#might actually make me learn chess

[pretty-little-mind33]

bsfd!James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: You'd kept your relationship with James a secret up until you couldn't anymore. Pt. 2 of Lavender Haze (might wanna read or you'll probably be confused <3)

Genre: Angsty hurt and comfort (smut-ish)

Warnings: fictional age-gap relationship (20f, 40m), heavy making out (fingering), swearing, getting caught, slut shaming, very angry!harry, protective!james

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

James sends you a look from across the room, the look, and your heart pounds. He is in the middle of a conversation with Remus Lupin, your old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and you suddenly find it very hard to concentrate on the conversation you're supposedly having with Hermione.

Three months. Your relationship with James had managed to stay a secret for three months, and you honestly don't know how.

"And so—Y/n? Are you even listening?" Hermione asks, looking at you suspiciously. Ron's arm is draped over her shoulders as he talks with Harry—and Harry, who is holding Ginny's hand.

You look at your friends. Fuck, you think, you must look so pathetically alone.

You answer Hermione quickly, "No, I'm sorry. I am listening," you smile and sneak a glance at James again. Huge mistake considering he's still wearing that look on his face; the one you've learned to read oh so well.

"Actually, I have to use the loo," you mutter, standing up. Hermione frowns, but she doesn't say a thing as you walk down the hallway.

When you reach the small bathroom, you open it and then shut it behind you quietly. You sit on the toilet, nails in your mouth as you wait. A few moments later, the door opens and someone way too familiar slides in. You stand. You feel like the air inside your chest has been ripped from you when he turns and your eyes meet his.

"Funny, it always starts with a bathroom," James jokes in a whisper, causing you to smile. In seconds, his lips are on yours, and he's hoisting you onto the tiny sink. "Bloody hell," he mutters when you subconsciously run your hand up and down his chest, clutching at his shirt.

"I missed you," you pout.

"You talked to me barely thirty minutes ago," he chuckles, "When you kicked my ass in wizard's chess, remember?"

"Yeah, but I mean I missed you like this," you say with a smirk and start to unbutton his shirt. "Mine," you clarify and kiss his cheek quickly. James smiles and dips his head as he nibbles on your exposed shoulder.

"Yours," he whispers and then continues in one breath, "You drive me absolutely insane, dressed in this mini dress," his hand rides the side of your dress up your thighs and then his hand reaches your middle. He looks at you sternly, and you send him a small wink, "No panties? What a naughty girl."

"Only for you," you moan and arch a little when you feel him suddenly ease one finger into you. Just one. One torturous finger that he teases you with. "James," you moan, holding onto his wrist and almost begging him to do something.

Just as his lips attach themselves to your neck and he begins to caress your clit, the latch to the bathroom lock suddenly clicks and the door opens. James's head snaps up too quickly, and he accidentally hits you in the nose. You yelp in pain.

"Dad?" Harry's voice cuts through the tension, and your stomach drops. Immediately, your arms cross over your chest as James spins around and shields you behind him.

"Merlin, get away from her!" Harry suddenly screams out and yanks his father out of the bathroom and into the small hallway.

Adjusting your dress, you rush to follow them and try to explain the situation. "Harry, it's okay! I wanted him," you blurt out as an attempt to calm Harry's anger, but it only makes the entire situation so much worse.

"You wanted my dad!?" Harry screams, and everyone in the living room turns their attention to you three. Your cheeks turn warm, and you're frozen in place. Harry looks distraught, while the guests just look confused, and you want to cry.

"Don't yell at her," James says firmly and frees himself from his son's grasp. He holds Harry's shoulder, taking on a more authoritative parental tone, "Calm down."

Harry just looks more furious. "You're fucking my best friend, and you're telling me to calm down?!!" he accuses, and your tears fall uncontrollably. "She's too young for you, you disgusting pervert," he insults his father as he slaps James's hand away from him.

James looks a mix of ashamed and annoyed. "Harry," he starts, but he's completely taken aback by the punch Harry lands on his cheek. Scared, you rush to James's side without thinking and clutch onto his arm.

"And you," Harry's murderous gaze lands on you this time, and he walks up, causing you to stumble back. "You fucking slut," he hisses, his words a little slurred from the drinks he'd had and full of anger even as Ginny's hand finds his to calm him down.

You feel like you've been punched. You know what you did was wrong—you know Harry has every right to be furious with you—but still, his words hurt.

"Oi!" James's voice booms and he grasps Harry's shoulder again, pushing him away from you. "Do not speak to her like that, you hear me?" he sounds stern, and he looks around the room at everyone staring, then at Harry.

"Take a walk outside. Now," James demands, and his gaze flickers to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, silently asking them to bring Harry to the garden and have him take a few breaths.

You stand to the side, still crying as the world moves around you in slow motion. James's friends take this as a sign to leave, sending you sympathetic smiles as if they already knew anyway, but you don't focus on that as you lean against the wall and anxiously chew at your nails until blood drips from your finger.

"Hey," James whispers, his hand finding yours, and he brings your bleeding finger to his lips, sucking the blood to soothe you. "It's okay."

You shake your head. "No, it isn't okay, James."

James's shoulders tense, and he moves his hand to the side of your face. "Hey, shh, pretty girl, we wanted them all to know at some point, right?" he reminds you, alluding to the many late-night conversations you'd had over the last three months—conversations you assumed would always remain in the confines of James's bedroom.

You look up at James, and he looks deadly serious.

"Right?" he asks again, gently holding your cheeks in his hands as his thumb wipes away your tears.

You nod, and James rewards you with a kiss on your forehead. "Yeah, there's my good girl," he mutters and holds your cheek, kissing your cheek again. "He'll be fine," James says softly, mentioning Harry. You tense.

"He's my best friend," you whisper. "I don't want to lose him."

James runs his fingers through your hair. "You are not gonna lose him, my darling," he says, but he doesn't sound as sure as he'd like, and you can tell.

James decides he should speak to Harry first, which means you're left sitting on the couch in the living room, biting your nails until you draw blood while James is with his son in the garden.

"How long?" Ron speaks up, his voice strained and high-pitched. He's sitting on the floor across from you with Hermione, her hand in his lap. Ginny stands in the corner of the room, her arms crossed.

"Three months," you sniff and quickly add, "I didn't mean for this to happen—"

"Three months is an awfully long time, Y/n," Hermione interrupts, "and you didn't think to tell Harry?"

"He deserved to know," Ginny's voice sounds strained. She's clearly upset that her boyfriend is upset. It's understandable; you can't blame her.

"Of course I did! But, what was I supposed to say?" you exclaim, "Please, tell me, what's worse? - 'Hey, Harry, I’m fucking your dad,' or 'Hey, Harry, I'm in love with your dad?'"

The room instantly turns silent.

"In love?"

Your chest heaves. You bury your face in your hands. "Yeah," you squeak. "I don't know how it happened, it just did. And these feelings, I can't turn them off," you say, looking up at your friends. "I've tried," you add in a whisper.

Hermione looks understanding while Ginny grumbles something under her breath. She still isn't happy. Ron looks confused, but he decides against making a comment because Hermione is drawing soothing circles around his palm as a silent warning.

After a few moments longer, James walks into the room from the garden and he looks around the room at everyone. He looks a little exhausted, but he doesn't look sad or angry. He focuses his attention on you, smiling a little as he walks over and takes your hand, lifting you up. No one else speaks as they hold their breaths.

"Harry wants to talk to you," James informs you, his voice low. You can tell he wants to press a reassuring kiss to your forehead, but he's holding himself back. He chooses to squeeze your hand instead, nodding his head to the back door. You look at him, unsure, but you drop his hand anyway and walk to the door.

It's a warm evening, so when you walk outside onto the grass, you aren't very cold in your dress. Still, you wrap your arms around yourself for comfort and security as your heart sinks when you see Harry sitting on the cement steps, his hands in his hair. He hears you and looks behind him, not protesting when you sit next to him.

You feel the air on your skin as your mind races, and you think of something to say to him that doesn't sound stupid.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry breaks the tension, his voice strained.

There is that question again.

You pick nervously at your nails and answer honestly. "What could I have said to you to make this better?" you whisper.

"So you know it's fucked up," Harry deadpans.

Your eyes widen, and you bite your lip, holding your knees. "I mean, yes. I know it's not exactly ideal—but, I love him, Harry. I really love him, and I didn't mean for it to happen, it just—happened. I know I should have told you, but I didn't know how."

Harry is silent as he takes in your words. He's picking at his jeans, his jaw clenched. "You're my best friend, and he's my dad. It's messed up."

Your heart sinks.

"I– I don't want to lose you, Harry. And I can't lose him either. Please don't make me choose," you say, holding in tears, and for the first time, Harry looks at you and his gaze travels across your features.

"You'd choose him, wouldn't you?" Harry whispers, his voice shaky, "Because you love him, and he loves you. Bloody hell, he'd choose you over me too."

I shake my head. "Harry, no. Your dad loves you more than anyone. I don't think he'd choose me over you. No matter how much he loves me, he's always your dad first. If you gave him the ultimatum and said you didn't want him to date me, I think he would listen."

Harry sighs, shaking his head. "I'm not gonna do that, Y/n. We're adults. I'm not a kid anymore, and I can handle you dating my dad—or I will be able handle it with time—and I just wish someone would have told me because finding you like that in the bathroom was traumatizing."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," you say quickly.

His expression turns serious again. "Promise me this wasn't a thing when we were in school because I—"

You cut him off and laugh. "Oh my god, no! Never! I know he didn't see me like that when we were younger, Harry. I promise. This is completely new, and I would never be with him if he had seen me like that as a kid," you say seriously.

"Yeah, he said the same," Harry says, and he sounds like he's made up his mind. His jaw ticks and he takes your hand as he pulls you in for a hug. You can still feel his apprehension around the situation but you can't complain.

"Listen, you're my best friend and as my best friend, all I want is your happiness but I need time. Time to wrap my head around all this—oh and I also need you to promise never to talk about anything that has to do with my dad in front of me?"

"I pinky swear," you say instantly, having no desire to have Harry know anything about your relationship with James.

Harry links pinkies with you and he seems satisfied by your answer. He stands to walk inside and you shake your head, silently telling him you want to stay outside a little longer. Harry nods his head and disappears into the house.

After a few minutes, your arms wrapped around your knees as you stare into the dimming light, you sense someone sitting beside you.

It's James. You can smell his cologne.

He turns and rests one hand on your knee, smiling when you lean into him instinctively. "Hi, lovely," he mumbles, moving you inside his side. "You did so good," he continues and kisses your cheek. "I love you. Everything is gonna be okay, mhm. Harry's gonna be fine." James reassures you.

You nod, feeling comforted by James's warmth, and you let out a relieved sigh.

