#savage's replacement

[noctusfury]

Who Replaced Savage as Alvin's Chief Subordinate? (Defenders of Berk/RTTE)

Hello, everyone! Welcome to another HTTYD article! Today, we'll be going into another Alvin/Outcast topic!

Anyone wonder who replaced Savage as Alvin's subordinate after Dagur's defeat at the Defenders of Berk finale? Savage fled after Dagur's capture, and Alvin was left sans a right-hand man. So who took over his position?

I can think of a few people. Though, it could always be somebody that we don't even know. But, for argument's sake, let's start with four likely candidates. With one additional fanon option, which I'll add at the end of this.

The first candidate I'd like to present you as a likely option is this guy in the Riders of Berk episode "Alvin and the Outcasts," where he runs to Alvin, who's in Stoick's place, and reports of having been given reports by Scouts about Bucket and Mulch with a bunch of others heading to Thor's Beach, along with Stoick and a group heading into the forest.

We also see in later on, when he's stranded on Dragon Island with Alvin, Savage, and others.

Personally, I like this guy. He looks like he's got a good head on his shoulders, and he's got a pretty nice voice. Sadly, he doesn't have a name despite having a speaking part since he doesn't have one in the credits. 😔🙏🏻

So let's just call him Hugin, after one of Odin's ravens who reports to him all he finds. 🤷‍♂️

It's hard to tell if we see him in other episodes after this, since it's been awhile since I've watched ROB, and we also have to deal with the multiple Outcast minion clones that resemble him. 😵‍💫

The Second Candidate for the position of Alvin's chief subordinate is this guy, found in RTTE Season 6 episode "Return of Thor Bonecrusher", who talks to the Gang and informs them about the situation, as well as the pike:

Let's call him Cheeky, due to his cheekguards. (I honestly don't know what to say about that helmet. It's not even covering his cheeks but his nose area instead. 💀 Is his beard THAT bushy? 😅)

Now, this could be pure coincidence — again, given the clones DreamWorks Dragons LOVES to duplicate — but we also see him in "Alvin and the Outcasts", along with, I assume, the first candidate I've just mentioned earlier, convening with Alvin in their Great Hall, listening to Alvin's plan about capturing the "Dragon Conqueror".

Judging from this picture above, I'm assuming that he's one of Alvin's subordinates, since usually the only ones allowed to be in-the-know about a chieftain's plans or schemes are those under their retinue: the commanders who lead the men and keep things somewhat civilized and orderly.

Of course, the men in these two pics look different: One looks rather friendly while the other one just above us looks rather stern and focused, as a subordinate ought to be. So this could just be two completely different people. Though that could be that he only gets "that way" — friendly and talkative — when talking about Ice Pike. (That, actually could be very interesting. 😮 A literal ice-breaker, that. 🤭)

So in case I'm wrong, let me clarify: the second candidate is the one we see in "Alvin and the Outcasts," just like this fella here just down below, wearing a... full-faced spangenhelm — the Third Candidate:

Let's call him Helmface.

We also see him in "Return of Thor Bonecrusher," and, if memory serves, he was with Cheeky when he explained the pike, and then threw up when Fishlegs, as Thor, ate one of them raw. 💀

In ROB's "Alvin and the Outcasts," we also see him — or who we assume is him — among those stranded with Alvin.

However, keep in mind that full-helmed goons for Outcasts, Berserkers and Hunters are usually just your run-of-the-mill common soldier. So I may be fully wrong and am just assuming that since the other two subordinates are there that he is also a subordinate.

And now we get to the Fourth and Final Candidate: Mildew.

That's right. Mildew.

As you know, in the ROB finale, as well as Defenders of Berk, Mildew has become an Outcast and serves Alvin. And after learning how to train dragons thanks to Hiccup impromptu dragon training lesson, he uses this knowledge to teach the Outcasts how to train dragons — namely Whispering Deaths and even Changewings.

(I'll be honest, I was rather disappointed that they passed on the opportunity to have a bunch of Outcast Dragon Riders. That would've been much more entertaining. And that would've been an extra nod to the books. That really should've been added. 😢😔)

He's also shown to be really intelligent, not only in being competent in handling the dragons, but also came up with several ideas to deal with the dragons: In ROB's "Dragon Flower," he bought Blue Oleanders which was basically poison for the dragons and thus weakened them considerably (honestly, it would've been great to utilize blue oleander to keep dragons away from certain places or as a type of defensive measure, etc — another lost opportunity); In "Dragons We Trust," Mildew successfully used his dragon tools to frame the dragons and get them banished from Berk, thus leaving Berk open to an Outcast raid (you can read here). In DOB's "Live and Let Fly," "The Iron Gronkle," "Tunnel Vision," and "Worst in Show," Mildew set a plan to destroy Berk from within by using Whispering Death eggs. And, unintentionally, it brought forth the Screaming Death, which gave a much greater challenge to Berk; and he also then suggested using those tunnels made by the Whispering Deaths to sneak into Berk and do whatever they wanted, and was able to capture Meatlug as a result.

And finally, at the end in the DOB finale episode "Cast Out," he was the inside man which helped Alvin and Hiccup to sneak onto Outcast Island and free Stoick and defeat Dagur. I don't know how he got caught, since I'm sure Savage or the other Outcasts should've told Dagur about him, the Whispering Deaths, and the caves. But they either don't know, or, in Savage's case, perhaps he didn't like Mildew's increasing importance within the Outcast Tribe and didn't want him doing the same thing as a Berserker subordinate. Who knows. But that would actually be interesting. 🤔🤷‍♂️ But all we know is that Mildew was one of the few Outcasts who knew about Alvin's return and helped him defeat Dagur.

In conclusion, Mildew is a resourceful and intelligent individual, despite his acrimonious and recalcitrant complaints. He obviously keeps all that to himself while on Outcast Island, since he could lose his head. Or maybe he just genuinely enjoys not being on Berk. Who knows. 🤷‍♂️

According to School of Dragons game lore — and you guys know how much I avoid game and comic lore to the hilt! — Mildew apparently can't stand that there are too many dragons both on Outcast Island and on Berk, and thus travels to a less-populated island called Icestorm Island. This would, of course, disprove this theory that Mildew became Alvin's chief subordinate, if this is true.

So this is up to you guys on whether you wish to incorporate this part of the game lore into it or not. Personally, I don't. So I'll be ignoring this. That being said, though, it WOULD be like Mildew to try to get away from dragons. But in the show, Mildew looked like he was having a soft spot for the Whispering Deaths and all that, so... I don't know. Make out of that what you will. 🤷‍♂️

And thus, my final candidate is a fanon one of my own concoction:

Fishlegs Ingerman.

I had just posted some posts concerning this (see here and here), but Fishlegs after the "The Return of Thor Bonecrusher" would've been the perfect candidate for Alvin. He saved his (Alvin's) life and is very intelligent and strong as an individual. If Fishlegs decided that Berk wasn't the place for him and yearned to do something more or to continue doing something adventurous, joining the Incasts-nee-Outcasts as Alvin's chief subordinate — even heir — and gaining fame and achievements and honor for himself. Personally, I'm really liking this headcanon-cum-theory. 😁

Of heck, it could even be some random character who we aren't aware of. Or even a child or young man that washed up on shore who Alvin had taken under his wing. The sky's the limit!

So in conclusion, there are several candidates who have the potential of being Alvin's chief subordinate. As to who, I'll leave that up to you. Let me know what you guys think. I'd love to see your thoughts on this.

After this post, there will probably be another 3 or so Alvin or Outcasts-related articles before I dive into the Berserkers or other topics! I'll also try to make sure to post the links on my blog so that they'll be readily available.

Thank you very much for reading! Hope you have a wonderful weekend.

Long Live the Night!

— Noctus Fury

[sedlex]

This guy... 

gotta love him!

[multific]

The Gentle Heart of Rome

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: Geta's wife is overwhelmed by the violence of the Colosseum, but your sensitivity only deepens his love for you.

The sun hung high above the Colosseum, casting golden light across the sand-soaked floor of the arena. The crowd was roaring, nobles and commoners alike standing on their feet as blood stained the earth below.

