, mediating conflicts, and learning to anticipate Tony’s needs before he voiced them. It wasn’t long before the other Avengers started to notice her, too. Natasha Romanoff was the first to comment on how smoothly things were running, while Bruce Banner quietly expressed his gratitude for the snacks Y/N kept stocked in the lab. Even Sam Wilson, ever the jokester, admitted she was a “solid addition to the team.” But it was Steve Rogers who intrigued her the most.

Y/N’s first real conversation with Steve happened by chance. She was in the kitchen late one evening, reheating leftovers after a long day. The compound was quiet, the usual hum of activity replaced by a peaceful stillness. She was startled when Steve walked in, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, a towel slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, and he looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. “Sorry,” he said, pausing when he saw her. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” “You’re not,” she said quickly, stepping aside to make room. “Just grabbing a late dinner.” He nodded and moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the microwave. “You’re Stark’s new assistant, right?” Steve asked, breaking the silence. “That’s me,” Y/N said, turning to face him. “Y/N Y/L/N.” “Steve Rogers,” he said, offering a small smile. “I know,” she replied, her own smile soft but genuine. “Hard not to.” Steve chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Fair enough. How are you settling in?” “It’s…a lot,” she admitted. “But I like it. Everyone’s been welcoming.” “That’s good to hear,” he said. “This place can be overwhelming at first, but it grows on you.” The microwave beeped, and Y/N retrieved her plate, feeling slightly self-conscious under his steady gaze. “Well, I should let you eat,” Steve said, stepping back toward the door. “You don’t have to go,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean, if you’re hungry or something…” Steve hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.” He grabbed an apple from the counter and joined her at the small table. They talked for over an hour, their conversation flowing easily despite the late hour. Y/N found herself laughing at his dry humor and sharing more about herself than she’d intended. Steve, for his part, was struck by how grounded she seemed. She wasn’t awed by his reputation or trying to impress him. She was just…herself. When they finally parted ways, Steve found himself smiling as he headed back to his room. There was something about Y/N Y/L/N that he couldn’t quite put into words.

Part Two ->

Masterlist

[deepdreamnights]

The Secret Origin of Wally ManMoth

Scans from TyrannoMax #26

Cocytus was one of the better-performing comic companies outside the big 2 in the 1970s before the whole company was bought out by Buzby-Spurlock Animation in the early 80s.

TyrannoMax was its biggest title, so almost everyone in the character stable teamed up with the Dinoids eventually.

Process under the fold.

TyrannMax is created via use of Dall-E 3 and Midjourney as pencilers, and me doing essentially everything else (writing, editing, inking, lettering, layout, etc.) DE is on most of the character art, MJ on backgrounds and select characters.

Each panel utilizes anywhere from one gen/prompt (for a handful of very simple head-shots) to around 20 for stuff like the DinoHydra action shot or the hero/villain showcase panels.

Once I know what I want for a page I lay out the rough dialog and panels, then start generating pics. Basic prompt format and a few examples:

, , , , comic panel by 1968, in the style of 1968

A portly 50 year old man, resembles Alan Hale Jr, jolly smile, wearing a tweed jacket, slacks, sandals, a fedora, sweatervest and a loosened ascot, full body character design, comic panel by Jack Kirby and Alex Toth 1968, in the style of 1968 Marvel comics

a mad scientist mid-transformation into a green anthro-tyrannosaurus, asymmetrical transformation, boils and growths, screaming/roaring, bald, portly, with round glasses. wearing a tattered lab coat, vest, slacks, tie. Comic panel by jack kirby and alex toth, 1968, in the style of vintage horror comics

Then I take the pics into PS, arrange and composite them, and then remove all the color. I don't tend to prompt for my final colors on characters and instead choose light tones I can easily extract. Why not just do B&W prompts? Style impact.

Then I start to re-ink over errors and details that don't match the mood I want, match line thicknesses over various elements, etc. Through this process I adjust dialog placement and panel arrangements, and do generally the things and editor and letterer would be up to.

Once I have the inks, flat colors, and the text on various layers, I do the weathering and compositing to simulate scans of a 1970s comic book. This is also where the deliberate flaws in coloring and print alignment are added for authenticity.

[lunarthing159]

[ Gunshot, Rosette, & Canvas ]

A VSAU-AU Fanfiction For @rhapsoddity And Community.

Characters: Sheriff/Jimmy, Wither/Sausage, & Spectrum/Scott

Content Warnings: Detail of Injury, Non-Consensual Hypnosis, & Hot AU Men (Thanks Rhaps).

Extra Tag; @wilbygoesbrrrr Take Your Villain Saus Man

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Stillness.

It was all so still.. quiet.. tranquil..

Almost too much so for The Sheriff's tastes. This place is usually bustling with villains, or even simple criminals by this hour.. yet still.. nothing..

Heroes rarely ventured into the alleyways of this part of Empires City, it was labeled 'not of immediate concern' a long time ago and hasn't changed since. "Tch, figures." He would scoff under his breath at the thought. The whole job of heroes is to help people, and yet they ignore the areas that most need help. Typical, unfortunately.