"I like not having to hide anymore," you admit, your hands finding James's as you mindlessly play with his fingers. "It's nice."

James hums. "It is, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you look into his eyes and smile, "I really like it."

James's heart skips, and he leans down, capturing your lips in his for a moment, and all feels okay again.

[scliffe]

The early relationship between Ciel and Sebastian is actually so damned adorable to me. To say that Sebastian, being a demon, is unequipped to take care of a young traumatized child who’s just lost his entire family would be a severe understatement. And yet here he was, the demon trapped by the contract, forced to protect and attend to his little master while also having to learn how to cook and provide for a human being without simply magicking his way through everything. It results in this comical sight of a grown man completely inept at basic housework, bickering with a ten year old orphan over how to prepare bath water or how to brew tea. An invincible nearly-all-powerful demon has been completely blown out of his elements.

Much to his credit, Ciel wasn’t intimidated at all either by the demon who could snap his neck like a twig. He wasn’t scared—he had no time to waste by being scared, anxious, or even to grieve over his lost family. He had one goal in mind and Sebastian was his weapon to get there—he needs to hone not only himself but also Sebastian. It was both tragic and admirable—that such a young child could be this ruthless towards himself; showing an unwavering, cold-blooded determination on revenge. He was clearly much smarter than his peers—this ten year old somehow hoodwinked a hundreds-of-years year old demon into practically babysitting him; bathing and tucking him to bed, teaching him how to do his homework and how to ride a horse, etc.

It was only at night when he laid down alone in his bed, that the nightmares would haunt him. Ciel asking Sebastian to stay nearby so he could sleep was the only display of vulnerability he allowed himself to have. And Sebastian, with all his sarcastic attitudes and occasional impudence—despite looking down on human beings so much—said nothing about it.

Sebastian could have been a more fickle, crueler demon and Ciel could have been a more forlorn, powerless child—but somehow Sebastian was not, and somehow Ciel could hold up on his own against him. Sebastian isn’t just a mindless beast, and Ciel isn’t just a traumatized child. That’s why their negotiation for the contract was symbolized with chess—where even if one must make the first move, both sides are equal. This is such an important point in their relationship dynamic and Yana Toboso made a point to declare that they have been equals since the very start—Ciel was punishing Sebastian as much as Sebastian did him. And I think the way they formed such a bond with each other is only possible because Sebastian and Ciel are the way that they are; just two similarly stubborn kindred spirits—one insisting on his aesthetics and the other persisting on his revenge.

Watching how their relationship started out was very interesting because both were clearly struggling out of their depths to adapt to each other—and yet they did so out of an unspoken mutual understanding and respect. The first time we met Sebastian he was still so raw, demonic and unrefined, and our first impression of younger Ciel might have been a more timid, shy and soft-spoken child—they had grown so much within the span of three years; and I’ll say that they both raised each other in different ways—Sebastian educating Ciel on how to be the Earl (even if he wasn’t the real thing) and Ciel teaching Sebastian on how to be the attentive butler (even if it’s only on the surface).

[bulgingforbucky]

Tied to the Inexplicable

NSFW Warning: Physical Hurt, Degrading, Death Threats, No Aftercare, He's Mean, He might be psychotic PART TWO HERE Summary: You chose the Jedi over Qimir and he will make sure you stay loyal to him by punishing you. I kinda hurted my own feelings with this one :)

Your feet are running in the forest as you pant trying to get away from the brutal murders your master is committing. As you're running you look behind you seeing no one there stopping to catch your breath. You start walking in the dark part of the woods before he appears in front of you looking at you as his dark hair dangles in his face. You let out a scream falling backward at his appearance, his face scrunched in anger as he stares you down.

You scramble to your feet hearing his saber turning on as you turn your back running in the opposite direction. He flips his lightsaber as you run further away from him making him more anger. "You can't run from me!" He yells at the top of his lungs before he raises his other hand using the force to stop you. You try to fight against his hold moving your body but mentally you know that you can't. His footsteps are heavy as he steps on leaves breaking them with every step he takes.

Your back is to him and you can feel his negative emotions as he gets closer with his heavy breathing as his lightsaber hums. Once he gets near you can't see him, you can't even turn your head as you think about what he's doing you hear a hum on your right side along with a red light on the side of your face. Tears immediately start to fill your eyes, "Qimir wait I'm sorry-" you try to say before the saber touches your arm burning you as you scream in pain.

That was a warning.

Sniffles come from you as sharp breaths are taken. It takes all the force for him to not slice you to pieces, to make you suffer in ways you wouldn't even imagine, but at the same time, you are weak, of course, if something sounds good to you you'll jump on board. That's still no excuse for the fact he took you in when no one wanted to, taught you things, made you feel things, and this is how you repay him.

He hears your cries as he huffs turning you around so you can face him as his eyes meet your teary ones as he glares at you. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now along with the Jedi you wanted to be with so badly." Your bottom lip trembles in terror as you try to speak, "Because I regret it, I really do master and I learned my lesson to not choose anyone but you." You breathlessly plead making him softly scoff.

"I don't believe you learned your lesson because if you actually listen to me when I teach you, you wouldn't be in this position. Would you?" He slightly mocks you while you try to get your point across. "No... I do listen-" Qimir shakes his head huffing, "Right, since you listen so much you should be an astonishing expecting apprentice standing by my side right, and not betraying your master praying on his downfall." His tone sounds sarcastic, but you try to go with it anyway.

'No! I never prayed on your downfall!" You say shocked but Qimir isn't having it. "What did you expect to happen when you sided with the ones who want to kill me?! I could have died and that would've been your burden to bear in that already weak mind of yours."

"Your mind is so weak and fragile that it doesn't take much for you to give up and break down. That's why I've been training you, pushing you hard to the point you've built a wall in your head, to the point not even a crack would appear. I'm starting to think you're a waste of time, just another dead end in my plan, a spot on a canvas." He talks down at you making you frown in shame.

"You doubt me."

He's right if I was loyal to and trusted him fully, I wouldn't have doubted him. Doubt led me to choose the enemies, them persuading me, planting their seed knowing I would turn against my master. I was a chess piece, on the Jedi's side and on my master's but at least I'll have free will to choose which one I'll fight for.

"Master I've realized my mistake, please forgive me. I'll work harder to earn your trust and work beside you again. My mentality will strengthen, so the rivals won't use me as a pawn against you." You plead to him, his shoulder drop slightly from them being tense and you take this as a good sign as you hear a heavy sigh from the man.

"I just wanted someone for myself, someone to train to make them the best. You are such a disappointment, I had a feeling this wouldn't work out." Qimir says lifting his lightsaber as your eyes widen.

"Master I'm sorry please forgive me. Please I know I don't deserve to be forgiven." You beg feeling humiliation and regret making Qimir nod in agreement. "You're right, you don't deserve to be forgiven, you deserve to die." Qimir says before he focuses the force on your head squeezing making you cry out.

"Qimir please have mercy! I'm so sorry! I'll do anything please Master! I'll serve you I swear I'll never betray you again please!" You beg and beg until you feel relief on your skull as you fall to the ground whimpering in pain from the pressure that was put on your head.

"Get up." Qimir demands as your body is now weak struggling to stand on your two feet, knees wobbling while you gain your balance as your slightly blurred vision and feeling out of place like your soul was separated from your body is starting to disappear. Qimir turns off the saber which makes you feel a little bit of hope.

Standing up you slightly bow your head to make yourself "smaller" than him, considering he's your master he's already above you. Hearing him grunt makes you look up at him, "Get on your knees." He demands as you give him a questioning look making him narrow his eyes. "Did I stutter?" He asks in his deep voice as you make your way onto your knees before him. You look up at him waiting for his directions before you feel his hand on your jaw. "Just do what you normally do, instead your life is on the line." He threatens in a sweet tone.

"Does that comprehend through your weak skull?" His finger taps in the middle of your forehead. You nod your head, "Yes I understand." You nod wanting to do anything that will help you redeem yourself. "Pull down my pants." He instructs before you hook your fingers in his waistband pulling his pants down to his thighs as his hard, thick, swollen cock with a bead of precum on the tip bounces in your face. You hesitate slightly as you avoid eye contact with his cock as you never pleasured him in this state.

Your hand makes contact with his cock softly before he protests, "Don't act all shy now, if you want me to accept you this is the only way, if not..." He says before he flips the lightsaber pushing it against your forehead. "I can turn this on and you'll have a hole in the middle of your head as the edges of it burn to a crisp as your body hits the ground, considering I killed everyone no one will be here meaning you will rot here like you're nothing, you wouldn't want that would you?" Qimir threatens as you shake your head and tremble feeling the heat from the saber on your skin. "Then suck my cock like you normally do."

Your hands shake before you stroke his cock, you can hear the slick on your hand as your hand moves up and down, he's so thick you have to use two hands. You can feel him looking down at you before you move your head closer opening your mouth as you take him in. The tolerable salty taste clouds your taste buds as you hum around his cock.

Your warm tongue swirls around his tip before you suck on it. His length twitches in your mouth before you tug on his balls pulling a moan from him. His hand is placed on the back of your head pushing you more on his cock resulting in you gagging. Oh does force know you hate your head being pushed down? You place your hands on his thighs trying to keep yourself still.

"If I find out you're trying to use teeth I'll cut your head off before it can happen." He threatens while a whimper comes from you pulling off. "I would never do that-" you say offended before he cuts you off. "At this point, I don't know what you'll do." Qimir says bluntly looking down at you glaring at him. "Don't push my head down and you won't have anything to worry about." You say expressing your problem.

"Just suck my dick." He says bluntly making your head spin in anger but you lean forward putting his length back in your mouth anyway. You start to bob your head on him gagging softly. Qimir moves his hips as soft moans come from him. "Your mouth is so warm on my cock, keep sucking you're doing good." He praises which gives you confidence sucking harder making him gasp.

He nods in encouragement as he grabs your head holding it. His thighs shake slightly under your grip as you focus on what makes him feel better. You stroke the rest of the length that's not in your mouth as your other hand tugs on his balls making his hips jerk from the action.

"I bet you're wet from sucking on my cock hm?" He observes your legs squeezing together. You just look up at him as you continue to nurse on his cock before he pulls you off. "Answer me." He demands to which you nod. "That's not an answer." He says before he grips your hair making you wince. "Yes, master." You answer in a low-toned voice but he still isn't satisfied with your answer.

"Yes master what?" He edges onto your sentence, in which you reply with his help. "Yes, master I'm wet." Qimir tugs on your hair hard as that's still not what he was looking for. "Correct it." He says with a huff as you sigh, "I'm wet from sucking your cock master." You say hoping that this is what he wanted, which it is as he approves with a nod.