Gladiators fought with savage precision, swords clashing, screams echoing across the stone walls.

But amidst the chaos and brutality, there was one figure that did not belong.

You.

You sat beside your husband, Emperor Geta, dressed in flowing silks the colour of rosewater, your eyes wide and trembling behind the delicate veil you wore.

The scent of iron was thick in the air, and though Geta sat straight and proud, enjoying every second of the spectacle with his brother Caracalla on the other side, you could barely breathe.

You turned your face, eyes squeezed shut as a scream pierced the air, followed by the sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh.

The crowd cheered louder.

“Love,” Geta leaned in, his voice gentle, though tinged with confusion. “You are not watching.”

You couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry… I thought I could, but-”

Another cry.

Another flash of blood.

You felt your stomach churn.

Geta’s smile faltered. “You are unwell.”

“I can’t… I can’t bear it,” you whispered, voice quivering. “There’s so much blood, and they’re hurting each other."

Caracalla laughed from beside Geta. “She’s soft, brother. Doesn’t have the Roman stomach.”

You flinched, heart pounding.

You didn’t belong here. You never had.

You weren’t a woman of war or vengeance.

You loved flowers and quiet mornings, and Geta’s soft hands when they weren’t calloused by sword hilts.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you murmured. “Forgive me.”

Geta’s expression changed then.

The pride and amusement faded from his face, and something more tender replaced it.

He looked at you, not as a disappointed husband or a stern ruler, but as a man who loved a woman too delicate for this brutal world.

Without another word, he stood.

“Brother?” Caracalla asked, raising a brow.

“I’ve seen enough for today,” Geta said, offering his hand to you.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward him. “But… it’s not over.”

“I don’t care,” he said softly. “Come. Let’s go home.”

You rose with him, unsure, and followed quietly through the stone corridors until the roar of the crowd became a distant hum.

When you were finally alone, back in the quiet of your garden within the palace walls, Geta sat you down gently on the marble bench beneath the olive tree.

He knelt before you, a hand on your knee. “I didn’t know it would upset you like that.”

“I know you love the games,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”

“Disappointment?” he echoed, frowning. “You think your soft heart is something to be ashamed of?”

You looked down. “It’s not fit for an emperor’s wife.”

Geta reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s exactly what I need. Do you think I wish to come home to more blood and fire?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are my peace. My gentleness. My reason not to become like him.”

You knew who he meant, his brother.

Caracalla, who thrived on carnage. Who bathed in it.

“You could have any woman,” you said. “Someone brave. Fierce.”

“I don’t want brave,” he said, lifting your hand to his lips. “I want you. The way you gasp when butterflies land on your fingertips. The way you cry when you read poetry. The way you hate to even see a bird wounded.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the clarity in his voice.

“You keep me from losing myself,” he said. “Don’t you see? If I forget what it means to be gentle… I’ll become a monster.”

You threw your arms around him then, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms came around you instantly, warm and solid, his hands stroking your back with comforting tenderness.

“I love you,” you said against his skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I love you, my gentle Empress.”

Later, as the sun dipped into dusk and the air turned cool, Geta led you through the gardens, your fingers laced in his.

No crowds. No violence.

Just the sound of birds and the rustle of leaves.

And that night, he held you tightly in bed, his breath at your temple.

“I won’t make you go again,” he murmured. “Not ever.”

You smiled into his chest. “Thank you.”

He kissed your hair, pulling you closer. “I’d rather lose the crowd than lose you.”

And from that day on, though he ruled Rome with strength, the people said Geta had grown softer.

They didn’t know the reason was love.

.

[moondustbaby]

Made For This

Blue collar!Rafe x Wife!Reader Smut 18+ mdni

cw: smut, piv, breeding kink, rafe being unhinged about giving his wife a baby lmao. mdni!!

summary: It’s a late night and Rafe’s working you harder than usual — but this time, it’s not just about satisfying each other. Between his filthy words and possessive touch, he’s determined to fill you up in every way, and you’re more than ready to take it. And when it’s all said and done, Rafe’s already thinking about what comes next — because with him, it’s never just about the moment.

⸻

It always started the same way — late nights, tangled sheets, Rafe’s body heavy over yours, his voice rough and low against your ear.

“You’re gonna let me fill you up tonight, aren’t you, baby?” he rasped, dragging the words out, every syllable thick with hunger. His hands were already moving — calloused palms sliding under your thin sleep shirt, thumbs stroking up the sides of your ribcage like he couldn’t get enough of touching you.

You whimpered, hips shifting up into his instinctively. You didn’t even need to answer. You always let him.

“You think I don’t notice, huh?” Rafe’s mouth was everywhere — jaw, throat, the underside of your chin. “You think I don’t see the way you fucking melt when I talk about knocking you up?”

He rocked against you, grinding slow and rough, dragging a needy moan from your chest. His cock was already straining against his boxers, thick and hot against your bare thigh. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet and you were already so wet for him it was embarrassing.

“You’d look so fuckin’ pretty with my baby in you,” he groaned, sliding the thin material of your panties to the side and dragging his fingers through your slick folds, teasing but firm. “Belly all round and heavy… tits all swollen f’me.”

You gasped as two fingers sank inside, curling deep, pulling the most broken little sounds from you. He worked you open slow but deliberate, thumb circling your clit in dizzying patterns. He was talking you through it, every dirty thought spilling straight from his mouth, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart,” he muttered, curling his fingers just right. “Gonna fill this sweet little pussy until it takes. Til you’re mine in every way.”

Your thighs were shaking already, your walls fluttering around his fingers — and when he pulled them out to replace them with the thick, heavy weight of his cock, you whined at the loss. He didn’t make you wait long. Barely a second later, he was lining up, one hand gripping your thigh and shoving it higher so he could slide all the way in with one slow, brutal thrust.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours. “Tight as fuck, baby. Gripping me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You clawed at his back, overwhelmed, filled to the brim and gasping for him. He fucked you slow at first, deep and punishing, like he was trying to carve himself into you. Every roll of his hips hit that spot inside you just right, sending sparks up your spine.

“Let me give it to you,” he grunted, pace picking up, every thrust harder now. “Let me fuck a baby into you, pretty girl.”

You whimpered something that was supposed to be yes, yes, please, Rafe but it barely came out coherent, all your words tangled in desperate little sobs. It didn’t matter. Rafe could feel it. He could feel the way your body was begging for him.

“You’re gonna take every fuckin’ drop,” he panted. “Gonna be dripping with me. Gonna have my baby growin’ in that perfect little body, just like you’re meant to.”

The way he was talking, the filthy, possessive words falling out of him — it was too much. You came with a cry, clenching so tightly around him that Rafe cursed low and savage against your mouth.

“That’s it,” he growled, slamming into you harder, chasing his own release. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

One more deep thrust and he was spilling inside you with a broken, desperate sound, hips jerking as he emptied himself into you, filling you just like he promised. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, forehead still resting against yours like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“You feel that, baby?” he murmured after a minute, voice rough and wrecked. His hand splayed wide over your lower belly, already so possessive, already so sure. “Already starting somethin’ real fuckin’ good in there.”

You were still shivering, legs trembling from how hard he worked you, but you nodded, completely blissed out under him.

Rafe kissed you then, slow and sweet, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth tenderly, a sharp contrast to the roughness he’d just given you.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin. “And I’m gonna love every fuckin’ second of making you mine like this.”

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: not to be dramatic but blue collar!rafe could literally look at me and i’d be pregnant. i had no choice but to write this. shoutout to my brain for cooking up something so unhinged at 2am. if you survive this one, you deserve a medal.