Oh well, that means more work for The Sheriff to do instead. Hooray!..

Making his way from rooftop to rooftop using his lasso, Sheriff scoured his usual rounds, checking each and every alleyway for even the slightest motive. Even hours later, as he was already slowing down and yawning along the way, he kept searching.

He kept moving.

He kept slowing down.

He kept watching.

He kept yawning.

He kept looking.

He kept rubbing his eyes.

The Sheriff kept Searching

And the searching would seem to pay off.

A simple paper, tucked away in an alleyway corner. A letter, it would seem. The alley walls were lightly coated in city moss, adorned with glass panels & windows leaned onto the sides at the dead-end.

Bingo.

Sheriff decended down from atop the building, using his lasso for the first half and some ladders for the second. "There we go!" Picking up the paper, it read as follows;

To my newest accomplice,

I presume your travels have been well. As I last heard of you, all things are set on your end of our plan. The target has been found, we can begin stage two.

Turn around~

There was no time to react.

The moss along the alley walls came to life in an instant, rushing out towards the sheriff. There was no time to dodge. There was no time to flee. Within moments, he found himself bound within the vines, sprouted thorns digging into his clothes and skin.

And he knew exactly who was causing this.

"Hello there, little cowboy."

Wither. The Thorned Rosebush. The Garden of Decay. The Mania Flower.

He wore a scarlet red mask to cover his eyes and a shirt of the same hue, buttoned down just enough to where his upper chest was visible. He adorned a navy coat that flowed down to his knees with a collar that perfectly framed his medium-length brunette hair and beard. And his smile,,, one that terrified the souls of many, any, & all who have found themselves in his path and wake.

No matter his title to you, you only had one option,,, one chance of survival...

To Run.

Sheriff spent as little time as he could to collect his words, even as his body was thrown into the ground and his arms were bound above his head. He did his best to keep up his usual demeanor, to not showcase his fear,,, his terror. "Well hello there, I know I've shown myself to be a fan of ropes, but this is no way to showcase your own~"

"Oh?" Wither seemed to inquire, only stepping closer. Sheriff prayed the other didn't see the nervous gleam his eyes have no doubt obtained. "Then just how should I show you? Just how much would you like to see~?"

Oh. Oh Sheriff was in over his head. Wither kneeled right infront of him, not in some act of bowing, but as almost a tease, a taunt, a flaunt and display of the other's power in this situation. Sheriff darted his eyes around them, looking for any exit to this situation.

Sheriff let out a cry, the vines tightened, but only around his skin. The thorns dug deep into the flesh, drawing blood and loosening just enough to let him bleed. Dispite the many pains Sheriff has found himself in, he couldn't prevent tears welling up in his eyes. They were trapped there because of his mask, and the salt began to burn, bringing more tears to trap themselves.

"Adorable, do keep up the act, vigilant. Your suffering is delicious." Wither would taunt him, bringing a single finger to swipe across his cheek, causing another wound. Only a small slash, but it was all adding up to the pain Sheriff felt.

It was all too much, even for him,,, the act could be kept up no longer. "Stop,,," it felt so pathetic to beg, but he had no other choice. He couldn't try and writhe out, it would only dig the thorns farther into his arms, legs, & torso. He can only sustain so much damage and guarantee he can make it home. It's all he could do,,, all he could do was beg.

And Wither would only seem to grin wider at his suffering. Perhaps he actually did feed from pain? Who could say. "Don't you worry, I have no intentions to hurt you further. Keep your eyes open, Sheriff. It's time for stage 3~"

What?

And there it was, just outside his peripheral, endless colors began to warp where there was previously only darkness. The visuals creeped into his sight, coating the world around him in shifting and spiraling hues. There was nothing to stay latched on to. There was nothing to stay grounded to. There was nothing to stay focused on. It ate away at his focus, only intensifying every moment it stayed. And Sheriff knew exactly who was working together now.

"Hello there, Rosette~. It seems you've done your part rather well."

"no No NO-"

Not him, not them- anyone but Them.

But it was them. It was, in fact, Wither & Spectrum,,, working together... for... what? What would they need? What could they want? What,,, does Sheriff have to do with this? He,,, didn't know.

And somehow, that terror,,, it distracted him. The world around him began to shift, nothing stayed the same too long. He could hardly make out the walls of the alleyway anymore, only colors,,, endlessly shifting colors,,, endlessly moving colors,,, endlessly spiraling colors,,,

It was... mesmerizing, and any normal person would have fallen victim right here and now. But Sheriff wasn't normal, at least not like this. There had to be a way out, he had to stay strong-

Wither moved to be behind him, wrapping his arms around The Sheriff in a grapple almost adjacent to a hug. Sheriff struggled to not lean into this embrace. Spectrum made his way infront of The Sheriff, gently cupping the other's face within his palms. Sheriff desperately tried to avoid looking as deep as he could into such beautiful eyes. Both villains whispered words to The Sheriff, he tried not to listen, he couldn't hear them, he listened, he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Hush, --wboy"

"J--- -isten"

"-o thin---g"

"Relax n--"

"D--'t str--gle"

"Fall~."