Are you serious? All I did was add a few words to the sentence and now you're happy with it? He better let me go, but my chances seem small considering he still hasn't put the saber that he is gripping tightly hoping I make a mistake.

Qimir can sense your anger and frustration as he lets out a small laugh. "You're not in the right predicament to be feeling so angry, just do what you're told and you'll be fine yeah?" He guides your mouth back on his cock. "There you go, just suck it and make me cum." You almost immediately start putting your mouth to work. His tip hits the back of your throat every now and then as you gag slightly.

You pull off sucking on his sensitive tip making Qimir suck in a breath. Flatting your tongue you lick his slit that's leaking precum into your mouth as you slightly want more of it. Desperately you start to suck slightly harder tugging on his full sensitive balls. Qimir holds the back of your head supporting you through your sexual actions.

Before you know it you hear a groan before a warm liquid fills your mouth gasping in surprise around his cock. "Shh swallow it, c'mon do it." Qimir eggs on as you feel him grip your hair, listening to your master swallowing as instructed. He pulls himself from your mouth as he hums in approval before he runs his thumb on your jaw.

You look up at him hoping he can forgive you for what you've done, but he doesn't say anything about the matter. You watch him as he puts himself away turning away from you. "Follow me." Qimir instructed before he started to walk off. Immediately you get up off your aching knees following your master hoping for the best outcome as you two walk deeper into the forest in silence.

[vicocaaisha]

All Mine

Baek Harin x Reader Fic.

Sypnosis: Having friends is not your top priority; therefore, you kept rejecting Harin's advances. Not until she got jealous when you found yourself a new friend.

Warnings: SMUT, mature scenes, choking, virgin!reader, possesive!Harin, bottom!reader, top!harin, stalking, read at your own risk!

Requested by: @imurcherie1

“Y/N-ah, do you want to hang out later after school?”

“Harin wants us to eat later together at lunch, can you sit with us?”

“Can you join our group for the school project? We can do it after school!”

“Hey, Y/N, can you teach me how to play chess? Help me beat Harin!”

Typical Wooyi, always asking you for help. You think it’s just an excuse to make you hang out or spend time together with Harin, which for you is a waste of time because you have other things you want to do than doing friendly stuff that you’re not interested in.

“Sorry, unnie. I have other things to do! Maybe next time.” is the response you always answer to Wooyi.

You sometimes wish that you are in the lower grade, like in grade C so that no one won’t bother you and leave you alone. Being family friends with Harin means you’re also powerful inside your classroom, that’s why your classmates are always clinging to your side because they think that you’ll favour them or something.

But you didn’t care. All you care about is your studies, not the recognitions but the information you learn. Such a nerd thing to say but deep inside you really love studying, learning so many topics fascinates you.

You are smarter than Doah, but you don’t even participate in school competitions. You’re just focused on gaining skills.

“You look pretty having your hair up in a bun, Y/N” Harin greeted you.

“Yes, you do! Can you teach me how to do that later at lunch, please, Y/N.” Wooyi practically begged.

Here we go again, Harin’s group always bothers you to join them during lunch. You don’t have an interest in being friends with them even though your families are good friends. You’re just not that fond of being friends with someone, you like being alone more. Plus, Wooyi enjoys to torture your classmate, which is like a redflag to you because how can you enjoy on tormenting someone?

“I’m sorry, guys. I actually have a thesis report that I’m finishing. You know, I make money doing these things for other students.” You replied.

Harin only scoffed and started to walk away from you. She knows that you’ll just reject their invitation to hang out with them. Harin can’t do anything about it. She can’t blackmail you into being friends with her because there’s nothing hideous about you or even a secret.

Harin could only stare at you from afar. She likes you– no–, she wants you to be hers.

She’s so glad that you being preoccupied with your hobbies means you’re less aware of what's happening in your surroundings. Harin could easily stalk you and you won’t even notice that some of your things from your room are missing.

“I read somewhere that the new season of Jujutsu Kaisen is airing next week.” Jaeun said as she sat beside you.

How did she find you? You’re sitting under a tree that’s far away from your classroom’s building.

“How do you even know I watch that?” You scoffed as you read your book. Does she need something? She’s usually on her own or with Suji. What does she want now?

“Oh, you don’t? I was actually giving this Geto plushie for free.” Jaeun waved the plushie doll on your face.

“Oh my! He’s my favourite!” You were shocked, you can’t find any Jujutsu Kaisen merchandise here in South Korea, and Geto is your favourite, “Can I have it, please? Where’d you get this?” you asked as you grabbed the plushie.

“Oh, umm…” Jauen was stammering. She didn't know how to handle this kind of situation. She’s scared that she might fuck it up after having your attention.

“He’s so cute! What do you want in return, can I please have him?” You begged her. This is the first time that your classmate sees that you’re capable of showing feelings, too.

“O-of course, uhh… I just want to be friends with you, can you join me during lunch?” You were too happy from the plushie you received that you accepted her offer without thinking about it.

And that’s how you ended up being with Jaeun. She always follows you around and you were too happy that one of your classmates watches your favourite anime. When you’re with her, you are too talkative about your favourite anime, Jauen doesn’t care though; she’s satisfied that she finally is on your good side.

Harin noticed that you finally are friends with someone, and that someone is the person who she despised the most. She was angry, she wanted to harm Jaeun but it’s impossible because of Suji always rescues Jaeun whenever she corners the tall girl.

Jaeun introduced you to Suji and Se-eun. You were awkward when you met them, you don’t really like social gatherings; you can only handle one person at a time.

So here you are, on the rooftop with them. Suji introduced you to their plan once they figured that you’re trusty enough. You rejected their proposal though.

“Sorry, Suji. I don’t have an interest in being a hero here. I know, call me selfish or whatever. Do you know who you’re provoking?” You asked them genuinely.

Suji still tried to convince you. You just rejected it again and excused yourself. Do they know what they’re doing? Are they high? Harin is so dangerous. Even if you want to end this game yourself, deep inside you still value Harin.

You’ve known Harin ever since the both of you were younger. You secretly had a crush on her, when you saw her performing a dance. You were in a trance, you befriended her. You thought at first you wanted to be just like her but as your friendship progresses, your feelings also progresses. You tried to ignore it but can’t help it.

Although, as the both of you were growing older, she started to change. Sometimes you think that she turned into a monster but still, you cared for her so much even if you don’t show it.

You wanted to be away from her because you realized being in love with a girl is rather unusual. You’re scared that she might notice that you’re in love with her and betray you. Harin is unpredictable, you’ve seen it yourself.

“Y/N!” Wooyi runs into you as she sees you walking down the corridor.

“Wooyi, I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood right now. My head aches so badly.” You tried to make an excuse before she could ask another invitation to hang out with them.

You tried to walk faster, “The chairman wants to talk to you right now, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Wooyi said as she tried to catch up with your fast pace.

“What? She could have texted me beforehand. She has my number, ugh. I don’t even look presentable right now.” You mumbled to yourself, Wooyi seemed to hear that.

“Oh, don’t humble yourself. You’re always pretty! You should spray some perfume, bet she’ll go crazy over you!” Wooyi said, which she regretted saying afterwards because it confused you. The chairman going crazy over your perfume?

“Oh, I’ll head to the classroom now. Gotta find them bootlickers!” Wooyi suddenly parted ways, you didn’t even get the chance to ask what she was talking about.

You sighed. Usually if the chairman, Harin’s mother, wants to meet you, she’ll schedule a meeting or she’ll text you and your parents about it. Also, you never had a meeting inside the school because she said once that it feels unprofessional meeting inside the school. What could be the problem now?

You are now in front of the chairman’s office, spraying perfume over your uniform. You took a big breath before opening the door, you were nervous that you might be in trouble, especially after hearing Suji’s crazy plan.

“Hello, Mrs. Baek. I’m sorry if I took too long, I was at the–” you stopped what you were trying to say when Harin revealed herself by turning around her chair.

“Uhm… Where’s your mother, Harin? She asked for me, didn’t she?” You tried to ask to make the awkward atmosphere out of the room.

“That would be for another time, Y/N-ah.” Harin said and stood up from her chair; walking towards you.

“You’re smoking again, I told you that’s not good for you.” You tried to lecture Harin. You are now currently in the middle of the room.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Harin said as she took another puff of her cig and she continued walking after passing you. Where is she going?

“Okay then, I better get going now if your mother is not here.” You rolled your eyes.

You heard a click. Harin locked the door behind you, trapping you inside the chairman’s office.

You began to feel nervous, you haven’t been in a room alone with Harin for the longest time. You tried to avoid this kind of encounter because you can’t contain your feelings. When talking with Harin alone, you will start to stutter.

“I wanted you here.” Harin dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. She’s aware that you dislike the smell of cigarette.

“Ohh, can we make it faster, please?” You were trying your best not to stutter because she’ll sense that you’re nervous.

“Enjoying being friends with Jaeun?” Harin started to walk towards you, which made you walk backwards as well. You were like a prey in her eyes, anytime she might devour you.

Oh shit. You thought to yourself. You forgot that Jaeun and Harin had a history before, she talked to you about this before! How could you forget it! It’s because of that damn plushie, you got too excited over that.

“H-harin, I’m so sorry. I forgot, I’m really sorry. It’s because she gave me the plushie, I got too distracted over that. I don’t mean to offend you, I swear–” You stopped your rumbling when your back hit the table. She got you very cornered this time.

You didn’t have the space anymore to move back and she still is walking forward slowly as if she’s stalking a prey. You’re very scared now, hell, you even are sweating too much for your liking. Note that this room is air conditioned.

Harin giggled to herself, “Y/N, why are you trembling so hard?”

She is now in front of you.

She tugged on your school necktie, which made you lean towards her. Since she is taller, you are looking up at her.

“Tell me, Y/N. Whom do you like to kiss?” She’s taunting you and all you could do is look at her doe eyes.

“Do you like Jaeun?” She asked you with a mischievous smile.

“I don’t like her, I don’t even have an i-interest to date a-anyone.” You stuttered, fuck you really are nervous.

“You’re lying, Y/N/N.” That nickname she used to call you when the both of you were younger.

“You’re stuttering, Y/N, it means you’re lying. Which one is it, hmm?” Her face is inches away from yours. Even if you haven't talked to her for years, she still knows your mannerisms.

Before you could even reply, she suddenly kissed you.

It felt passionate for a short time, not until she bit your lip that caused you to whimper and she immediately inserted her tongue. Did she practice with other girls before? How come is she so good with kissing? You felt jealous...

Your thoughts got cut off short when she stopped kissing you and started to undo your blouse.

“Harin, we s-shouldn’t be doing this.” She got tired of your mindless comments, so Harin pulled your necktie tighter that made you choke.