♥️ lani

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Masterlist

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ hell isn't a place, it's a person ]❜

ft. hwang in-ho x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ after the failed rebellion, the frontman takes you for his own┊2.4k words

contains: smut!! dom in-ho & sub reader┊extremely dubious consent due to drugging (via needle, sedative & aphrodisiacs), yandere in-ho, obsessive possessive behaviors, unspecified but obviously legal age gap, guilt & jealousy, receiving oral, unprotected piv, cockwarming, rushed/abrupt ending 

➤ author's note: fuck the ending of squid game and fuck the ending of this fic

now that the revolt had been squashed under his polished shoe like a stubborn roach, he wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about it all. the past few days were meant for him to keep an eye on you and seong gi-hun after you two teamed up to bring an end to the games, but he found himself forming a bond with his teammates that grew stronger as they overcame all of the obstacles thrown their way together. you all made him smile and laugh in ways he had forgotten how to, bringing warmth to his ice-cold heart and making him forget, even if it was just for a moment, the real reason why he was there. despite being the orchestrator of these sadistically savage games, he managed to find his soul that he thought was ripped away from him before, and it made him wonder late at night if there was a possibility of redemption.  

well, obviously, there wasn’t anymore, not when the pastel walls were painted with red and the grounds were littered with the bodies of the rebels who considered him to be their friend. at least they don’t know the truth of his betrayal, no, that’s something he has to carry on his own. the fight was over before it even started with how outnumbered they were, but they certainly made a mess of things before going out with a bang as the automated voice over the speakers called out their numbers when the guards were scanning them with their devices for signs of life.

the only one left alive was you, as per his orders, but you looked dead enough with the blood of your comrades splattered across your face and your entire body stiller than a statue. there was a little barely noticeable mark on your neck, showing where you had been pricked with a sedative after putting up quite a fight. unfortunately, you were no match for the guard who was holding the syringe when it came to wrestling. he’s sure it’s less painful than a bullet to the skull, but you might have preferred to die alongside the others rather than suffer the fate he had in store for you. you look so peaceful when you were knocked out, like you hadn’t just spent the past half-hour fighting for your life, a look he’s never seen before when you’ve been nothing but on edge ever since you got here. 

it’s pretty, and a shame that he’ll never see it again.

by the time you come back to reality, you feel sluggish and stiff, like your limbs were wooden planks that were rotten underwater. everything was hazy, and there was a nonstop ringing in your ears every time you tried to raise your head to examine your surroundings. there was a burning candle somewhere in the background, but you couldn’t pinpoint what the scent was, if it was fruity or floral, or where it was when all of the lights were a dim orange. all you could feel was silk, the expensive kind too: silk pillowcases, silk bedsheets, and a silk dress you don’t remember putting on. the stink of sweat and death that clung to you for the past few days was gone too, replaced with a pleasant vanilla as all the filth was washed off your body, leaving your skin in a soft state. it was all so opulent, like how you used to dream of waking up in the morning surrounded by all the luxuries money could buy and not a single care in the world. it was too bad you felt ill in a way you couldn’t explain, feeling warmth like a fever coursing throughout your veins and a strange ache blooming in your core that confused you.

the need only seemed to intensify with every passing second, and as you turned to your side, all you could do was lazily rub your thighs together. your breathing grew more labored as your hand reached down to the source of the heat, dipping your fingers in as in a poor attempt to soothe it. your movements are uncoordinated as if you had forgotten how to do it, like all of the experience from late nights spent alone or after an underperforming boyfriend was thrown out the window.

you heard the faint sound of a door unlocking and swinging open followed by footsteps, repeating as the door was locked behind them. the person stood at the foot of the bed as ominously as a sleep paralysis demon, tall, dark, and handsome, unsure of what to do about your current situation. not quite unsure though, more like hesitant.

“young-il?”

he hates the way you called out that name, so light and airy, full of trust and relief now that there was someone you recognized. you didn’t even care about the embarrassing state you were in, you were just happy that he was there with you. you had blind faith in him and believed he was a good person, there was no reason for you to believe otherwise. as one of your teammates, he always helped protect you during the games, defended you from a few male players who wanted to pick a fight with you because of rejection, and gave you some of his food to ensure that you never had to go hungry and had the energy to do your best.

it’s not him you were happy to see, it was young-il. you saw the kind older man who cracked jokes you would only laugh at out of pity, not the real him, who you would probably be screeching at and finding a way to attack him despite all of the physical difficulties you needed to overcome. 

is he jealous? what a stupid word for a man of his age and occupation, and a stupid sentiment too— jealous of the stupid alter ego he made up just so that he could fit in more seamlessly. you would never feel anything but pure hatred towards him unless he maintains the facade. he did all of this and kept you alive because he wanted to have something with you, something that wouldn’t be possible outside of the games, but he was foolishly naive to believe that. it was going to haunt the two of you for the rest of your mortal lives, but at least it was going to be spent together, whether you liked it or not.

“young-il,” you called out to him again, breaking him out of his thoughts, “could you please help me?”

you didn’t even know what you were asking from him, if you wanted him to help you figure out what was going on, or if you wanted him to help you alleviate your arousal. although it didn’t really matter what you had intended when you said it, there was only one thing he was willing to help you and it wasn’t the former. 

the mattress sank under him as he joined you on the bed, his movements slow and careful as if he were approaching a wounded wild animal. you looked confused about his clothing, why he was in a pitch black coat rather than the teal tracksuit you were given at the beginning, but didn’t question it since you were also dressed in something other than your usual clothing. his hand reached over to your forehead, measuring the temperature radiating off of your body, before cupping your face with his palm. 

you instinctively nuzzled into his touch, panting softly. the aphrodisiacs he had given you were really starting to kick in the presence of another, making you all pliant and needy for him like he dreamed of having you as, easy to influence however he pleased. “help me, please.”

he didn’t say anything but moved to do as you asked, situating himself between your legs as well as holding you under his arms and his intense gaze that was wandering all over your body, drinking in the sight of you looking up at him with those doe eyes he could drown in and your willingness to submit to him. it’s only because of the drugs affecting your mind, he knows that, but if he ignores that little voice in his head that reminds him that you would never love the real him, he could pretend you do and are admiring him as in-ho rather than young-il.

you kissed him first, pulling him towards you as his lips crashed onto yours, your limbs trapping him in your grasp as your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs around his. you wanted him in such a way that didn’t feel possible, like you would die if you didn’t have him right now to quench that insatiable thirst that was drying up your throat. what an irredeemable monster he is to be getting off to your desperation that he caused, but he would be an even bigger one if he left you to suffer alone.

“please, i need you so bad right now…”

“you need to be patient. i want to take my time with you.”

“no,” your whisper strained to a whine, “i want you now, please—”

his eyes trailed down your torso until they landed on your baby pink panties, an evident wet patch of arousal leaving a sticky, honeyed mess in between your thighs as you spread them a bit wider for him. he could smell the sweetness mixed with the soft vanilla scent from the bath the guards had given you, driving him insane to the point that he could feel himself salivating like a damn dog and losing all restraint as he shoved his face in for a taste.

you let out a mewl when his tongue made contact with your heat, laying flat between the folds with his nose nudging at your delicate clit as your fingers tangled with his dark locks and tugged on them to push him closer. normally, he wouldn’t have allowed you to be so bossy and exert any semblance of control over him. he would have halted all of his movements and tied you up to the bed as a reminder of who was really in charge, but decided against it. it’s not like you would have listened anyway, not when the desire of the flesh was overtaking any ounce of rational thinking you might have had left in that pretty head of yours.

all the while, you called out his name through frivolous cries and moans, the loveliest sounds from the song of the angel, only for you to shatter the illusion by calling out that cursed name instead. young-il, young-il, young-il—

“stop calling me that,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous, his hot breath fanning over your spit-slicked cunt and sending shivers down your spine, both at the sensation and at his tone of voice. you looked at him in confusion, understandably, but you seemed to be more annoyed at the fact that he stopped more than anything.