And fall he did, ever so simply. The colors coated his mind so easily, covering up any thought he may have had and preventing him from forming new ones. They kept swirling in his vision, trapping his mind within it's spirals, falling farther and farther down. All will of fight left his limbs, falling limp within the hold of the one behind him. The world and all in it seemed to fade away as he kept falling further away from it.

His mouth would stay gently open, no tension to keep his jaw closed. His eyes would lose focus, not looking at anything in particular as the world itself seemed to escape him. No thoughts to form, no form to fight, no fight to give. The Sheriff, He could only Be.

Mossy vines untangled themselves from his flesh, retreating back to their posts along the alley walls. Two grins faced the empty husk of a figure, as they knew their plan had succeeded. The bright magenta hue that overwhelmed a previous eye color spoke it all.

They just got a new little puppet~

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Ello! Thanks For Reading! Hope Y'all Enjoyed Your VSAU-AU Villain Yaoi Scosage / Toxic Flytrap Husbands Content :>

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Bar Daddy

I take immense pride in my bar. In just two years I've founded the classiest tavern in town, but I still like to bartend now and then. I can charm any patron with prompt service, good company, and the finest drinks.

I usually aim to give everyone a high-class experience, but I don't even bother trying to charm the man currently walking in.

He comes around every so often and completely disrupts the sophisticated atmosphere, dressing like a prostitute and loudly commenting on the gentlemen in the room. Needless to say, that gay idiot keeps coming back to drive away my paying customers, and each time I become a more and more short-tempered.

I feel my patience already wearing thin as he creeps over to me. "I told you not to come back here!" I growl under my breath.

"But this is the gayest bar in town," he whines back in return.

"This is the finest bar in town, so get out!"

Just before I explode in anger, this man begins batting his eyes. The gaze beneath those fluttering eyelids is intense. I feel the scowl on my face loosen as my arms fall limp. My whole posture seems to sag, and I can feel his mesmerizing power over me.

"You need to loosen up, mister," I hear him say, "You think this isn't a gay bar? Just look at yourself!"

My head obediently turns and glances in the mirror as he continues to whisper in my ear.

"You're happy to have gay men in here! This bar was founded on your own values, right? Masculinity, homosexuality, and promiscuity."

I suddenly realized he is right.

"Wow, I'm happy you're here, bud," I smile, already hoping I can give him the time of his life in my gay bar.

"Glad to be here, daddy, but don't tell me you've forgotten how you greet all your customers!"

I panic! I have no idea how he thinks I should greet my customers. Normally, I put on a charming smile and ask them what they'd like to drink, but I can already tell that isn't a good enough strategy for this new guy.

"A kiss, big-bear!" he laughs, "A sloppy, aggressive, wet kiss. You need to show your patrons who's in charge here or they'll get out of line."

That makes so much sense. I rush around the bar and grab the twink by the waist, forcing him close enough to plant a long smooch over his mouth. I'm overjoyed to see that my embrace has left him flustered and rock hard.

"What can I get you to drink, son?" I ask.

My voice feels lower. I don't remember being a baritone, and my body feels so much heavier. Maybe I've gained some weight, but it could just be the uniform I have on. Wearing nothing but an apron might just make me look thicker than I am. At least I'm lucky enough to be covered in body hair or else I'd be freezing in here!

"A round of shots for the room, daddy!" he screams gleefully, planting a wicked slap on my bare ass.

The sting on my cheeks makes me angry at first, but after glancing into his eyes I realize I overreacted. I always like it when a customer smacks my ass anyway. Honestly, that and them randomly groping me is the only thing that turns me on anymore.

"Coming right up, boy."

"Good bar daddy," he praises.

I don't know when it happened, but the entire place is redecorated. Gone is the wood panelling and tasteful art, replaced by neon lights and a loud music. All my regular customers have seemed to embrace it, twerking half naked on the dance floor.

A crowd of more gays bursts into the bar, wildly running up to order their drinks. It's the most business I've ever had!

The rest of the night is going to be a whirlwind! A dozen wandering hands immediately find my body among the crowd, tickling my sensitive areas, groping my big muscles, and fondling the package beneath my apron. These boys certainly feel close to their daddy!

The only way I can get them to calm down is by grabbing their shoulders to force my tongue down their throat in a sloppy kiss. I barely have the time to keep up with tending the bar.

I don't mind it though. The constant stimulation is intoxicating, fueling my passion to make my boys happy. Every single one of these men are going to leave my bar happy, drunk, and satisfied! I am their Bar Daddy after all.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Kitty Elliot AU #6

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: mention of animal death, non con

The box was dark. 

So dark, his eyes could not see through it. The first time, there was light from the keyhole, but then Master fixed it and the light was gone.

It was a strong box too. So strong he could not claw through it. And the punishment after hurt too much to try again. 

It was small, and cramped, and often Pet would sweat and have to breathe through the pressure on his bruises and neck and feet and everything. The box hurt.

But it was not the worst part of the box.

The worst part, in his opinion (which he had lots of time to think about), was that the box could be moved.

He could be taken anywhere while inside. He could be tossed into a fire, or left by the side of a busy road. Or his worst fear, thrown in the river to drown, as if he were a sack of unwanted kittens.