“Did I tell you to talk?” Harin only smiled when she saw you struggling. You were just gripping her clothes and whimpering because of the restriction of the air in your lungs.

Once she was satisfied, she stopped pulling your necktie and continued removing the articles of your clothes.

You were now left in your school blouse that is open, and your skirt; no bra nor panty. You suddenly felt insecure about your body when Harin was staring at your body up and down. Your first instinct was to cover up your body, but Harin beat you to it and held your wrists before you could even move them.

“H-harin” You can’t understand what’s happening between the two of you. Is she toying you?

“Stop talking, Y/N! God, you made me wait for so long, and then Jaeun easily caught your attention?!” Harin felt insatiable over you.

She then started kissing your neck, leaving marks all over your neck. You can’t even move and too scared to protest but deep inside you’re really liking this.

“You’re mine, Y/N/N.” Harin whispered, hunger laced on her voice.

“Hnng–, H-harin!” You yelped when you felt Harin’s long, slim fingers toy your clit.

Yes, you’ve touched yourself before but Harin massaging your clit felt so amazing. You can’t contain your moans anymore. You tried to shush yourself by putting your free arm on your mouth. Harin noticed this and…

She inserted two fingers, you aren’t ready for it, and it’s definitely your first time. It hurts like hell. You were struggling below her, and all you could do was to let out a shameless moan.

“A-hh, it hurts. It hurts, Ha-rin! Hnng!” She only removed your arms that were blocking your mouth and continued fingering you even if you're hurting.

Pain soon starts to feel pleasure soon enough. Harin is still putting hickeys on your chest area. She then started to look at your face, your fucked up face. Looking at you with adoration, you look so good even if you’re being fucked, Harin thought to herself.

“Baby, you look so good.” Harin whispered seductively, she couldn’t even explain how turned on she is right now. The stoic and nerdy, L/N Y/N, is being fucked out like this.

“You’re mine, Y/N. I don’t want you seeing anybody but me, you get that?” Harin starts to get rougher on you, hitting that one spot makes you struggle to respond to her. Because of that, she slapped you, thinking to herself that it might knock you to your senses.

“Mhhmm– sorry! Ahh– Fuck!” was all you could blur out during that time.

Harin only chuckled as she pressed down her thumb to your clit. Fingering you and massaging your clit at the same time feels like you’re going to climax soon.

“I f–eel, ahh! Like I’m gonna p–EE!” You gripped onto her shirt more.

“Say you’re mine, Y/N, then you can let go.” Harin teased you. She then started to suck on your breasts, which added to your stimulation more.

“I’m y–yours! Harin–nng. I lov–e you for so long, Fuck!” You didn’t even realize that you accidentally confessed your love towards her because of the pleasure you are feeling. Harin felt over the moon when she heard your confession, which drove her even more very crazy and continued to get rougher on you.

As you trembled against her holds, you couldn't contain yourself anymore; you tried to let go of the pressure you were feeling, and instead, you squirted.

Harin continued to finger you until you rode out your high. You didn’t even realize the mess you created on her uniform because you were still trying to calm down. So many thoughts were running to your mind that time and one of those is that you just fucked your long time crush.

“Baby, are you okay?” Harin asked you with softness evident in her voice. She brushed your baby hairs out of your face with her dry hand. You look so exhausted, and your face is very flushed. You just nodded weakly, too tired to say anything.

You were laid against the table, and Harin decided to take you on the couch so that you could rest comfortably. You’re too tired to even care about your appearance at that time. You just let Harin help you wear your panty and your bra.

Maybe you could rest for a bit, so you decided to close your eyes.

“I love you.” Harin whispered as she was doing after care to you. She must have thought you were asleep.

“You do?”

“Yes, so much. I was trying so hard to reconnect our friendship again.” Harin kissed you passionately and with love this time.

“You’re wet?” You asked sheepishly as you felt her clothes.

“Oh, you squirted.” Harin smiled at you.

“What? No, I did not!” Harin laughed at your response. You’re still stubborn as you were before when both of you were younger. Harin only stared at you blankly. You can’t seem to read what her thoughts are, so you decided to break the awkward silence.

“So, is Mrs. Baek really asking for me?” You asked.

“No, it’s my last resort,” she confessed, “I can’t seem to get you all alone for myself, why are you avoiding me?” Harin asked you as she caressed your face.

You avoided her gaze, “It’s because… I’m scared that I have feelings for you, more than friends.”

There was silence again, when you looked up at her, she looked as if she were in a daze; lost in your beautiness. She was still caressing your face that time. You leaned up and kissed her with all the strength you had. The both of you kissed that you felt like it lasted for hours.

You stopped kissing her because it might lead the both of you to another round, and you still have classes to attend to.

You are fixing yourself, trying to look presentable after Harin fucked you out. Hickeys all over your neck, your hair is tangled mess, your clothes crumpled. Suddenly, Harin hugged you from your back, and you felt the wet spot on her clothes.

“Harin, go change your clothes. It’s disgusting!” You tried to wiggle out of her embrace and then laugh when she kissed your neck.

“It’s your fault, you peed on me!” Harin protested.

Let’s just say she never lived that day down when you squirted and always teased you that you peed on her.

I've read your requests. Sorry if I didn't get to reply, but I'll be working on those soon!

I'll also go back to school tomorrow, so it might take me a while to post again. Sorry!

If you have any requests, dont hesitate to send them^^

[mrs-gauche]

On a more serious note regarding the "Solas is like the devil on your shoulder constantly trying to make you make bad decisions".. I think @corseque made a good point, in that Fen'Harel in Dalish legends is known for giving cunning advice that, in true trickster fashion, may lead to a helpful outcome, but always at a cost or in a twisted way. We talked about how Solas might try to prevent Rook from trusting their companions because of his own issues/experiences with betrayal or that he might try to use Rook as a piece on his own "chess board".

But I think this also goes back to the mage origin in DAO and you being tested by Mouse, a pride demon, and how the greatest danger of the Fade is, after all, careless trust. I'm also thinking back to this banter between Solas and Vivienne, in which she literally said that he "sounds like a pride demon" trying to tempt you to "leave the path". Or Cullen saying that no demon will ever possess him because he is "too much like they are". Given that Solas literally translates to Pride and the Dread Wolf itself being described as a pride demon, this "devil on our shoulder" might end up being like one big test for us to pass throughout the story, much like the Harrowing in Origins. And building on that, there's also still this crucial piece of dialogue from Solas himself, talking about the perception of spirits and demons:

"The Fade reflects the minds of the living. If you expect a spirit of wisdom to be a pride demon, it will adapt. And if your mind is free of corrupting influences, if you understand the nature of the spirit, they can be fast friends."

In DAI, Solas was already a reflection of how you treat him. If it's true that, what the devs seem to be hinting at, we actually get to learn and see what happened in the ancient past and who Solas was before he "called himself Pride" (keeping in mind that Rook doesn't know anything about Solas as a person at the start of DA4), and we come to "understand his true nature"/original purpose/true name, then the above quote might be an analogy for how the relationship between Rook and Solas can develop and how we can influence Solas' character arc (on top of the relationship between him and the Inquisitor already having a huge impact on him?).

And if you think about it, it's so brilliant how they seem to put a spin on the whole thing now, by having the "pride demon" be the one who needs to trust the one who dreams. Or rather, expecting the pride demon to be a spirit of wisdom, and not the other way around.

The idea that Rook challenging/rivaling Solas by going against his "devil on our shoulder" advice/proving him wrong/"pass the test" and not expecting him to be that pride demon after Rook comes to understand his true nature/original purpose, could lead to him being more likely to "adapt", open up and learn how to trust again is so beautiful to me, but that could also mean a challenge for us Solas fans if we have to (at least in the beginning) bump heads with him in order to see that development. 🥲😂 Either way, Solas is truly in for the most intense kind of therapy session.

[red-viewe]

general lilia x reader thoughts 🔫 (part two✌)

COLORED TEXT IS FAE LANGUAGE (tw: metions of bl99d, swearing)

Part 1 part 3

---

'Fuck my life.'

Here's the tea. You found a half-dead but sexy asf fae on your sidewalk and decided, 'Hey! Let's bring him in, warp him up and fall asleep!' Which was a stupid decision, because now, you're leaning against Mr. Hot Guy's head, pretending to be asleep, because right now, THE FAE GUY IS AWAKE AND HE MIGHT KILL YOU.

After about 5 minutes of awkward silence, this happened.

"I know you're awake."

He said, as he slowly started to get up from the couch. "W-wow, i didn't think you would notice..." God, get yourself together, dude.

"Where am I?" He says, turning to the very sweaty(?) you. God, this man is so hot.

"You're in my house...in the woods, a-and you shouldn't stand up right now, you're still injured.

" You abruptly stand and gently push him down back on to the couch.

"I'm Y/n L/n, by the way... " Mr. Fae still seemed to be om guard.

"Why did you save me? Don't you know about the war going on right now?" He asks in a stern tone (which was kind of hot...).

"Well, war is stupid when you can literally solve everything without death." You say as you walked away into the kitchen.

"...Is that so.." He mumbled.

---

It toke time for the fae to tell you his name, you respected that. You wouldn't tell a stranger your name either. (Expect you did, but we ignore that) Afte a while, he finally said to juat call him Liliy. Being shot in the stomach with an iron arrow, it toke Liliy time to be able to actually move, but it was progress.

Your days suddenly became more interesting, as you spent more time with him, learning more and more about him.

Like how he's insanely good at games, even when he doesn't try, or when he sometimes helps you prepare for the day before you open the bar.

---

"I'm not playing with you anymore." You cry in a joking tone as you lose yet again another game of chess.

"Pft, if you'd like, perhaps you'd desire an easier game? May i suggest rock paper sissors?" Liliy says with mischievous smirk on his face.

"Oh, screw you."

'Is this man trying to poison me?' Was the first thought you had when you opened the lunch Liliy attempted to make for you.

"It can't be that bad..." You say out loud, slightly gagging when you scooped up some of the meal(?) onto your spoon.

---

And...sweet moments, which made your heart beat a little faster and your cheeks warm up.

---

"Sleeping late, beastie?" Liliy said, as he toke some of your hair into his hands and started combing playing with it, making you blush when you felt his breath a little too close.

"Mhm, I'm doing some stinky taxes before i go to bed." You said, writing down information. After a while of liliy playing with your hair, you started to feel drowsy and fell asleep, waking up the next day on your bed, with a half asleep liliy next to you, staring at you with half closed eye lids and a blush on his face.

'How are you so freaking fine?'

---

You honestly did not know when you and the fae started getting so comfortable with each other, but are grateful for your friendship with Liliy.