“okay, okay, i won’t, i won’t call you that,” you rambled, “just please don’t stop, please.”

needy, needy, needy, so good awfully needy and desperate for him to bring you to your peak. it might be one of his favorite sides he’s seen in you so far, before the side of you at complete peace from before, after the side of you displaying fiery rage and determination to help your friends out during the rebellion. now that he’s had his way, he’ll be seeing this every single night, keeping you as a companion for him to spoil and admire, away from your previous fate as a debt-ridden nobody. 

he continued with his ministrations, tongue-fucking your tight little slit and holding you down to prevent you from rocking against his face. there was a mixture of clear fluids starting to trickle down his chin and onto the sheets, but he paid it no mind, focused on nothing but making you climax so that he could finally take you for himself. his cock was rock-hard inside his trousers, oozing at the tip and clinging like cobwebs all over the inner fabric, wanting nothing more than to throw your legs over his shoulders and fuck you until you were leaking with his load. 

you’re quickly reduced to a mess, melting like putty in his hands and falling apart at the seams, head thrown back into the plush pillow and unable to stop yourself from squirming even though his fingers are digging into your sides as a warning. you’ve never felt anything like this before, a pleasure so intense you thought ecstasy would have been a better word to describe it. you chalked it up to his age and experience rather than knowing the extent of his obsession, but it didn’t matter to you what the reason was. all that mattered was that he made you finish, thighs trembling with a loud cry as your cunt gushed all over his lower face. 

he wasted no time in pulling down the waist belt of his slacks, allowing his cock to spring free and lining it up with your entrance. you couldn’t quite see him from this angle as your vision was covered by the black of his suit jacket, but you could certainly feel his size as his fat tip slowly started to bully its way into you. even though you were so soaked, there was still a noticeable stretch that was painful for the first few seconds before dissipating into pure bliss.

your breathing grew even more labored than it was before, letting out little pants as you tried to adjust to his thickness. he was getting impatient now that he’s started, bullying his way into you with shallow thrusts until he finally bottomed out with a groan. this is the closest he’ll ever be to heaven in this life and after, with his length buried in your warmth so deeply that he could feel his outline if he pressed down on your stomach. 

“... let’s stay like this for a bit…” he decided. he wanted to stay inside you like this forever, or at least for the rest of the night, appreciating every inch of you with the heavy head of his cock resting against your sweet spot and your velvety walls twitching around him. you didn’t protest, but you didn’t really have an option to say otherwise anyway, all you could do was fall asleep in his arms, blissfully unaware of what he had in store for you.

[desertdragon]

The saddest thing whenever I visit Forgotten Springs is how uncomfortable you can tell most U Tribe are having their isolation disturbed and their land forcibly opened by outsiders, "put up with their grasping ways" as U'mollpa says, and then in the distance of the skybox is the giant Saucer casino that they don't even see profit from despite it being on their ancestral land

[pseudowho]

"Hey! Nanamin, Mrs.Nanamin?"

You and Kento looked up at Yuuji from your places on the sofa; you, with your cross-stitch and your tongue between your teeth, and Kento looking over his newspaper and reading glasses. Yuuji dried his hands, having washed the final dish.

He grinned, ruffling stray bubbles into the back of his hair, and tapped away on his phone. Kento's phone buzzed, and he picked it up, looking at the screen.

"It's my birthday next week--"

"--dont worry, Yuuji, we know--"

"--and I'm just gonna have a little party in the Jujutsu High forest. Gojo says it's okay, thought you two could come along. I've qjust sent you the deets."

As Yuuji walked off to his room, you looked up at Kento, who read the invitation in increasing confusion, a dismayed little hum rumbling out of his throat.

"What? What is it?" You asked around the needle pinched between your teeth, leaning closer to peer at Kento's phone.

"The party..." Kento hummed.

"...the party...?"

"Apparently it's going to be 'dank'."

"Oh...sounds unsanitary."

Kento hummed again. "Quite. Though perhaps if we bring our best 'rizz', Yuuji thinks the party will be 'bussin'. Even better, if our outfits 'slay', he'll be 'highkey' excited."

You frowned, then scoffed, calling down the hallway.

"Hey, Yuuji? This invitation..."

"Yeah?" He shouted back, "What about it?"

"Have you had a stroke?"

Yuuji laughed, unabashed, and walked out in his pyjamas, grinning. "Nah, for real for real, it'll be great. No cap."

You and Kento looked at Yuuji like he'd grown an extra head. Yuuji laughed again, and got a glass of water before bidding them goodnight, scoffing as he went into his room;

"Millennials."

You and Kento sat in stunned silence in the lamplight. Kento looked at your cross-stitch and fluffy socks. He felt his reading glasses on his head, his newspaper forgotten in his lap, and you seemed to be thinking the same, before asking him in quiet horror:

"Kento...are--are we old?"

Another dismayed hum, from beside you.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The 20th of March arrived; a balmy spring evening. The sun was setting as you and Kento approached the forest at Jujutsu High, seeing the flicker of flames in a great firepit, hearing music and laughter, and clinking glass.

Panda tossed bottles of drink across the floating crowd; Maki and Megumi caught theirs seamlessly, and Nobara fumbled hers to the tune of laughter, her eye patch replacing her depth perception.

The birthday boy bustled around, accepting claps on the back, gifts and well-wishes, his hair turned coral in the dying sun. He looked up as you and Kento approached, looking happier still.

Yuuji softened at Kento's smile, accepting a gift with the promise of 'more at home'. Kento patted Yuuji on the shoulder, looking him up and down.

"Looking good, Yuuji. On fleek."

Yuuji faltered, unsure. "Oh, on...?"

Kento turned to you, only marginally irritated when Gojo joined your group. As the conversation grew between you, Kento and Gojo, Yuuji looked more and more sidelined, eventually fumbling for his phone, his trusty translator.

"Went to talk to the higher-ups today--

"Ugh! Adulting."

"-- legit. Looked over their new hashtag 'Student Protection Policies', and they were so fucking basic--"

You and Kento scoffed as Gojo continued, and Yuuji listened on, flicking through the glossary of his mind.

"--so yeah anyway, cheeky humblebrag, but when they told me I couldn't argue, I told them that they'd die of old age before they got a good policy out. Solid clapback, I feel."

You and Kento scoffed, sipping your drinks, answering; "Savage"-- "Woke up ready to throw shade, huh."

The party went on, and Yuuji found himself overhearing more and more of Kento's conversations. Yuuji had a growing list of words on his phone, and increasingly looked at Kento as if he'd been replaced by another man.

Yuuji looked down at his phone, scrolling through the list; he had no answers. He still had no idea what time 'Leet o'clock' was, he'd been called 'dude' at least seven times, and he had lost a game that he hadn't even known he was participating in.

Kento turned back to Yuuji, smiling again at his disgruntled expression, thanking him; "Party's lit, Yuuji. Having fun?"

As Yuuji opened his mouth to argue, you approached, grinning at Yuuji and looping your arm through Kento's; "You alright kiddo? Looking a bit shook."

"I-- what? I don't--"

Kento leaned in to you, talking lowly in your ear; "Just been schooling this boy on the appropriate vernacular. I like to think I'm winning."

You laughed, delighted. "Weird flex but okay."

You melded back into the party ("Oh my god! Megumi's puppers! C'mere boy, who's a good doggo..."), and Yuuji fizzled at Kento, pugnacious.

"You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

Kento looked at Yuuji with absolute innocence. Yuuji puffed his cheeks out, putting his phone away and stabbing a finger at Kento.

"I'll get you back for this. Just 'cos you two are old."

Kento scoffed again, the barest smirk on his lips. "We're not old. You're just a baby."

"Yeah, yeah, Nanamin. Tell me that again when you stop taking two ibuprofen in the morning 'just in case'."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

A cheeky Millennials and Gen Z love letter, written absolutely tongue-in-cheek

[paintedwritings]

Free Fall

Pairing: Azriel x reader (She/her pronouns)

Word Count: 2.3

Summary: She wanted to fall—just for a moment, just to feel free. Azriel promised he’d catch her. He always does.

Warning/Notes: Nothing too bad, this is just a short little piece I’ve wanted to make for sometime. Warning for falling from a great height, and maybe suggestive language to jumping off a cliff, but nothing outright. Please let me know if I should add anything, thanks for any feedback!

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

The wind whipped savagely around the mountainside. The rushing waterfall sparkled in the sunlight, the water tumbling over the rocks below wildly. A deep, unforgiving cliff lay just ahead. An abyss of clouds and blue skies covers the truth of the dense forest that lays so far beneath.