Master loved the box as much as Pet hated it. Convenient, he called it. 

The only thing Master liked more (and which Pet hated more) was the muzzle.

Gods, the muzzle.

It was a horror of a device, leather straps and metal face panels and it hurt hurt hurt.

Tears dripped down his face as Pet sat still, staring at the bundle of steel in his hands. Master loosened the straps, unbuckling them slowly as if to taunt. 

“You’re going to be a good boy, right?”

Pet nodded. He’d been good for years. He didn’t need the muzzle anymore, but Master never played fair.

He whined through gritted teeth as Master fit the metal over his nose and under his jaw.

“Shh,” Master said. “Or I’ll get the bit too. Do you want the bit?” 

The bit was a steel rod that went between his teeth and over his tongue, forcing his mouth open. It made the tight muzzle even tighter, and together they were the most awful thing in the world.

Pet froze and made no sound, which was the correct answer. “I thought so,” said Master.

Master adjusted the leather, the metal cutting into his face and squeezing his jaw shut. Pet screwed his eyes closed, trying not to let anymore tears fall.

If he began to bleed again, the salt would sting, and he didn’t want anymore pain.

“Good boy,” Master said, patting his cheek. Pet leaned into his palm, already miserable.

He could only breathe through his nose now, and it was a struggle not to claw at the thing on his face. The steel noseband cut into the bridge of it, and his scar reopened as it always did. The skin there was already sore.

Blood slowly pooled and dripped down his nose. He whimpered, but it was a mistake.

Master grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking it back. “Quiet,” he hissed. “Not a sound. Understand?”

Pet silenced himself, pain radiating down his spine. Tears welled up in his eyes against his will, Master becoming blurry.

“Stupid animal,” Master said, and he was so angry. Fear buzzed in Pet’s ears, and he hoped Master would be merciful.

“Get up,” he ordered, and hope vanished as quickly as it had come. He stood, Master’s hand still buried in his hair.

Master dragged him upstairs, and shoved him over the bed. Pet gripped the sheets, fur raised in terror.

Master kicked his legs apart, yanking down his underwear, the only clothing he was allowed besides the collar.

Pet heard the tell-tale sound of Master’s belt slipping through the loops, and he shuddered. He could barely breathe, and his heart was rabbit fast.

Master cupped his ass, smoothing his tail up and out of the way. He was always gentle before a punishment, and Pet savored the fleeting kindness.

He pushed a thumb down on an old bruise, and Pet choked on his tears to keep quiet.

“Don’t get any blood on my sheets,” warned Master, and it was an impossible order.

He jolted at the first blow, the sudden sting surprising him. He focused on breathing, but each new strike knocked it out of him.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Soon his tears began to mix with blood, the salt getting into his cut.

His ass burned but Master didn’t stop. Pet buried his face into the bed, screaming closed-mouth into the sheets and praying he wouldn’t be heard.

His legs shook and his fists clenched the blankets so hard he distantly thought they might tear.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Pet cried and cried, until Master finally, finally stopped. His hand stoked over the welts, and Pet couldn’t help but flinch away.

“So cute,” cooed Master. “I like you best when your butt is all red and sore.” 

Pet sniffled, and the metal dug deeper into his skin. 

But it was not over. 

He heard the sound of a zipper, and Pet forced himself to blink away the tears. He tried to relax his muscles, but he was paralyzed with dread.

Master began to stroke himself, and Pet could hear the skin on skin. Master sighed, content, and Pet felt the heavy heat of his cock rest on his ass. 

Pet took in a sharp breath as Master forced himself inside. It burned burned burned, and stung and tore and Pet gritted his teeth and tried not to scream.

It didn’t work.

___________________

“We’re going on a trip,” Master said, packing a trunk with clothes. “Go fetch your box.”

Pet obeyed, dragging it upstairs. He didn’t want to, but there was no choice. Pets didn’t get choices.

“Good boy,” Master said, patting his hair. “Are you going to need your muzzle?”

Pet shook his head. “Let’s keep it that way, hm?” He gently pushed Pet down into the box, and Pet curled up the best he could, heart pounding. It was already hard to keep calm, and the lid wasn’t even shut yet.

Even worse, the inside was dusty and dirty from lack of use. It would take effort not to sneeze.

Pet closed his eyes, and pretended he was just going to take a nap.

He heard the hinges close, the lock snap shut, and he was sealed in.

He gasped for air, and slapped a palm over his mouth. Not a sound, not a sound, not a sound-

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[jockifyme]

Graham presses his hand into the panel at the front of the water fountain, bringing his head down as he begins to slurp up the ice cold water. He looks down the hallway as he continues to drink, the building empty save for the theatre students running through the play for the third time that day. He faintly hears his cast mates half-heartedly reciting their lines as he wipes his mouth with his forearm, beginning his walk back to the theatre.

“Hey!” A gruff but familiar voice echos from behind him. Graham turns around and sees Travis, one of his classmates and probably the most popular guy at the school. Even though they were both sophomores, Travis more accurately resembles a roided up third year senior. He’s got a high faded buzzcut and a square jawed face, the quintessential meathead jock look. But from his interactions with him, Graham considers Travis a nice guy. he’s wearing their university’s wrestling uniform: a charcoal gray singlet with yellow and red stitching and the letters of the university’s city, San Ventura, plastered across the front. Underneath the letters, two humanoid shapes grapple each other.