---

The some of the buildings were set ablaze, others half torn apart, and human bounty hunters were tearing the town apart looking for Lilia Vanrouge. Rumours of the infamous general seeking refuge with someone spread far and wide, wide enough to reach the ears of the royal family. The bounty on his head was more than 9 million thaumarks, and bounty hunters were eager to find the fae.

'Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck' You screamed on your mind as you swiftly ran back to your home in the woods, running from the danger.

"LIliy!" You burst into your home, praying that your fae would still be there.

"Y/n." Liliy was dressed in the armour you found him in, with his gargoyle mask on this head, carrying his weapon. "I have something to tell you, beastie."

"That you're Lilia Vanrouge, I know." You're not stupid. You saw the bounty posters. Bro.

"Are you leaving..?" You silently said, eyes meeting his.

Lilia stepped closer, his voice now low and soft.

"I have to. If I don't I- You- my queen needs me, and it's too dangerous for me t-" You hug him, eyes watering. Lilia's arms gently embrace you, and he kisses your forehead. "I swear I'll be back, my love"

Tears fall down your face, as he slowly releases you and leaves, turning back for one last glance of you.

'Please come back'

--

Authors note

This one was a bit sad😭 maybe if i finish part 3 i can make some side stories with crack and stuff 😭🙏Would you like that ?🤔

(Also just comment if you want to be tagged if theres a next one)

(Tag list: @anonima-2)

[girl-named-matty]

Random Sebastian Sallow Headcanons pt.5

Just really random headcanons about Sebastian Sallow, what more can I say?

Loves reading biographies. It's always an opportunity to learn, and we all know how he feels about that. However, I think he'd like reading autobiographies even more since he thinks it's more interesting coming from the perspective of the actual person.

That being said, he also has a diary he writes in quite often. And yes, he doodles in it constantly.

Pretty decent in Wizards Chess; however, he's only beaten Garreth once because we all know how good those Weasleys are at Wizards Chess. But Sebastian is 100% definitely the kind of guy to over-analyze every single move to the point where it's hardly fun to play with him anymore, but hey, at least he's determined!

Definitely the "rules are meant to be broken" kind of guy, but he understands the difference between important rules and useless rules (kinda 💀).

Coffee was definitely different back then; however, he'd probably be a bit of an addict, to be honest. I just KNOW that boy is staying up wayyyy too late and needs the caffeine to stay up. (He hates the taste, but it gives him energy before it makes him go kaput lol.)

He's an extrovert, but put a good book in his hands, and he might as well have become an introvert with the way he's ignoring people.

Big fan of exploring, whether that's the grounds around Hogwarts or exploring some book/literature. He likes being out in nature, so you can best believe he's been to the Forbidden Forest quite a few times.

He's quite a big flirt but doesn't know much of what to do after that. Flirtatious behavior comes naturally to him as he's a pretty confident guy, but once the other person actually shows genuine interest in him, he gets a little stuck because he was not expecting it.

He's clumsy; let's be real here.

Can trip on his own shoes, up the stairs, down the stairs, on air; literally anything. It happened a lot more when he was younger, and he's gotten better about fixing his balance, but he used to have bruises all the time from where he had fallen. (Me too, Seb. Me too.)

A tad impatient but not out of malice, he's just the kind of guy to really want to get up and do things, to try and get them done. Dwelling on issues has never brought him any peace of mind, so he's ready to get in there, do the job, and get out. Which could possibly lead to quite a few of his issues LOL. (ifykyk)

You know how his hair is hard to draw? (artists, I can hear you screaming from here). Yeah, well, it's hard to style as well. Ever since he was a boy, his hair was always quite messy, and his mother used to try her best to tame it, but he was a rather energetic boy, so it didn't really stay how it was styled.

And he never got old enough with his father for him to teach Sebastian how to do it, so he kinda had to learn it himself. But hey, we all love Sebastian's iconic hair. (Let's be real; we all probably want to run our hands through it.)

Behind his teenage-ish recklessness, his ambition contributes to his devotion. He's a very devoted person, whether that's to what he believes in, what he does, family, friends, or lovers; he's just a really devoted guy.

If he were in modern times, he'd have great music taste. I can't tell you exactly what he'd listen to since I have too many opinions about that overall; however, I can tell you that it absolutely rocks.

Over all, as much as I like to joke about this little twit, I love him. ;)

[mayumml]

Midori is not a good lover

The REAL Sou Hiyori relationship headcanons <3

first off, you don’t know if he genuinely likes you or not and most likely will never be sure 

Maybe you’re a piece of pawn in his stupid chess game but what can you do?

Midori manipulates and gaslights you just like with anyone else, you’re the primary victim that receives most of it though

He seems like a man that didn’t have a heart, and he literally doesn’t 

Feels like he doesn’t know how to act in a relationship or more like he doesn’t care enough to

You think he’d choose his work over you anytime 

He’s so on and off with his affection

He treats you like everyone else, particularly more strict with you sometimes and scolds you more often than the other participants

This fucker is adamant about “being fair to all participants and not letting a personal relation change that” and yet you feel like he’s being the most unfair to you

Even more passive aggressive when it comes to you, he loves to bring up the past and laugh when you get pissed

But then sometimes, he would appear out of nowhere and gives you a quick peck

You’d expect him to be open to PDA, and yet he only ever initiates (and allows) any affection when it’s just the two of you 

You’re conflicted, though, at certain times he’ll choose a timing where most of everyone is gathered in one place and approach you with the most affection you’ll ever receive from him

He makes sure everyone is looking, maybe it’s his way of showing his twisted sense of superiority?

Midori very quickly reverts back to ignoring you if he is satisfied 

You learn that he is extremely possessive

Yes, you get fed up with his shit many times and he knows it well

Does he ever apologize? Never. 

Like ever. 

You could confront him, but he’ll give you the same saccharine smile and feigns innocence

“What’s wrong with me showing my lover off to everyone? Does that upset you?” 

When you try to explain that’s not why you’re upset, he convinces you that you’re overreacting and somehow makes you seem like the bad guy for “not wanting to be seen with him.” (bitchass) 

Weirdly loves small talk 

Midori would interrogate you whenever he pleases and ask about your favorite color to wear on a rainy day 

You cant tell if he really cares about your responses at all because he just stands there and blinks with his smile and throws follow up questions at you

Kind of feels like he wants to know everything about you but also nothing at the same time 

Remembers small, itty bitty details about you

It’s endearing but also freaks you out because he remembers which angle you prefer to wear your collar

Very touchy when he wants to be, but acts like a jerk when he decides he doesn’t feel like it 

Limited use of pet names because he prefers calling you by your name 

Will call you sweetheart (mockingly most of the time), “my favorite participant,” or a shortened version of your name

Likes to receive but doesn’t give, unless he needs something

You don’t know why you’re still with him 

Midori is very good at making you feel special but also worthless

Will give you overly expensive presents that you don’t need and stare at your reaction as you open them 

(does he think this makes up for his neglect as a partner?)

Very likely to give you jewelry with his initials, he might have one with your initials but won’t wear it 

Sucks at comforting

He actually just doesn’t comfort at all

He makes things worse when you’re upset 

“You’re crying? Humans really are sentimental beings, after all. I guess crying is all that you’re capable of.” 

Let you play and style with his hair in private 

Gets defensive and change the subject when you mention Shin’s history with him

Avoids personal questions like the plague 

Actively tries to poke into every corner of your life. Boundaries? What’s that?

Not a very good partner, he’s just not a good person in general

Midori rarely mentions your relationship in front of the other participants, but when he does, he refers to you as his lover

Will pair you with him with the red light, he knows you don’t have the guts to kill him 

Urges you on to kill him way too often 

He gives you a smug knowing grin and a kiss when you can’t do it

Don’t try to physically hurt him, it turns him on (he won’t hesitate to break your arm)

Remember when I said he’s very possessive? 

Fucker treats you like an object

no one takes what belongs to him

Won’t be the type to defend you and won’t fight if someone hits on you

He would direct the conversation elsewhere and weird out whoever it is somehow (always works) 

Shows up a few days later with news that the attacker mysteriously jumped of a building (willingly?) 

His romantic side is very unconventional

“Would you love me even if I was a worm?” 

“Worms are rather dirty and invasive, are they not? I’d rather not deal with a pest, thanks.” 

[leviscolwill]

— dad!jude bellingham headcanons !

pairing: dad!jude bellingham x fem!reader

req: could you write dad!judebellingham ml <3

note: i tried writing headcanons because i feel like my writing is very 👎👎🍅🍅🍅 at the moment, i hope you'll like it still !! reblogs are VERY appreciated since the tags are in a silly goofy mood right now #useless 😝🤪

tag list: @ceofmercedes &lt;3

it's well established on judeblr that he is a girl dad, so girl dad it is

i think he would spiral a bit over the fact that you're growing a whole human being in you

he would say random shit like “no but do you feel her legs grow ?”

and you're like 😐😐😐 of course not

but the poor boy is just clueless 😪

he would always remind you of how you're the most beautiful woman on earth, even when you're crying your eyes out because ron fell off his chess piece in the philosopher's stone

now,, i think we're all well aware he would spoil your daughter rotten

getting her new clothes or new toys whenever he passes in front of a store because “she might need it one day”

but !! he would never let her turn into a “daddy i want a squirrel” kinda girl

you would both make sure she's very well mannered because he is very aware his parents' education played a big part in who he is today

i feel like being strict wouldn't be a problem for him either

yk being the eldest in his family, he wouldn't be swayed by your girl's pleading eyes when she acts wrong

he would 100% cry on her first day of pre-school (it's the cancer in him)

and he would try to drop her / pick her up from school as much as he possibly can with training and stuff

if you speak another language, you'd learn it to your daughter and use it to talk shit about jude 🤭

“have you seen what he wore today ?” “yeah daddy's shirt is very ugly”

in my case she would say quoicoubeh to him

i feel like he'd get so frustrated and start sulking amd pouting before your daughter reassures him

okayy bc it's spooky szn rn 😋

family matching costumes !! (call it corny 😡 i do not care)

monsters, disney characters or the adams family... he'd have soooo many ideas

he'd go trick or treating just to eat all the sweets

playfights with your daughter for their girl's attention

“it's my mommy !”