Y/n’s hands itched to reach out — from so high up, it felt as though she could capture them, the soft white powder weaving between her fingers like one of Azriel’s shadows. A chill nipped at her cheeks, slicing along her skin like a blade, leaving rouge in its wake.

This edge — it feels like freedom. 

She hadn’t realized the thought had shoved its way to his side of the bond. Not until the shadows stirred. Not until his presence tightened from across the mountaintop, sharp and silent. 

She took a step forward, whispers of freedom dancing along her ears. Promises of release. Of falling fast enough to forget. Of him catching her the way he always had.

But, the bond thrummed, boiling in her veins. His worry, buried deep beneath centuries of control, slowly began leaking from his side to hers.

A shadow curled around her wrist. Not forceful. Not dragging. Just there.

His quiet presence interrupted her thoughts, the looming figure behind capturing her attention immediately. His rough hand gripped her arm gently, replacing his shadows. More of them split apart and traveled the length of his arm to reach her, slipping easily from his hands to her leather-clad arm.

"If you fall," his teeth grazed the point of her ear, tongue flicking along the skin, "I will follow." His chest pressed to her back as he moved his other hand to caress her hip, grip keeping her in place.

Her hands were shaking, but it had little to do with where she stood. In fact, with her boots kissing the snow on this mountaintop, it might be the safest place she'd be all night. Now, she was distracted, his hands touching her softly, reverently. His rough, deep voice a lullaby made just for her. 

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, leaning into him, her eyes closing as the wind did its best to tear them apart.

His fingers trailed down the length of her arms, finding their home in her hands, clasping both of them against her stomach, his chin finding purchase on her shoulder. 

“Explain it to me, little star,” 

She sighed, enjoying the view even more now that his arms wrapped around her. Euphoria flooded through her at the use of her nickname, one he’d called her from the very beginning. 

She ignored where the other’s stood just a few paces away. They had come here for training that ended half an hour ago. Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian the only three left other than them. They spoke softly, the wind making it nearly impossible to decipher their words. Y/n couldn’t find it in herself to care, though. She wanted to enjoy the peace this place brought her for as long as she could.

“Sometimes I want to fall,” she spoke low so only he could hear, “but only for a moment—just long enough to feel the loss of control, to let go and be carried by the wind. I want to be weightless… and let gravity carry the burden of our enemies and war. Just for a breath. Just long enough to remember why I– we fight.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, pondering her words carefully, making sure she’s done.

“Then, you should fall.” He finally said, standing to his full height behind her. 

Her eyes flew open as she pivoted around sharply, her heel sliding along the snow seamlessly. Her mind stuttered when she saw him. He always stole the breath from her lungs, held it captive until her body could catch up with her soul.

His dark curls were tousled and crazed from the training, the wind doing little to help. His cheeks were chafed red and she could see cold breaths as they escaped from between his lips, looking like white versions of his little shadows. His golden honeyed eyes were bright and alert as they tracked her movements, a soft gleam in them that belonged to her fully.

He held her close to him, the tips of their boots touching as his nose ran along hers, inhaling her scent as he went.

“I’ll always catch you.” A lethal, pure promise. Pride and determination mixing with his fae heritage. Heat took over both of them as their bond glowed and vibrated between them.

She had been so distracted by her mate that she hadn’t realized the other’s departure, leaving them to their own private moment. Probably for the best, she and Az weren’t exactly known for being prudes, and they held little regard to who witnessed them.

“You trust me?” She asked, placing her toes on his, hooking her arms around his neck, lifting so they were eye to eye. 

His lips quirked at the mischief that now skipped across her face, his shadows chasing the look as if it could lead them to where they belonged.

Instead of answering her, he held her closer, capturing her lips as his hand cupped her cheek delicately. His tongue ran along the seam of her lips, devouring the little noises that escaped her. He kissed her passionately, her fingers finding their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the top and nape. She held him to her like a lifeline, his lips the only thing she could taste, feel. 

Frost and cedar clung to him, tangled with heat, as his teeth caught her bottom lip. She gasped, his tongue taking advantage and tangling with hers, kissing her like he may die if he didn’t. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as his lips trailed from lips to her cheek, her jaw, and down her throat– a trail of saliva left in their wake, the only other evidence of this happening. She hoped his left bruises, that he marked her as his, she wanted everyone to know who she belonged to.

Much too soon, he pulled away, both of them breathing harshly, foreheads brushing as they caught their breaths.

“Take me flying?” She asked softly, her chest pressed deliciously against his, her legs already wrapping around his middle. 

“Of course, little star.” His arm slipped more firmly around her waist, fingers spreading across her hips and back as he pulled her flush to his chest, once more.

“Hold on,” he murmured, breath brushing the shell of her ear.

And then he dropped off the ledge—just like that. Wings slicing through the sky, his shadows trailing like smoke.

Her voice echoed in the open, a mix between a laugh and a scream escaping her, and he felt it against him. He felt it deep in his bones. A small smile flashing along his face.

He flew a little faster.

His dive quickly settled and he began to rise higher and higher. They passed where they had just been standing, going as high as he could take her. His beautiful expanse of wings spread wide into the sky above. Soft pink hews glowing in the soft golden rays. 

The view stole her breath, the magic of flying making her ache for her own wings. She loved being in his arms, traveling the sky and stars with him, but sometimes she wished she could fly alongside him. She wanted to experience flying in the same way he and his brother’s did. She imagined that it tasted like freedom in its own way.

When he finally came to a stop, his wings flapping in the wind as they held them deep within the sky, he gave her a look—one that made her breath catch far more than the thought of open air beneath her feet. The kind of look she couldn’t hold for too long without unraveling, without completely surrendering herself to him.

The world narrowed to the warm strength of his hands on her, his body steady and secure, the hush of shadows curling around them like a shield.

“Az?” she asked, voice small against the wind, her lips pressing to his where her head lay buried near his neck.

“Mhm?”

“Did you mean it when you said you’d catch me?”

Without hesitation, “Always.”

“Drop me, then.” She pleaded…

She watched as his eyes widened comically, his wings faltering just long enough for them to tumble for a moment. His grip tightening around them, steady before she could even make a noise. 

She smiled widely as they righted themselves, meeting his frantic gaze with light. A giggle escaping in place of a scream, his eyes locking onto her face. 

“Did you hit that magnificent head of yours during training?” He asked, his hand tightening around her as if he could glue her to him. She did her best to hide her smile in his neck, but he would have none of it, one of his hands cupping the back of her neck, keeping her eyes in line with his. 

“Come on, Az. You said so yourself, you’d never let me hit the ground.”

He visibly cringed at the image, rage and sorrow briefly fighting for room on his face before his usual stoicism took control. “If you ever fell accidentally. I’m not exactly looking to tempt fate by dropping you on purpose, Y/n.”

“What if you never had to stop holding me?” 

He laughed, then. A quick shake of his curls before his wings fluttered angelically, a map of veins and power shimmering in the glow. Gods, she loved when Az let her touch them, she could get lost in all the ways she brought him to the brink with just soft touches and gentle caresses. She watched, mesmerized as they snapped in.

“You’re not going to let up are you?” He asked, adoration in his tone, he stared at her like she alone lit the night sky in moonlight. 

“I trust you, mate.” She tugged on his nape, lips catching his as a growl came from him. His lips still attached to hers as he pressed into her, letting his wings relax completely. She could have sworn she heard his shadows murmur…

hold on tight

don’t let go

safe, safe, safe

And then the wind chased after her and Azriel as they fell. Her stomach dipped violently at the sudden shift in gravity. The drop stealing her breath and skyrocketing her pulse, adrenaline rushing through her blood. 

Falling.

And, falling.

Free.

The world disappeared.

There was no ground. No sky. Just the wind — roaring past her ears, cold and relentless — her heart beating as if learning how to for the first time. His arms were steady around her, providing a warmth to her chilled bones. Electricity traveled through her body everywhere his skin touched hers.

And gods, it released her.

Her stomach dipped once more, but not in panic — it was like shedding something heavy. Like every worry, every burden she hadn’t realized she carried, had been peeled away and left behind in their dust.

 She was weightless, and the sky was endless, and for the first time ever…

She wasn’t holding on to anything but that warmth.