“Uhh, what’s up, Travis?” Travis starts walking toward Graham, his wrestling shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. As he gets closer, Graham notices the beads of sweat glistening across his skin, the singlet doing very little to hide the movement of his muscles with each footfall. Graham takes a couple steps back, not looking away from Travis.

“Why are you acting so weird, dude?” Graham asks as he takes a few more back steps. Travis flashes a smile as he picks up his pace, transitioning to a jog as he continues moves closer to Graham.

Utterly freaked out, Graham turns and runs, looking over his shoulder to see that Travis has also begun to run. His heavy foot steps sounding closer to Graham with each passing second as Graham races toward the theatre.

“Dude, stop! What the hell?!” With the door to the theatre in sight, Graham pushes his body, trying to get his legs to move faster, but as he begins to reach out his arm, two sweaty, burly arms grab his around the waist and swing him backwards, away from the door.

“Let me go! This isn’t fucking funny!” Graham tries to writhe himself free, but he’s no match for Travis’s hold on him. The jock drags him to a door down the hall from the theatre’s door, labeled, “Men’s Locker Room.” He kicks the door a couple times, maintaining his grip on Graham, entering the locker room as it’s opened by two of his teammates. The other two jocks watch as Travis drags the puny theatre nerd into the dark room, pinning him against a row of lockers.

“Get the gear,” Travis says calmly to one of the jocks. Graham renews his struggle as he sees one of the jocks, one he doesn’t recognize, reach into a gym bag and pull out a set of yellow wrestling headgear. The third jock that had been standing there joins Travis in holding Graham in place as Travis slowly releases his grip on him.

“Please stop,” Graham says exasperated, tired from his near constant struggling since Travis first grabbed him. Travis takes the headgear in his hands as the jock that fetched it now joins in on the “pin Graham to the lockers” game. Their muscles glisten in the low-light locker room, both of them dressed in the same singlet as Travis, with short-cut hairstyles that Graham guesses is so no one can grab it while wrestling. Travis pulls a few straps on the headgear, loosening it up while inspecting Graham’s puny frame. The small theatre nerd looks like a stick figure next to his two teammates. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the university’s drama club’s logo on the front, and his blue jeans hang off his skinny legs. A pair of dirty vans cover his feet, recently scuffed from trying to escape Travis’s grasp not too long ago. He’s got long brown hair, curly and unkempt—not good for wrestling.

With the headgear straps loosened up, Travis takes the foam headgear and positions it over Graham’s head.

“Dude, what are you doing?!” Weirded out and without a response, Graham decides to let this play out so he can get out.

Travis methodically fastens the straps around Graham’s head. Graham feels as Travis’s hands reach around and tighten two straps running across the back of his head, one across the crown, and one running across the top of his forehead. The straps press against his skin, and with the tightness, his sense of hearing is muffled. He looks up as Travis nods at the two jocks on either side of him. They release him, letting him stand on his own.

He takes a breath as he plans to make a break for it, and he goes for it. But, his body does not follow. Instead, he walks over to the open gym bag that the jock grabbed the headgear from in the first place. He reaches inside, and against his will, he pulls out a singlet. He tosses it on the metal bench in front of the lockers as he begins to undress. Blushing furiously, he lifts his t-shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor. Next, he steps out of his shorts, revealing his baggy boxers underneath. He sits on the bench and bends over to plop off his socks and shoes. Almost fully undressed, he finds himself breathing shallower. He looks down to see his body is covered in sweat. Travis smirks at him as Graham’s body turns to grab the singlet. With it in hand, he pulls down his boxers and steps out of them. Utterly mortified, Graham body shakes the singlet out. Holding by the straps, he steps into it and shimmies it up his body, the sweat from his body being absorbed into the fabric as it makes its way up his body. The singlet had definitely seen the mat many times before, with the pungent odor of sweat and must quickly filling his nostrils, making him dizzy. He mindlessly readjusts his enlarged dick in the tight fabric as he turns back to the bag. He sits back down again and pulls out a pair of black socks and black adidas wrestling shoes. As he’s putting on the socks, his breathing changes. He begins to instinctively take deeper breaths, pushing against the almost constrictive spandex, with each breath feeling like his lungs are getting bigger, taking in more oxygen.

Travis and the two jocks watch as Graham begins to grow before their eyes. As he pulls the socks over his feet, they lengthen, pushing further and further into the sock. His legs do the same, growing in the length and definition—his calves pop out as his thighs begin to show some shred. Underneath the singlet, the three can see Graham’s pecs billow, straining against the fabric of the singlet. His arms are next, growing similar to the arms that grabbed him only a few minutes ago. His biceps and deltoids pack on muscle, crucial for taking down opponents on the mat. His hands thicken as he begins to tie his shoes, losing their delicacy and growing to grapple.