“oh yeah ? but mommy liked me before, so i'm the number one in her heart”

“it's not true ! mommy tell him he's a liar”

you can only roll your eyes because he really has beef with a whole child ???

but he's just a kid himself !!

everytime she gets to see uncle jobe she's overly happy

and jude would smack the back of his head when he says a bad word

(like he's not the one to curse at home yk 🙄)

is it a bad thing i think he would secretly hope your daughter has a bad dream so she'd have a good excuse to sleep in between you both ?

because he would

just to cuddle with her

then he regrets it when she wakes him up early in the morning

when she grows up he would be soooo invested in her school's dramas

like, actually asking for updates during dinner like he's dan from gossip girl

“what do you mean ben is dating his ex's best friend ?? he's such a di... bad person”

he'd be so gassed whenever she would wear his shirt (especially at school)

like you got all these clothes but chose this particular england shirt ? 🥹🥹

(as if half her wardrobe isn't his jerseys from every club he's been at)

(+ jerseys he exchanged with other players and signed jerseys by football legends)

he would sooo show her off to his teammates

“yeah my girl knows how to read now” 😎

and show every picture of her EVER

even the embarrassing ones

100% would introduce his friends as uncles

“say hi to uncle gio” (🫠)

now hear me out bc i think it's my favourite idea

he would totally look up hairstyles tutorials for your babygirl and try them out

once he gets the hang of it, he would never stop finding new ones

and since he doesn't have a sister, he would go to his mum for advice

on hair, but also girl stuff so he can pretend he already knows it all in front of you

you'd also go to his mum to advice tho, because being a parent (especially a mum) is never easy

and she would gladly share all of them with you

when you get into fights with jude your girl would always try to make it better

“dad says he's sorry”, “mum said she's not mad anymore”

of course you both know she's lying but somehow it always works ???

so your relationship is the prime example of what she's looking for when she grows up

and she secretly hopes she gets to love her s/o just like her parents love each other (too corny now ?)

anyways jude would treat you both like his little princesses, and he's so so so grateful he gets to live a lifetime with you two

or maybe more than two who knows 🚶‍♀️

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[hyperpotamianarch]

Hello. Today, I'd like to make some random anecdotes about Rabbi Avraham Ibn Ezra - poet, commentator, linguist, mathmatician, probably not too bad at chess and cursed to be poor for the entirety of his life.

After a cursory look at his wikipedia page, I must admit I didn't really know much about his life: only that he was born and raised in Spain, went travelling, had terrible luck with everything, wrote his commentaries on the Torah for money (which I think didn't help with the "cursed to be poor" thing), befriended Rabbenu Tam in France, possibly married the daughter of Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi and promptly died... somewhere... oh, and also wrote lots of poetry in the middle.

Historically speaking, he lived at the end of the Golden Age of Judaism in Spain, around the 11th-12th centuries CE. This puts him right after Rashi - which allows him to snark at everything he thinks Rashi was wrong about, but before Rambam - which means he doesn't get to snark at everything Rambam got wrong. His commentary on the Torah leans a little towards the linguistic side, though he has a couple of other things going on as well, like roasting people he disagrees with (Ben Zuta is the only friend a bull has, anyone?) and dancing around verses he thinks were added later to the Torah, like every time it says "to this very day".

He also wrote one of the first math books in Hebrew - Sefer HaMispar, he wrote a poem about chess, one about how whatever he'll work at he won't get enough money. And generally, he wrote poems. Quite a lot.

I suppose at this point I should mention something: Hebrew linguists were, at the middle ages, predominantly Sepharadi. I mean, sure, there could be a non-Jewish Hebrew linguist, but for some reason I don't hear much about those. And there probably were Ashkenazi linguists, but there weren't many of them. Rashi does deal with linguistics - but half the time he does, it's using the books of two famous Sepharadi linguists. The Sepharadim, living in Muslim lands as they were, simply had a better background with learning Hebrew, since they were surrounded by speakers of a closely related language - Arabic. And Ibn Ezra's deep understanding of Hebrew led to him loving linguistic riddles, which I can never figure out - and I was reading an eddition with footnotes! Though maybe I didn't make enough effort or something.

But no, the reason I wanted to talk about Ibn Ezra was the impossible standards for poetry, as set by Sepharadi poets. You see, Jews were always influenced by their surroundings, in multiple facets. and poetry is definitely one of them. So, the influence from Arab poets includes strict rules for rhythm and - and this is what I actually wanted to talk about - rhyming.

The rythm thing is bad enough. Only once in my life have I tried keeping up with that. It was very, very hard. It's probably because I'm not used to this, but no song I write can keep a consistent rhythm and meter, and that's without trying to apply the standard Sepharadic rules. So trying to have such a strict meter... didn't work well for me. I guess I'm the frenchman from

וּמִי הֵבִיא לְצָרְפַתִּי בְּבֵית שִׁיר,

וְעָבַר זָר מְקוֹם קֹדֶשׁ וְרָמָס;

וְלוּ שִׁיר יַעֲקֹב יִמְתַּק כְּמוֹ מָן,

אֲנִי שֶׁמֶשׁ, וְחַם שִׁמְשִׁי וְנָמָס.

which was actually written about Rabenu Tam, but I'm a distant relative of his so this might still be applicable. Besides, as far as you know my name is Ya'akov, just like Rabenu Tam! (Sorry for not providing a translation, the gist is "how dare a frenchman trample all over poetry?!")

But rhymes. Oh, the Ibn Ezraic rhyming standards.

According to Ibn Ezra, one must always rhyme with the entire syllable. So no, just the last sound isn't enough. In Ibn Ezra's book, rhyme and dime don't actually rhyme - though I don't think he'd care about English at all. For the Ibn Ezra, shor and ḥamor can't be rhymed with each other; shor can rhyme with Mishor, and ḥamor can rhyme with har hamor, but you can't rhyme any other pair of those with each other. And I can't stay up to this challenge. It's nearly always impossible for me to find proper words to rhyme even without the extra demand for the rhyme to be the entire syllable. With English I don't think I even bothered or ever will. You have too many weird syllables for me. But with Hebrew... I do try with Hebrew, really. But I can't keep this up. And the most frustrating thing? It doesn't appear other Ashkenazi writers had this problem.

Now we get to the interesting part. I have been trying lately a new possible format for my very-anticipated-and-definitely-not-only-I-want-it Jewsade fanfic: introduction, preface and Haskamot to books. I just really enjoy reading prefaces for books, and one of my recent favourite pieces of writing is the conclusion piece of the Vilna edition of the Babylonian Talmud. If you're interested - it can be found in most editions of the Talmud at the very end of Masechet Nidah. The piece describes the trouble they went through to publish this edition of the Talmud and it's very interesting. Another favourite piece of mine is the preface of the Levush, a slightly obscure Halachic book from the time of the Shulchan Aruch. If you've ever seen me talk about the race to Halacha - this is my source for that, because the poor author was upstaged about three to four times by other people doing exactly what he planned on doing. I highly recommend this piece as well, though I don't know how easy it is to find. And the Levush - Rabbi Mordechai Yeffe - is a nice Ashkenazi guy. So he must be more lenient with his rhymes, right?

Well, I guess I didn't establish that part. Yes, the preface to the Levush starts with a poem. It's fun. It's great. It's also up to the Ibn Ezraic standard, while my attempt to write an equivalent is... not.

Huh. This post is oddly rambly. Ah well, maybe someone will like it. Anyway, the preface portion that really takes the cake is actually one from a fairly recent obscure book - like, this one was written barely a century ago. I only found it because one of my favourite singers, Aharon Razel, made a song out of it, but the song doesn't really capture the hilarity of the piece. Do ask me if you want to hear more, this one's great.

Signing off with a "darn you, Ibn Ezra! Why must you set such high standards!"

[archivewriter1ont]

Echo and the Cadet Batch Chapter 16: How To Babysit Aboard a Warship Is Out!

(adorableness I want to squeeze them) art by @littletroggo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58834273/chapters/149944141

(Ugh the insert-link feature is not working again)

Summary:

Time moves differently in the Negotiator's current time zone, so the 501st and the 212th are still trying to a) keep the cadets as much a secret as possible and b) manage to keep them safe aboard a warship. After fighting alongside them as adults and adjusting to their crazy, Rex hopes that settling the baby batchers down for dinner and bedtime will go smoothly. It does not.

SNEAK PEEK: ⬇️

“Crosshair, get that pencil out of your mouth,” Echo chided gently. “That’s why you have the toothpicks.”

Rex smothered a smirk as Crosshair shot a petulant frown at the cyborg but did as he was told. The small sniper plucked the eraser end of the pencil out of his mouth but didn’t replace it with a toothpick – he was far too busy concentrating on the sketchpad in front of him. 

The captain had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, content to observe what was going on around him, but now he leaned over and tried to get a better look at the drawing, suddenly intrigued. He had just gotten obliterated by Tech in a chess game – the little engineer had not known how to play until an hour ago, but apparently learned strategy quickly and was ruthless once he did – and he could still see Wrecker and Boomer showing Hunter an array of magic tricks, though he wasn’t sure if the tracker cadet was actually interested or just accommodating his brother’s excitement. But he hadn’t seen Crosshair budge from that spot for at least an hour. Ever since he had found the sketchpad and pencils while rummaging through his older counterpart’s pack, the white-haired cadet had been sprawled out on the floor, feet kicking methodically in the air, obsessed with whatever he was watching take form on the thin, cream-colored paper.

“What’re you doing, kiddo?” he asked. He was making a point to refer to the cadets by such names as often as possible, since he wouldn’t likely ever get to do so again once they were replaced by the adult batchers he knew and loved. 

Though whenever that switch happened, he was already planning to bring up the whole “sketching” thing to Crosshair. Apparently Echo had known of the sniper’s artistic streak but Rex had not, which made him think it would be the perfect thing to bring up when the snappy batcher wanted to ignore that the combined forces of the 501st and 212th had now seen him as a mostly-harmless little cadet.

At his question, Crosshair immediately looked up. His sharp eyes narrowed at the blonde clone, but unlike his older self, he didn’t immediately bite off a none of your business or the like. Instead he hesitated, the end of the pencil inching back toward his mouth as he weighed whether he should answer.

Finally, he spoke in a quiet, almost embarrassed voice. “Something.” He tilted the sketchpad further away from Rex and adjusted his position on the floor, nearly blocking the entire thing from view. 

Rex slid closer, now determined to see what something was. Crosshair snatched up the pad and held it to his chest, turning away and eyeing him like a suspicious cat. Rex could almost imagine the little sniper’s white hair standing on end like a kitten’s, too.

He smiled at the mental image. “What kind of something?” he probed, trying to sound casual. 

(Whoops my hand slipped and I added 2k more words than I meant to. The snuggles part I referred to yesterday is now in chapter 17. 😁)

TAGLIST: @leapingbadger, @badbatchposts, @kybercrystals94, @maybe-some-words, @moonsstarsandscience, @littletroggo, @spinoqueenwrites,

NPT bc I thought you might like it: @happydragon, @indigofyrebird

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! ❤️❤️

[chronically-ghosted]

will it help?

rating: explicit 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 1962

summary: javi can't sleep. he doesn't ask you but you help him anyway.

warnings: blow jobs, smoking, no y/n, ball tug

a/n: from @onmysluttyknees 's request: Peña prompt - “Everything in excess is bad, except you”

🤍Masterlist

In a post-Escobar world, things had changed. 