She was held captive by nothing.

And it was beautiful.

The wind tore his name from her lips in a laugh that felt like lightning. For a moment, they were nothing but heart and air and the thrill of absolute surrender.

And then the treeline came into sight, still far enough away that her fae sight could pick it up as though the trees were pieces to a child’s toy. 

Azriel’s wings flared, catching the wind like sails made of shadow and starlight, slowing their descent with practiced grace. The roar of the sky faded to a hush, the wild rush of air surrendering to silence. The snow-laced forest floor rose gently to meet them — not a crash, not a stumble, but a kiss-soft landing that only someone like Azriel could manage with a full-grown Fae in his arms.

His boots crunched into the frost-covered field, the impact so steady it felt like the mountain itself exhaled in relief.

She didn’t even realize she was shaking until they stopped moving.

Her face was tucked into his neck, breathing him in — frost and cedar and something ancient that always smelled like coming home. His grip eased slightly, arms loosening just enough to let her slide down his body, her feet brushing against the ground with a whisper. But he didn’t let her go. Not really.

One of his hands rose to the small of her back, the other curling protectively at her nape, thumb stroking along the line of her neck like he needed to reassure himself she was still here. Still breathing. Still his.

Their foreheads met as if drawn by that shared thread, breath mingling in the cold air, their chests rising and falling in uneven sync. The wind had quieted, but its ghost still tugged at her limbs, at her bones. Azriel reached up and smoothed a few wild strands of her hair away, his gloved knuckles brushing her temple with the kind of reverence one might reserve for holy things.

He kissed her then — not like before, not heat and hunger — but soft, grounding. A press of lips that said, You're safe. I'm here. I’ve you.

Then another, to her wind-chapped cheek.

Another, to the top of her hand.

And one more to the bend of each finger, like he was thanking every part of her for letting go.

She clutched the front of his leathers, not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want to float away. She stood steady once more, but the feeling of flying — of falling — hadn’t left her bones yet.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, more to himself than to her, forehead still resting against hers.

Her smile was breathless, her lips brushing his. “Hold on tighter next time.”

His answering kiss was a promise, slow and deep, as the shadows curled around them in a quiet cocoon, sheltering them from the rest of the world.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

MY GIRL, MY GIRL. ( HOTD x READER )

AUTHOR NOTE! I'm still figuring out how to write him as I mostly do Aegon ( cuz he's highly requested and a part of my fanfic ) <3 pairing: Lord Cregan Stark x Lady Blackwood! Reader prompt : based off kinda enemies to lovers vibe, and angst. word count: 1, 000+ words I owe a million flowers to @swordgrace and @venusbyline for helping me characterize / understanding how to write Cregan with their amazing writing!

Mayhaps, it was a Northern trait for Cregan to be the way he was. He was a gruff man, loyal to his core, towering over you by a solid foot⎯you swore he was part giant⎯and emotions so cold that it was hard to read. You had thought he was smitten, or at least appeared to be smitten in his own Stark way, with your older sister Alysanne Blackwood. He showed the signs for it. 

He certainly had more banter with her than you, witty comebacks and light-hearted insults⎯the kind of things that no Lord would let any Lady say without some form of punishment. His eyes always flickered to her first when he entered a room, like she was the only person that mattered to him. He smiled, a rare thing, with her. Hells, he offered his hand whenever she needed to enter a carriage. He treated her a whole lot better than he did with you.

He was cold with you, grunts and short one word answers. He never looked at you, not unless it was absolutely needed. He always had an icy look on his face, almost as if being around you made him upset. He never offered to help you, not even a polite hand when you needed to enter a carriage. It appeared as if you were the bane of his existence. 

It was a surprise when he gruffly asked for your maidenhead, his odd, or mayhaps just the blunt Northern way, of asking to Court you. Of course, you had slapped him across the face at such a crude attempt of courting. Embarrassed that he would dare to say such a thing in Court, surrounded by your fellow nobles, who found Northern customs scandalous.

Not to mention, a tiny part of you was hurt that he would dare ask to Court you after his previous rude treatment towards you. You would not be a second choice. Nor the replacement for your sister. You wanted a man to want you for you, not because you just ‘happened to be there’. Cregan Stark would have to work for your hand, if he truly wished to have if because he wanted it⎯not because he couldn’t have your sister.

Glaring him down from where you stand, the palm of your hand still tingles from the force of your hand connecting with his cheek, your face flushing a soft pink from embarrassment. How dare he say such a thing, to you, in public nonetheless. Could he have not waited until they were out of Court, or preferably alone with not a soul around?

The bright red handprint glows on his pale cheek, the contrast bright and violent with the look on your face. It made your gut churn, from shame at striking him, and anger for being pushed into it. They would surely gossip of this, the Wolf of the North struck in the face by Lady ( Y/N ) Blackwood after he asked for her maidenhead.

“I am not some breeding mare.” You snap, face burning a brighter red.

“Aye,” He grins cheekily, “You’re a Lady.”

“Exactly, I am one, and I demand to be treated as one. A proper one. Not like the way you savages do in the North.” You argue, attempting to defend your honor in front of the honor lookers.

“Where I come from, a simple ‘no’  would suffice.” He narrows his eyes, the cheeky grin on his lips curling into a scowl.

“Where you come from, people bathe in the river and use pine cones for coin.” You snap back, earning a booming noise from him. 

Flinching at the booming sound, it wasn’t quite a curse of anger, nor a growl. It was almost like a laugh? Was he laughing? Or attempting to laugh? Furrowing your brows in confusion at the strange noises coming from him, his chest racks up and down like he was laughing. But, his face was curled into a hard to interpret look. It was not quiet amusement, nor anger, nor anything really. He was odd, made more of ice than man. 

“What in the seven hells is that?" You blubber, taken aback by his odd laughter.

“You are bold." He chuckles, a grin spreading on his lips.

“And you are mad,” You shake your head, “Especially after saying such a thing to me."

"I asked for your maidenhead." He states bluntly, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"Yes, and you're mad if you think this is how you ask a Lady to Court you." You scoff, "I do not understand how you may do things in the North, but here in the South, we do not⎯"

"You are prude's, hiding behind poetry and longing looks. If you want a woman, you say so, not linger around when another can take her."

True, to a point. But, there was something rather sweet of a man taking the time to spout out sweet poetry, gifting roses, longing for your hand, or doing romantic gestures just to appease you. You had seen men do the same for other Ladies of the Court, and were a tad bit envious of it. That was what you sought out, craved for, pleaded for in a man to do to court you just as any other Lady would. Not grunts, glares, and rude behavior. 

Hells, those were the type of antics that would make your older sister, Alysanne, throw her small clothes in lust. She always fancied a more gruff, brooding man compared to you. You had imagined her marrying a Stark, or a Greyjoy. While you settled for a Tyrell or Arryn, a gentler man. Cregan Stark would have better luck courting her than with you. They were alike, in mind and behavior. They’d make the perfect couple. 

"And you think that I want you? That I would accept it, accept your, after everything you have said and done to me?" You argue, shaking your head with a scoff.

“I was courting you.” He states, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“That is courting to you? Treating me poorly?” You scoff, “Hells, you may as well stab me and call that courting.”

“And if I did, would you accept?” He asks, making your face flush.

“No!” You snap, voice raising.

Seven hells and heavens above, it was like talking to a stone wall. No, it was worse than talking to a stone wall. At least, with a stone wall would listen to what you were saying. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you force yourself to take a deep breath in, hands curling into fists at your side.

Opening your eyes, you clench your jaw tightly, cheeks flushed a bright pink from anger. You wished to strangle him, to shove his head in the snow until his face was blue. Mayhaps, then he would understand just what you were trying to say. Though, he’d probably see it as you flirting back with him considering how brutish Northern customs seemed to be. 

“Were you dropped on your head as a babe?” You huff annoyed, “What makes you think that this is the way to Court a Lady?”

“My Father did the same with my mother.” He narrows his eyes, offended by your words.

“Yes, mayhaps, half a century ago and with more charm than you.” You snap back, unable to stop the comment from slipping your tongue. 