Graham feels like crying, but his body won’t let him. He watches in terror as his hands shake and change before his eyes as he goes to tie his new wrestling shoes. His fingers shorten and thicken, and as he ties his last shoe, he feels a tickling feeling from his head. He starts to stand, and he sees a pile of hair on the bench and floor below where he had been sitting. Travis opens one of the lockers, revealing a small mirror that had been attached to the back. Graham gasps as he sees himself: Underneath the headgear, his long hair had been reduced to a fade to match the three jocks standing in front of him. The fade is tight against his scalp on the sides, with length only on top. A tuft of hair billows out over his forehead, the only thing separating him from Travis’s military-grade buzz. He feels sick as he continues standing, and though trembling, his body reaches up and takes the last strap of the headgear, the chinstrap, in his hand. He reaches his other burly hand up and confidently tightens the strap under his chin, tightens it, and clicks it into place. With this resounding click, Graham’s vision zeroes in on his reflection in the mirror.

Travis and the other two jocks watch as Graham stares at himself in the reflection, his body twitching ever so slightly as his old personality, memories, and life are wiped. He’s gonna be one of them now: A C-student that’s riding a wrestling scholarship, spending his free time at the gym or at parties. A complete and utter-

“Bro!” Travis is snapped out of his soliloquy as Graham goes to dap him up.

“Bro!” Travis reciprocates the dap and pats his new teammate Graham on the back. “Dude we’ve gotta get outta here. The janitor’s gonna wonder why we’re still here so late after practice.”

“Fuck, dude, you’re right. Let’s get out of here.” Graham grabs his gym bag and stuffs his headgear into it. He grabs a pair of gray sweatpants from within and quickly changes into them. Following his teammates into the night and his new life as a jock.

Graham after his first (?) wrestling match, two weeks since incident.

-

Also, thank y’all so much for 1,400 followers! That’s insane. Thanks for the support of my sporadic uploads

[anony-man]

My hand slipped

(Warning for implied cnc and degradation)

“I bet you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A soft, keening whine followed the second intruding finger that slid past First Aid’s slick entrance, and though he couldn’t manage a proper response, the tightening fingers around his throat were enough incentive for him to give a frantic, eager nod. Sharp, clawed ends of slender fingers scraped at the thin walls of his valve, dragging out the shuddering sensations of pleasure and pain along with a low, throaty moan.

He shouldn’t be lying here, allowing such a dangerous, filthy mech to violate him like this, but oh, First Aid would’ve been lying if he said he wasn’t loving every second.

“Quiet,” his captor warned, fingers reasserting their grip around his throat, briefly cutting off the airflow with a squeeze. “You’ll get us caught by making all that noise. Unless… that’s what you want?”

As the mech’s two fingers curled into the sensitive nodes on the inside of First Aid’s valve, he reached up with his thumb to gently stroke the pulsing node at the top of the slick, pulsing array. The excessive stimulation from both inside and out was almost too much to bear, and First Aid couldn’t help but arch into the touch, a guttural groan slipping past the servo around his throat as he trembled against the berth.

“I bet you’re into that, huh?” The mech teased, forgoing the outer stimulation to continue fucking First Aid’s valve with his fingers alone. His other servo loosened around First Aid’s neck, allowing him to pant and moan his name openly. “I bet you want us to get caught in the act, don’t you? You wanna be caught with your legs spread and my servo up your valve. You want to get caught getting fragged like the pathetic slut you are, is that it?”

“Please,” First Aid whined, jerking his hips up into the mech’s touch. He pulled at the restraints that bound his servos to the bed, but to no avail. “Vortex, please…”

“What?” Vortex said, his mouth splitting into a grin behind the mask he still wore. He’d forced Aid’s mask off long before they’d gotten to this point, having wanted to see the medic fall apart at the seams with every little touch. “Don’t tell me you want to stop. I’ve only just got started!”

It was impossible to see much in the dark room, but the sound of Vortex spike pressurizing was unmistakable. First Aid’s frame trembled with a pitiful sob as Vortex’s fingers slipped free of his valve, but when he straddled First Aid’s lap and prepared himself to slide his spike into the abandoned entrance, First Aid wriggled beneath him with eager anticipation.

“There’s a good slut,” Vortex hissed, thrusting his hips flush against First Aid’s frame and pushing himself in all at once. As expected, there was little to no difficulty, and rather than be met with resistance, Vortex found he slid in rather easily.

Well. That was what the foreplay had been for, after all.

“Primus, you’re tight,” Vortex grunted, giving his hips an experimental roll against First Aid’s exposed panels to test his limits.

Despite their similar sizes and excessive preparation, he still found it difficult to work without much difficulty. However, after some time spent hovering over First Aid’s frame and gently sliding the length of his spike in and out, Vortex managed to work himself up to a good, steady pace. He bent himself low over First Aid’s front, grinding his hips down against First Aid’s frame until he was rutting deep inside the medic. Breathy grunts and sharp gasps met each thrust, and Vortex couldn’t help but tease the Autobot for the pitiful sounds.

“Bet you weren’t expecting this, huh?” He huffed, his words spoken softly against the side of First Aid’s helm. “Bet you didn’t you think I’d come by tonight, did you? Did you think I wouldn’t find you in here, sitting all alone in your room with a false spike shoved halfway up your port? What’s a pretty little thing like you doing trying to pleasure yourself alone, anyway? You should’ve called me, Aid.”