Cali was snatching up the remnants of the empire left and right. The crimes were dirtier, sneakier, and backed up by the government. Allies were enemies and now enemies were allies. The whole game had been changed overnight and while the DEA was playing chess, the cartels had three boards of parcheesi going on under the table. 

And, perhaps in the most horrifying change of all, Javier Peña buttoned his collar up all the way. 

He didn’t smoke. 

He wore nicotine patches.

He wore ties now.

He wore suit jackets, for christ’s sake. 

He walked hunched and in silence through the office hallways now. He didn’t drink with the team and he was often the last one at the office. No one in recent memory could remember the last time some woman called the office looking for a “Señior Peña”.

It seemed, to everyone who knew him, Javier had become a respectable agent. He reigned in his “machismo”, as it were. He had learned something about restraint. Call it the effects of war, post-war syndrome, but Javier was a changed man. 

Nope. 

To you, who actually knew him, Javier just got better at hiding it. 

He still smoked like a goddamn chimney.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know that?” 

He glances up from the floor, shirtless, in jeans, case files and documents spread around him like debris, smoke rising from in between his fingers. Three more burnt out nubs curled around gray ash in the tray. 

It’s past two in the morning. He only does this when the insomnia is particularly bad.

There are dark circles under his eyes as he lifts his gaze up your bare thighs. You didn’t take his shirt to be particularly distracting; it was the only thing you could find in the darkness and eyes bleary with sleep. But he sighs as he looks you up and down. 

“Did the light wake you up? I’m sorry – I’ll go into the kitchen next time,” he shakes his head. “Those fucking chairs are murder on my back, but –,”

“Did you already sort by date? If they’re making specific drops, there might be a pattern.” 

You sit down on the other side of the paper half-circle surrounding him against the couch, taking up the files nearest you. He watches you in the low light, his mouth not yet curled up, but his eyes are bright.

“You don’t have to do this. You can go to sleep.”

“And those things’ll kill you,” you reply, not looking up. 

He chuckles softly and puts out the half burnt cigarette. With a sigh, he picks up a few papers, collecting them and handing them to you. You notice his piles have been organized by location so you include those in the groupings, your thumbnail in your mouth as you try to see a higher pattern, a more digestible informational system. Head down, you miss the faint grin splitting his mouth open. 

With a groan, he eases up onto his feet. As he passes by you on his way to the kitchen, his fingertips trail up your shoulder, ghost up your neck, intertwine with the loose ends of your hair, nails offering a hint of pressure against the back of your skull where he knows it makes you whine. 

You arch your back up against his leg, your head against his thick thigh covered in jeans, his touch encouraging a feeling that oscillates between warm pleasure and hot arousal. Your eyes slipping close, he thumbs the line where your hair meets the skin of your forehead.

“You know I’ve cut back,” he hums quietly. 

“Mhmm, on the days that don’t end in ‘y’.” He massages the rigid bend of your skull behind your ear and you bite back a moan.

“Are you going to tell me next that I drink too much? Sleep too much?” His eyebrow arches lazily, his tone answering his own question, as he drops the pad of his finger tip across your forehead. 

You crack open an eye to look up at him. He’s smiling. 

“You know sleeping in until noon is excessive.”

He snorts. “Everything in excess is bad.” Javi’s grip slides down your cheek, his middle finger pressed against the corner of your mouth. He taps once. “Except you.”

Inhaling the warmth and burn of the cigarette still between his fingers, you reach under the cuff of his jeans to his ankle. Fine hair, just above, a dusting over the arch of his foot.

“Will it help you sleep?”

“Does that matter?” 

You dig your nails into the soft skin under his ankle. “I want you to sleep.” 

His dark eyes harden, an exposed vulnerability tugging at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, making him look younger than he is. 

“I don’t know if I can. But I want to try.”

You nod, satisfied with his sincerity. Another reward for knowing Javier the man and not only the agent; he never lied to you.

He breathes through those parted pink lips as you tuck your legs underneath you and roll up onto your knees. He stands there, an observer, as you rub your palm up his thigh, the muscles tense in anticipation and exertion. Your eyes caught with his as though tied together, you cup his half-hard length through his jeans, intentionally pressing the zipper into his growing erection. Javi swallows, a grunt so obviously caught in his throat. He doesn’t want you to have that just yet, he wants you to work for it. He needs you to make it rough. 

You unbutton his jeans, fingers grazing the trail of hair that sinks beneath the waistband. He barely twitches. You unzip, the sound almost strikingly loud in the silence, over the distant wailing of sirens, over the almost buzzing heat of Bogota. You drop his gaze, wanting to watch this part, your lower muscles cramping in excitement. Javi breathes sharply through his nose when you reach in and bring out his cock.

In the days of Machismo Javi, there was a secret office bet going around about what his cock looked like. Shape, color, length, girth – there was money to be made all around. You are pleased to say that no one ever got it right.

Flush, darker than his skin, but redder than his nipples, you can honestly say you drool at the size of it every single fucking time. 

You swallow, your mouth flushed with spit.

“Hey, save some of that for me.” Oh, the bastard is smug. But his touch is tender, affection as he rubs his thumb under your bottom lip. 

You eye him as his grows, lengths, aroused by just you looking at him. You nip at his thumb, hands squeezing his thighs.

“Yes, sir.” 

You aren’t sure if the noise he makes comes from your words or the fact that you swallow him nearly to the hilt in one go. Fully erect in your mouth, hot and pulsing, Javi’s eyes roll back in his head and he drops his head against his shoulders. 

“Oh, fuck, baby, that fucking mouth on you,” he groans. 

You breathe out through your nose, pleased at his reaction. You shift higher on your knees, the pressure between your legs already verging on uncomfortable. There is a reason you loved riding him; with this fucking cock, it felt like he was going to split you open, his feet planted, hips bucking up into you.

Fuck. Focus. 

You drag your mouth back, taking time to drag as much spit and drool along his length as possible. You come to the end, swirl your tongue as if you are sucking up the curve of an ice cream cone against the thick vein underneath his cock and he audibly moans, the sound like the plates of the earth shifting to relieve volcanic duress. 

His hands fly to your hair, his hips bucking to chase the heat of your mouth, but your hands at his thighs hold him back. 

“Fuck, sorry.” 

You accept his apology with the tip of your tongue catching on the head of his cock – he trembles under your palms – before taking him in half way, then all the way, then halfway again. You fuck him with your mouth like he fucks your cunt. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching your scalp. 

“Tha’s it, suck my cock, baby, suck it.” 

You slide all the way down, your tongue rubbing against the ridges, your cheeks hallowed in, your mouth a vacuum seal, and your nose brushes the short, harsh hairs around his groin. And then you do, indeed, suck. 

His hips lurch forward, you are expecting that, knowing exactly what that does to him, but still, he pounds the back of your throat and you gag, mouthful of him. Your eyes water, lashes suddenly wet, but he wipes them with his thumb, turning your jaw up to look at him.

Eyes pitch black, mouth agape, chest heaving, Javi looks like you could ask for the moon and he’d go out and find his best lasso. He swallows, the air jagged as he gulps it down. 

“Eres tan sucia. Lo tomas sin que te lo pida. Te lo tomas tan bien.”

You can’t help but grin, spit dribbling around the corner of your mouth. He’s started speaking rapid, almost unintelligible Spanish, it won’t be long now. 

He continues spewing filthy dirty things at you so you drop your jaw out of his grip, pull back out all the way, a string of spittle caught between your lips and the head of his cock, and kitten-lick the precum from his flushed skin. He punches out a groan. With your hand thoughtfully placed on the inside of his thigh, you lick him again, tug his balls just barely, and then release your jaw to swallow him entirely. 

His knees buckle, a pink flush erupting up his chest, and he spews down the back of your throat with such force, you gag again. But you hold on, your nails digging into his jeans, eyes streaming until he stops, his hips slow in their thrusting, his fingers tightly latched on the crown of your head. 

You can’t really understand him but you catch phrases in both Spanish and English as his body relaxes.

Oh my god

Holy shit

Fuck fuck fuck

Oh my god

You drag back mindfully of his sensitivity, your cheeks and jaw damp with tears. You finally swallow when he’s gone from your mouth, but it’s too much and his cum leaks out of the corner of your mouth. 

“Oh, baby, what a fucking mess.”

He drops to his knees, wiping your lips clean with his thumb. He sucks his own thumb once before dropping his mouth to kiss you hotly on the mouth. Javier was always better at using his body, his actions to express how he feels than using words, and you can practically taste the praise, the appreciation, the awe he transfers in that kiss. 

He’s shaking a bit when he pulls back. He continues back, pulling you with him until you’re both on your backs, looking up at the popcorn ceiling. 

His thumb is tracing lazily whorls on the back of your neck.

“If you think those chairs on murder on your back, this floor is going to annihilate you.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in his chest beneath your palm. 

“I know, cariño.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” 

He rubs his face as he sits up. You follow him and take his hand, intertwining your fingers. He looks at your hand in his, contemplative as ever. But the storm clouds often present in his eyes aren’t there. He looks, shockingly, relaxed. 

He nods.

“I’m willing to try.” 

[mochinomnoms]

Who do you think would be the kind of dad to take their daughter on daddy daughter dates?

My dad used to do this for me and I loved it sm, imo I think everyone should experience that kind of love from their father <3

Ideally, I think all of them, cause that's just how a father should be. Who makes it a bigger deal, though? I think it's the following:

Deuce: He has such fond memories of going out with just him and his mom that I think he'd want to recreate that. He's taking his daughter out to a cute café near the house to spend some time with her and learn about her week at school. Afterwards he'll take her to play at the park and push her on the swings, blissfully listening to her happy squeals and laughter.

Riddle: His mother caused some permanent damage to his ability to make health relationships, this is just a matter of fact. Perhaps now that he's an adult, the relationship between them as improved, but Riddle is terrified of being like his mother. So, while still firm, Riddle indulges his daughter with several daddy-daughter dates, specifically once a week on Sunday from noon to 2pm. They go out to a lovely café that serves the Clover Bakery pastries and have lunch, tea, and strawberry tarts as he listens to her talk about school, friends, and her favorite books. It's his favorite event alongside your dinner dates.

Leona: Okay, so hear me out, if he were to ever have a kid, he'd spoil the shit of them to make sure that they'd never grow up they way he did. So daddy daughter dates are totally a regular thing. He orders all their favorite foods and drinks as he reserves the game room in the royal library, where he teaches her to play chess. His daughter growing up with confidence and assurance in herself is important, so he doesn't go easy on her. But he does offer very helpful tricks and advice til the day he's proud to admit she's locked him into a checkmate.