“Watch your tongue.” He warns, his voice hardening.

“Or what?” You challenge, narrowing your eyes.

Staring you down with a cold face, you refuse to cower back from the argument, stubbornness keeping you firm in place. Puffing up his chest as he holds himself back, he leans down to your face, lips curled up into a thin line. Chewing on your bottom lip out of habit, you could feel his hot breath fanning your face, his gaze picking apart your features. He was infuriating. Handsome, but infuriating. Mayhaps, it would be better if he kept his mouth shut and stood there looking pretty.

“You are rejecting me?” He asks, his brows furrowing together.

“No,” You argue,“I would consider it, should you court me differently.”

“I am not reciting poetry.” He states without hesitation.

“I never said poetry, gods.” You roll your eyes, “Court me like other men do. Is it truly below you to attempt to send me letters, give me roses, or ride with me on horseback?”

“No.” 

“Then, be a man and properly court me.” You argue, standing up on your tippy toes to get in his face.

He stills, not saying a word. Narrowing your eyes at him, you slowly lower yourself back to the heels of your feet, tilting your head up to keep him in your gaze. It looks as if he understands, finally cowering away from you and the argument. Had you won? Relaxing at his silences, you open your mouth before closing it, choosing to let the silence end the argument. But, then a slow smile spreads on his lips. His grey eyes twinkling brightly..with joy? 

“You’re demanding.” He smirks, his voice dripping with amusement. 

“And you're too gruff.” You snip back, without hesitation.

“I like that.” He whips back, tilting his head to the side. 

“Good, because this is how I am and this is how I will be each time you fail to use good manners.” You counter back, “Understand?”

“Very.” He nods.

"Good, now go get me a rose." You huff, turning your back to him.

"Tis' winter, there are none."

"Then, find a way to get one." You argue, narrowing your eyes unimpressed.

---

this is a one and done kind of fic, cause i am trying to figure out how to write him, so enjoy it while i learn / grow! o

[windybluebelles]

I’ve seen quite a few things that are like ‘oooo Crime Alley hated the new Robin (Tim) after Jason dies mememe’

And I just- cannot imagine that that’s true.

Like yeah, they’d definitely be upset that Jason (one of their own, a lucky one, one that got away) ended up dead and ‘replaced’ but also, Tim was a kid?

Crime Alley isn’t full of savages, it’s full of kind people in really shitty circumstances who had just watched Batman nearly kill a lot of people for months. Surely they would be terrified for the poor boy?

Yes, crime alley wants Robin gone. Not because he is a ‘Prissy little rich kid’ or something pretentious like that, but because he’s a little kid.

I want a fic where it’s common knowledge that the Red Hood hates Robin and the people of crime alley start shitting on him for it

[mesetacadre]

(sorry in advance for the more personal ask, you're the most intelligent person i know of when it comes to these things)

genuinely, how are we supposed to find the strength to go on? it feels like capitalism has won. only a few decades ago my country was openly and proudly socialist, and now we're nothing but an american military base with an economy. everything's been privatised, the unions are broken, the people are starving, and we keep voting for more of this! people are gleefully begging for yet more exploitation! sometimes it feels there's not a drop of class consciousness to be found in the entire country, and that it's pointless to even hope for change. how can i stay sane?

The class struggle is not a team sport which either side can win or lose. It is a historical and economic process, one that's inevitable. As long as capitalism exists, there will be a social majority of workers it must exploit, alienation will still happen, and a portion of these workers will be aware of this fact. The class struggle is also a long process, one that, most of the time, is imperceptible to the individual in physical and time scale. Only sometimes, it accelerates to dizzying speeds and the conditions necessary for taking power are met. We can talk about victories and defeats, but we can't lose sight of the fact that those "only" are points in time, momentaneous advances or retreats in the process that is the class struggle, but they never mean the paralization of this process.

We can only really talk about the bourgeoisie taking power and creating the first properly capitalist states in the late 18th century and early 19th, but the bourgeoisie had lead or taken part in attempts at or glimpes of revolution as far back as the early 16th century. The bourgeoisie never really had an unifying theory of the class struggle, most were never really fully conscious of it. But they still eventually took power, once the development of the national economies advanced so far that it forced the replacement of the feudal mode of production, the bourgeois revolutions became inevitable. Marx and Engels only ever saw one real attempt at the proletariat taking power, in the Paris Commune of 1871, but it only ever lasted a few months. They both were long dead when the first actually (relatively) long-lasting instance of the proletariat in power broke the oppressor classes' veneer of invincibility.

When Marxists talk of inevitability it is not in a conspiratorial manner, or an expression of satisfied optimism, we never mean that "one day the capitalists will get what's coming to them", in a vague way. We mean that, only if communists continue to work towards the revolutionary organization of our class, is a complete overthrow of capitalism inevitable. We should all do an exercise is historical perspective when it comes to analyzing progress, take the Marx and Engels example from the previous paragraph, they never got to see an effective application of their theories. Class consciousness will fluctuate continuously, it always has. The bolshevik party in 1913 had nothing to do with the party that lead the October Revolution, and 8 years after the defeat of the 1905 revolution, I bet many felt like their work was hopeless. My point is that, while the borders of the Communist Party may shrink, grow, or even disappear, and while we might be savagely oppressed, no system of oppression has ever lasted forever.

When it comes to revolutions, there are objective and subjective conditions. The objective we can never control; it's the stability of capitalism, the characteristics of its suprastructure, if there is a crisis or not. The subjective is what's under our control; our own work as communists, the state of the revolutionary party, the degree of influence of communists at the core of the working class. These two sets of conditions interact with one another, with the objective conditions influencing the possibility of development of the subjective conditions much more than the reverse. What makes you hopeless is in part the objective conditions. Capitalism is quite stable right now (though not as much as it ever seems), and, for now, we can't do much about it, because the subjective conditions, the other part of your homelessness, are also very delayed. But these we do have control over, at first very little, but as they improve, the control we have over them also increases. Essentially, friend, all we can do is prepare our class, do our best to gain more workers to our cause, bit by bit, so that once capitalism shows one of its cracks, we can be ready to pry those cracks open and bust the whole system. The Russian soldiers in WW1 were already discontent when the bolsheviks began to agitate up to the trenches, Mao's guerrillas grew to an army taking advantage of the deep fragmentation China suffered throughout the first half of the century, etc.

Once again, class struggle is not a straight line that we move in two directions. It is a complex space. The overthrow of the USSR was a very profound blow to revolutionary organizations all around the world, of course, but the state of communism in general in 1995 was still in a much better position than it was merely 90 years prior. Every defeat also sharpens the tactics and strategies we use. Eastern Europe (where I assume you're from) did use to be socialist, and those worker's states were overthrown. But you are still in a better position than a communist in the interwar period, facing borderline fascistic dictatorship and a future of Nazi-Fascist occupation. They did not have any precedent or much practical experience to learn from, but you do. Every day that we delay work, even in the most hopeless of contexts, is a day more that our grandchildren will have to bear in capitalism, and a day more they're deprived of true freedom and self-government

[brunchable]

This is Your Boyfriend Mom? [3]

Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Our savage wittle boi Lucas x f!Reader.

Summary: It's Lucas' 7th Birthday and Bucky finally meets the Dad from Finance. Bucky also FINALLY got a haircut lmfao.

A/N: I will just keep posting Step-Dad Bucky content, this doesn't really have set plot, just cute and funny moments while Bucky navigates how to be a Dad.

The Night Before the Party

You were busy setting up the last of the birthday decorations when you heard the front door open. You didn’t think much of it at first, but then Lucas came sprinting into the living room, eyes wide, looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Mom!” he shouted, excitement and shock mixed in his voice. “Bucky’s back, and... uh, something’s wrong with him!”

You raised an eyebrow, turning toward the door just as Bucky strolled in, a smirk playing on his lips. You froze, your hands still holding the banner you were about to hang up.

Bucky had chopped his hair. Gone were the long, unruly locks he’d been hiding behind for months, replaced by a clean, short trim that made him look—well, if you were being honest—like he’d just walked off the set of a cologne commercial. Looking absolutely handsome.