The steady pace they’d begun meant Vortex had more room to work, and as he slowed his movements until he was gently grinding against First Aid’s frame, his spike remaining deep inside the other, he braced himself against the berth and slid his free servo down to fondle the seams of First Aid’s still-closed panels. Within seconds of being touched, they had popped free, and Vortex’s efforts were rewarded with the medic’s erect spike sliding into curled fingers.

“That’s more like it,” Vortex said, his smile audible from his voice alone, and despite his best efforts, First Aid couldn’t help but groan aloud.

Between the sensations of Vortex deep in his valve and the practiced fingers sliding up and down his spike, First Aid was quick to unravel. The binds around his servos kept him from moving much, but a drawn out, agonized breath in followed by the wail of Vortex’s name were enough to signify the intensity of his overload without leaving fresh marks in Vortex’s paint.

Satisfied with his work, Vortex wiped his transfluid-soaked servo off on the front of his plating before reaching up to untie First Aid’s bonds, already expecting the clingy aftercare routine First Aid was often fond of. Careful not to slip out just yet, as he and First Aid were both rather fond of post-coital bliss spent as close to the other as possible, Vortex moved ever closer to the medic, his arms coming over to wrap around First Aid’s front and his chin resting against the top of First Aid’s helm. Only several minutes spent in relative silence (and in a near-suffocating embrace), Vortex decided to speak.

“Good day?” He said, keeping his tone light. “Wasn’t planning on coming by, but something told me I should.”

“Hm,” First Aid hummed against his chest, the sound echoing against the warm metal. “Glad you did. Missed you.”

“Oh yeah?” Vortex chuckled. In a rare show of affection (which, in reality, was likely just his own display of possession), Vortex let his mask click open and planted a gentle kiss on the top of First Aid’s helm. “By missing me, d’you mean you missed me or you missed my—“

“You, Vortex,” First Aid said with a sigh. “I missed you.”

Vortex huffed out a laugh in response and leaned in for a longer, gentler kiss. “Mm… yeah,” he said, keeping his voice low as he felt First Aid began to drift off against him. “I’m sure you did.”

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 3 - Symphony

For the third day of @nessianweek, here's a sweet lil snip of post-canon domestic Nessian.

Photo is of Old Town in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is how I always picture Velaris.

Read here or on ao3!

Five More Minutes

Post-ACOSF slice of life of Nesta enjoying the sounds of the morning (and avoiding getting up).

’T is you that are the music, not your song. The song is but a door which, opening wide, Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong Sing but of you. 

- 'Listening', Amy Lowell

—-

Dawn breaks, cresting the mountains, light spilling over the world. Velaris comes alive in fits and starts, and the harbor bell clangs as sailors bring in their first catch of the day, gulls crying out their envy overhead. The world is waking around her, but Nesta keeps her eyes closed beneath the heavy coverlet. Her stubbornness refuses to entertain the day, not yet.

Cassian seems to agree, though he’ll never admit it. A groan rumbles somewhere behind her, incoherent mumblings of her mate rousing, emerging from the depths of sleep into the day. Nesta hears the slide of sheets, a rustle of wings, then a muffling as he drapes one over her, cocooned for a moment while he presses closer and noises of lazy contentment fill her ear.

He’s warm, always, a furnace in their bed. They both remember the cold too well to sleep any way but right up next to each other, especially on mornings like this, when the air inside carries the chill of late autumn.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, his deep voice thick and fuzzy.

She pretends to be asleep, partly because she wishes she still was, but mostly to draw this out as long as possible. To hear the sweet murmurings Cassian pours over her when he believes her most unguarded, when he tries to reach her dreams.

A broad hand strokes up her side, coming to rest across her stomach. Careful, so as not to wake her. “Fuck, you smell good. And you're so soft. I’m so lucky to wake up next to you.”

Words she’d roll her eyes at in the day, especially if someone else were to overhear, pretty declarations easy enough to toss like flower petals. But in seclusion they manage to travel the distance between his lips and her ear without losing their potency, and Nesta feels them sink in, loosening a muscle in her shoulder.

“Beautiful Nes. You’re so precious to me.”

Cassian holds her for a bit longer, and she listens to the steady tide of his breath so slow and even. It’s punctuated every now and then by his sighs of pleasure, evidence of the way she softens him too in this quiet, liminal place that’s only theirs. 

After a time he rises, the bed’s creaking followed by a thump of the House producing his training leathers. Water runs in the bathing chamber, a splash in the sink, then the scrape of a comb through unruly hair before the endless series of clasps and buckles. Nesta can picture in her mind where each one sits, the high ping of the clip at his shoulder, hard snaps at his sides where the back panel secures to accommodate his wings. Cassian hums under his breath as he dresses, some tune she can’t place, though it might’ve drifted from her symphonia sometime the evening before. The well-worn sofa groans when he sits to don his boots.