Floyd: It's less “dates” and more of “let's fuck up as much shit as we can before your other parent gets us in trouble.” Floyd thinks it's important that his daughter toughens up, so he rough houses with her when they go out, much to her delight. They've gotten kicked out of a few establishments under the sea. Azul begrudgingly lets them in his and his mother's restaurants, where they delight in tormenting him as they eat their takoyaki. They like to have fun.

Jamil: He wants to make sure that his kids know that he loves them and cherishes them no matter what, status or no status. It's hard, feeling like your parents are more concerned about the care and emotions of your charge instead of you. So he regularly takes his daughter on little dates where she can buy little treats for just herself, vent about her duties as a servant (though she gets along surprisingly well with Kalim's oldest), and offer her cuddles in the porch swing. The last one they went on, she got a pair of snake keychains, one for her and one for him. Jamil has it on his key ring when he's working.

Vil: He's thriving, actually. Daddy-daughter dates? No. Daddy-daughter outings! He has fond memories of going out with his father, even as a busy child actor. So, he takes his own daughter to the spa and shopping, instilling expensive taste much to your disapproval. Vil thinks he's simply setting her up with successful self care habits, which you can't deny. He won't mention that she allows him to use silly kid makeup on him in the privacy of their home after their shopping sprees, though. He scrubs his face clean, but always allows you to take pictures, as long as they don't get out to the press. He has an image to uphold.

Rook: The embodiment of a simp and a girl dad, Rook is so in love with his mini-him. Cause let's be real, no matter how much she might look like you, she is a Hunt through and through. Rook reserves one of his family's more remote cabins where he can take her out hunting. He's teaching her the basics of animal tracking, wildness survival, and even shooting. They do briefly turn into family trips instead of daddy-date trips after Rook has to go to the emergency room after accidentally getting shot in his shoulder. He's very proud that his daughter has figured out the basics, but she's crying, and you're frantic. Just in case of an emergency, you tag along with first aid supplies for a little while until your daughter is more confident with her bow.

Malleus: He is SO in love with being a father. He gives no shit about what's on his calendar, if it's daddy-daughter date night, then it's daddy-daughter date night! He will take her scrolling around the gardens as he holds her in his arms and tells her about all the grotesques and gargoyles on the castle. He was so lonely as a child, so he's determined to make sure his own children never feel the same. Between him and her, they have their own Gargoyle Club that meets weekly to visit other castles and admire their architecture. He's yet to convince Leona to let them visit Pride Rock Palace to look at their versions of gargoyles.

[poppitron360]

The Lost Trio Incorrect Quotes:

RANDOM INCORRECT QUOTES GENERATOR

Jason: Yeah, a partner sounds nice, but a supreme enemy you can make out with in secret sometimes sounds a lot more hardcore.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Piper: Ooh, somebody has a crush

Jason: Pfft, I don’t have a crush on Leo I just think they’re cool, it’s not like I stay up at night thinking about them.

*Later that night*

Jason, very much awake: Uh oh.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Leo: Did Jason just tell me he loved me for the first time?

Piper: Yeah, he did.

Leo: And did I just do finger guns back?

Piper: Yeah, you did.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Piper: *finds a note* Hmm, whats this?

Leo: Hey, that's mine! *tries to grab it*

Piper: Aww, it's a love note for Jason?

Leo: No-

Piper: *opens it*

Piper:

Leo:

Piper: I can't read this.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Leo: How do you know how to kiss? Like who teaches you?

Jason: Well it’s actually a class, but unfortunately it’s full right now.

Jason: Would you like me to tutor you?

Piper: That was smooth.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Jason: Calypso doesn’t deserve you.

Jason: If she don't treat you right by now, you're gone.

Leo: I'm gone.

Jason: Now go chop her dick off!

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Leo: We need a diversion. I say Jason gets naked.

Piper: No.

Leo: I could get naked.

The seven: NO!!!

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Leo: Is letting someone win at chess sapiosexual bottoming?

Piper: Can everyone in this godforsaken group please learn the skill called "Think Before You Speak"?

Jason: Ya know... it might be.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Jason: What if mayonnaise came in cans?

Leo: Well, that would suck because you can't microwave metal.

Piper: Good morning to everyone except these two people.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

*at the start of TLH*

Leo: Piper isn’t answering my messages.

Jason: Allow me.

Leo: I tried 6 times, what makes you thi-

Piper: *replying to message* Hello.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Piper: Okay, can we all stop saying stupid shit for a moment, please?!

Jason: Alright.

Leo: Hey, I-

Piper: SHUT UP!

Leo: I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED MY SENTENCE!!

Jason: It was bound to be stupid.

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Jason: When I was a kid, Piper told me that the paper strip that’s in the chocolate kisses were edible and I ate them with the chocolate for a year.

Leo: They are!

Jason: FOR REAL?

Leo: No! Why did you fall for it again?

⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥 - ⚡️- 💕 - 🔥

Piper: Well, has Leo been wrong before?

Jason: How wide are we willing to open this up?

[leverage-ot3]

okay I’ve seen a lot of posts about sterling just being crowley and. guys. the implications just hear me out 😭😭😭

bending lore slightly here BUT let’s say crowley’s body was once inhabited by a human and crowley is possessing the body (maybe he kills the initial inhabitant bc he doesn’t care)

but he still has the guy’s memories. he doesn’t bother keeping up appearances with his ‘ex wife’ because he is too busy building up his hell empire. BUT for some reason he can’t quite identify, he still feels something towards his ‘daughter’. he lets the divorce happen and doesn’t feel the need (or desire) to fight for custody, but he can never quite forget her, to cast her out of his mind for good

some hijinks ensue with the leverage team. it’s mostly because even a grind culture demon wants some off time every once in a while, and for him the insurance investigator stuff is more of a hobby. interacting with the leverage crew is very low stakes for him, and honestly, quite amusing. they aren’t on his level power-wise, but that ford character gives him the mental exercise he hasn’t experienced in, well, he can’t even remember

he can feel their frustration and anger when they learn he has become employed by interpol and feeds off it. it’s great, and relaxing in a way he is never able to achieve while conducting hell-related business

one year he gets wind that olivia is in a really bad situation associated with his ‘ex wife’s’ new husband. he’s selling vital hardware to terrorists, and while that might actually be the kind of chaos he would normally support or be entertained by as the king of hell, something feels wrong about letting olivia stay anywhere near that man

he calls upon the body’s adversaries. he wouldn’t admit it, even under duress, BUT he feels slightly fond of them. nate for the three dimensional chess they play, sophie for her ability to charm and disguise, parker for her chaos and slightly unsettling nature (it’s the autism swag and being bad with human interaction but he doesn’t know that lol), hardison for his unapologetic intelligence and eliot for his hardened violent past and take-no-shit persona (he’s fun to tease)

they perform exactly as he expected, right into his carefully crafted plan. and then olivia is under his care and things get more complicated. he keeps her FAR, FAR away from anything related to the supernatural (heh). no one can find out about her, ESPECIALLY not those imbecile hunter brothers (if for nothing else than the embarrassment in revealing he has a weak spot)

not sure how to work it into this post but I also want to add that somewhere along the way he develops feelings for nate and sophie. the frame up job is near and dear to my heart and you can’t convince me that isn’t fighting as flirting behavior. his interpol persona is more of a side hustle so to speak, but he finds it fun (relaxing, even) to fill that role. there aren’t any obligations of other demons, bothersome hunters, or anything like that. nate and sophie are low stakes, except, they aren’t, really. they make him feel things he can’t ever really remember feeling. his heart beats fast when sophie sat in his lap and cradled his face, his hands sweat when nate gives him that certain smug look. he’s exasperated by the way they can run circles around him like no one else has ever before. they annoy him and get under his skin in a way no one else can and it’s infuriating. but also not, at the same time. maybe he likes it

and then the long goodbye job happens

hear me out and suspend your belief here for a second, because I can’t remember if crowley supernaturally knows when ppl die/are dead or not.

so nate is in interpol custody and the interviewer is obviously out of her depth. (most people are, when it comes to nathan ford.) he walks in and pours the man a drink, but he’s fuming. somewhere along the way he came to care about the team. hell and suffering is literally in his (official) job description, but he can admit (only to himself) that he admires what they do. it’s not for him, not anything close to where his passions and interests lie, but he respects their drive and purpose. he is also aware enough to acknowledge that they are a family, a group of misfits that never belonged quite anywhere except to each other.

and nate fucking blew it up, ruined it, because his vice is being so obsessed with the end game that he is apparently willing to let his team, his family, the people that anchor him to reality, die because the ends supposedly justify the means.

not this time. not to sterling crowley

he is enraged. he can admit within the confines of his mind that he cares for nate, for sophie, even for the other three (though nate and sophie have somehow made it a hierarchy where they are more important to him. which he will dissect later in private. maybe.)

nate let them die, he let sophie die, and for what? the black book? hell below, crowley would have made things easier somehow, if he knew that this was where nate’s sights had lied. he would have prevented this somehow. he wants to have prevented this. he doesn’t want any of them dead and is too afraid to check and verify because that would make it real. the idea of sophie (or any of them) somehow making it to hell instead of heaven would probably break something in him he might not be able to reapir fully.

he yells at nate- he’s angry. hellfire burning in his heart because everything is ruined. the deaths aside (however hard it is to set them aside in his mind), nate will not recover from this, not ever. this will be the start of the end, he is sure. a miserable, guilt-ridden existence where he drinks himself to death and nothing will save him. it plays out in crowley’s mind in a thousand different ways that are beyond painful to conceptualize, even in theory.

the story starts to unravel and there is a game afoot. a solemn, miserable, infuriating game because the con is still in session because parker is alive and in the building- which sets another fire alight in his chest. ‘parker even know you got hardison killed?’ he rages for her grief when she finds out. he knows it will double when she finds out eliot has perished, too, because he isn’t fucking blind.

but nate is a brilliant man, lest he forget too quickly. they are all alive, and somehow still the entire crew slips through his fingers. he’s not even angry (he never would have been- he doesn’t actually try too hard to catch them. it’s about the game, not the consequences). he lets them keep the black book because he’s fucking exhausted and honestly, they more than earned it.

‘now we’re even. tell sophie to drive carefully’. they will never be even, not really. crowley would never admit or agree that being human is the superior state of being, but that have made him feel human in a way he doesn’t actually mind. they keep him on his toes and match him in a way unique to them, they remind him that there are other things than the realm of hell. not necessarily bigger than hell, but maybe just as important in a different sense.

watching the van drive away, something inside him settles. when he walked into the interrogation room that day he thought this was the beginning of the end. it’s not the end at all, not an end to anything. it’s a continuation of their story. maybe, he thinks, a beginning to a new era in it