The sequence is the same most mornings, but memories still haunt Nesta in these moments of ease, phantoms skulking about in her periphery. It’s hard to forget how she used to wake all at once, like an arrow shot through the morning air, to the cacophony of her mother screeching at a house servant. Or else the horrible quiet that followed, the dense void of her absence.

She woke mustily in the summer in the hovel they called home, the drone of insects and the rank, still air, Elain’s trowel piercing the earth under the windowsill. In colder months there was nothing but the roar of the wind, whistles through the chinks, the grind of her own teeth from trying not to shiver.

All of it was better than waking in the dead of night to Feyre’s pleading, heavy thuds of the clubs and bone crunching, their father’s wretched silence. Then years later the door splintering, the growling of a great beast.

At the funeral for her old life she woke to the rip of curtains around her bed, shouts and taunts as they yanked her drowsy and disoriented from the sheets, from the manor, from her body. Then the fatal press of water in her ears, poison boiling, her own choked snarls of rage.

After that came a long series of mornings that were not actually mornings at all, afternoons when she rose sticky with sweat, a pounding headache like war drums rattling her skull. Days she prayed to stop hearing the snap of her father’s neck in the fire, the ghosts of the past wailing for retribution. Nights when solace lived only in the shuffle of cards, the glug of wine into a waiting glass. The moans of another faceless male.

Yet even in the darkness there was music. Ever since she was a girl, a tune plays at the edge of her dreams that she can’t quite catch, can never quite remember. Always the same, always soft and close, as if someone lays beside her, filling her with safety and peace.

Now the world is quiet, within and without. Nesta barely notices she’s drifted back into sleep, so she’s surprised when heavy footsteps approach her side of the bed. There’s a clink when the House places a cup and saucer on the bedside table, tea she knows will stay perfectly warm until she’s ready to rise herself. Her legs shift, whispering against the sheets as they search for the heated spot Cassian always leaves behind.

“You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, brushing stray hairs from her forehead. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

She hears the smile in his voice, the tenderness he saves just for her. The kisses he drops on her face are like the patter of spring rain, his rumbling laugh the answering thunder when she presses her cheek against his lips so she can really feel them.

Her fae ears pick up conversation in the hallway, Azriel and Gwyn either coming or going, though it’s impossible to tell which. Cassian’s leathers creak as he sits up but she feels him linger there, the rasp of a calloused hand stroking up and down her back. 

“I hope you have a good day. I love you.”

He traces the point of her ear, tugging lightly at the lobe before he stands and his footsteps retreat. Then the snick of the door, their friends greeting him on the landing, Emerie’s voice now joining the chorus.

She doesn’t ever want to stop listening to this, Nesta thinks, these sounds of home. Dawn chases away the phantoms and no one screeches or pleads or drowns in silence. All is in harmony, now the music of her life feels worth waking to hear.

In the moment before her eyes open, a tune floats by from the edge of her dreams, the same one Cassian was humming. It sounds as if someone is beside her in bed, soft, and close.

[sionisjaune]

a very bulletthestars prompt...

lewis' friends hire a private room stripper for his bachelor party, going by his obvious type of blonde leggy german.... it's nico 🫣🫣

I tried my best but i will never be bulletthestars!!!

"Come on, mate," says Jenson, already slurring. The girls at the club are practically climbing over each other for a chance to writhe on Jenson's lap. "This time tomorrow you're going to be married man. Last chance."

Lewis eyes the curtain obscuring the doorway to the private room Jenson and the boys booked for him.

"You're married," Lewis points out, shouting over the din. He raises his eyebrows at the blonde under Jenson's arm and the brunette attempting to crawl into his lap. "And you seem to be on your... fifteenth last chance?

"Jess is cool," says Jenson, shrugging. He shakes his head, appearing to disapprove of something he sees on Lewis's face. "Loosen up. We picked someone you like. Come on." He heaves himself off of the godawful vinyl sofa, upsetting the girls draped across him, and drags Lewis up with him. "Worst case, you can sit there until he runs out of dance moves."

"Wait," says Lewis, while Jenson shoves him past the curtain. "He?"

"Ha ha," says Jenson. "I told you it was your last chance, didn't I?"

Lewis stumbles through the curtain, momentarily blinded when it covers his eyes, and finds himself inside a small, square room with a curved sofa facing a small, circular stage bearing a pole. Fuck it, he thinks, plopping himself down. Nicole will understand if he tells her it was Jenson's idea.

The music starts before the dancer appears--something sexy and sleazy in the vein of classic rock. The curtain on the other end of the room opens, an impossibly long, muscled leg sliding between the panels of velvet fabric. The arch of a towering acrylic heel clacks against the surface of the stage.

The most beautiful man Lewis has ever set eyes on emerges from between the curtains, hauling himself onto the stage with a firm grip on the pole, tousled blonde--blonde, Lewis thinks--hair falling in his eyes. He sinks down the pole, settling on his knees, and leans forwards until the tip of his nose is nearly touching Lewis's forehead.

"Are you the groom?" he whispers, an ambiguous, lilting accent tumbling from his lips. Fuck Jenson, Lewis thinks. He nods mutely anyway.

"Good," says the dancer curtly, and then he slips off the stage and crawls into Lewis's lap.