“Wow, look at you. All... polished.” You blinked, trying to suppress a grin.

Before Bucky could respond, Lucas crossed his arms, pacing around him like a tiny detective on the case. “So, Mr. Metal Mop finally decided to join the human race, huh?”

“Really, Lucas?” Bucky sighed.

“Oh yeah. You’re like a whole new person,” Lucas continued, squinting at him. “Seriously, who are you, and what have you done with the walking disaster that usually lives here?”

You let out a snort of laughter as Bucky’s jaw twitched. “It’s just a haircut, kid.”

Lucas tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he pointed dramatically at Bucky’s head. “This? This is not just a haircut. This is a ‘I’m about to show everyone I’m the coolest guy at this party’ haircut.”

“What? No, it’s not! I’m not trying to show off.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow, smirking like a seasoned detective who’d just cracked the case wide open. “Oh really? ‘Cause you didn’t care about looking like a caveman until now, right before my party. Coincidence? I think not.”

“I just felt like a change, alright? This has nothing to do with the party. I’m not trying to outshine anyone.” Bucky crossed his arms, standing taller, trying to play it cool.

Lucas grinned wider. “Uh-huh. Sure. So, you just happened to get a haircut right before a big event? Not competitive at all?”

Bucky groaned, clearly trying to keep his cool. “I’m not trying to compete with anybody. I just thought I’d make things... easier for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right. Easier. You know, if you wanted to look good for once, you could’ve just said so.” Lucas snorted, shaking his head.

Bucky’s jaw twitched as he quickly looked to you for backup, but you were too busy laughing to jump in.

Lucas leaned in dramatically, whispering, “You can relax, Bucky. We all know Mom doesn’t love you for your looks.”

You burst out laughing, clutching your sides as Bucky stared at Lucas, half-amused, half-offended.

“I’m not—,” Bucky started, running his hand over his hair again. “It’s just a haircut!”

“Oh, sure,” Lucas said, stepping closer, his face serious but his eyes full of mischief. “So it has nothing to do with the fact that Patrick’s gonna be here tomorrow? You’re not trying to look cooler than him? You know he works out, right?”

Bucky frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Patrick works out?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yup. I heard him mention it once. But hey, at least now you look like you can keep up.”

“Please. I don’t need a haircut to keep up with your Dad.” Bucky crossed his arms and scoffed.

Lucas smirked, still circling him. “Mmhmm. That’s why you’re all cleaned up—so you can make sure nobody at the party outshines you.”

You were practically doubled over at this point, tears streaming down your face from laughter.

“I’m not competing with anybody!” Bucky insisted, throwing his hands up.

“Right, because getting a ‘too cool for school’ haircut right before the party is totally not competitive.” Lucas grinned wider, seeing that he had Bucky cornered.

Bucky clenched his jaw, still trying to hold his ground. “This is a tactical haircut. Streamlined. It’s practical.”

Lucas grinned, clearly not buying it. “Oh, tactical, huh? Right. Is that what you’re gonna tell everyone tomorrow? ‘Hey, check out my tactical haircut. You like?’”

Bucky chuckles and points at Lucas, “Okay, that’s it. You’re done.”

Without warning, he lunged forward, scooping Lucas up and flipping him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Lucas squealed, laughing uncontrollably. “Bucky! Put me down!”

“Oh no,” Bucky said, shaking his head as he carried Lucas toward the couch. “You’re gonna sit here and think about your life choices.”

Lucas, still flailing and laughing, managed to gasp, “At least I didn’t need a haircut to look cool!”

Bucky plopped him down onto the couch, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re gonna pay for this tomorrow, kid. You just wait.”

Lucas grinned up at him, still breathless from laughing. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, give me a tactical timeout?”

“Unbelievable. You’re supposed to be on my side here.” Bucky glanced at you, exasperated but unable to hide his smile.

You finally managed to calm down enough to speak. “Oh no, I’m staying out of this. Lucas is absolutely right.”

Lucas beamed with pride as he gave you a thumbs-up. “See? Mom knows what’s up.”

Bucky groaned again, dropping down onto the couch beside Lucas. “Alright, fine. Have your fun tonight. Tomorrow, though, I’m stealing all your cake.”

Lucas gasped, feigning horror. “Not the cake!”

Bucky grinned, leaning back. “Oh yeah. Tactical move.”

× × × ×

The birthday party was in full swing, with kids running around, balloons everywhere, and Lucas at the center of it all. You were watching from a distance, laughing softly as Bucky awkwardly navigated the chaos. He was holding a cupcake in one hand, clearly out of his element, but smiling nonetheless. Everything was going smoothly.

The Avengers were scattered around, trying their best to blend in. Clint was at the snack table, sampling every kind of chip he could get his hands on. Tony was in full I’ve-paid-for-everything-here mode, handing out goodie bags like they were shares in Stark Industries. Nat and Steve were casually watching the kids play, exchanging side glances, while Sam was trying (and failing) to explain some complex game rules to a group of seven-year-olds.

Everything seemed perfect.

Until he arrived.

“Uh, hey,” Bucky muttered to you, nodding toward the door. “That’s, uh… him, right?”

You turned to see Lucas’ dad, Patrick, making his way into the party, looking a bit too put-together for a kids’ birthday—pressed suit, perfectly styled hair, and an aura of someone who had just closed a very important deal five minutes before arriving.

“Yep. That’s Patrick,” you said, trying not to laugh at the grimace on Bucky’s face.

Patrick spotted Lucas and waved. “Hey, buddy! Happy Birthday!” He strode over confidently, handing Lucas a brightly wrapped present.

Lucas opened it, pulling out a brand-new Nintendo Switch. He looked up at his dad and gave a polite smile. “Uh, thanks, Patrick.”

Bucky, still watching from a few feet away, cocked his head. “Why’s he callin’ him Patrick?”

You shrugged, whispering, “Lucas just started calling him that on his own. I think it confuses him.”

Patrick glanced over, finally noticing you and Bucky standing there. He smiled—though it was more of a tight-lipped one—and made his way over, extending his hand to Bucky.

“Hi, I’m Patrick. Lucas’ father,” he said, with an air of someone who’s used to introductions being brief and businesslike.

Bucky hesitated for half a second, staring at Patrick’s perfectly manicured hand like it might explode. Then he awkwardly wiped his own hand on his jeans before shaking it.

“Bucky. You know, the boyfriend.”

The words hung in the air like an awkward mist. Patrick’s smile twitched. “Ah, yes. The… boyfriend. Great to meet you.”

They stood there, shaking hands for what felt like five or ten seconds too long, neither one letting go, each one’s grip tightening ever so slightly. You watched from the side, holding back a laugh as the tension built.

Finally, Patrick cleared his throat and let go. “So, uh, how’s the party going?”

Bucky shrugged. “Good. You know, kids. Loud. Messy. Chaos.”

Patrick nodded, chuckling awkwardly. “Ah, yeah. Well, you know, in finance, things are a bit more... orderly.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Finance, huh? That sounds... fun.”

Patrick straightened his posture, clearly missing the sarcasm. “Oh, it’s very rewarding. Numbers, investments... making sure the market flows smoothly.”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, I bet. I usually just stop markets by throwing people out windows.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Patrick stared at Bucky, unsure if that was a joke or a confession.

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “So, how about that gift?” you asked, trying to change the subject. “Lucas, do you like it?”

Lucas, who had wandered over to Bucky’s side, gave a polite nod. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

Patrick smiled, clearly not noticing how forced Lucas’s enthusiasm was. “Glad you like it, buddy.”

As Patrick turned to talk to one of the other parents, Bucky crouched down next to Lucas and whispered, “Hey, what’s up, buddy? You don’t seem that excited.”

Lucas looked up at Bucky and sighed. “I already have a Switch. He bought me one for my 6th birthday. He just… forgot.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows, glancing between Lucas and Patrick, who was fidgeting with his phone. “Ah. I see.”

Patrick, overhearing, laughed nervously. “Well, uh, you can never have too many Switches, right?”

Bucky stood up, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Yeah. Or, you know, you could... I dunno, maybe remember what you got your kid for his birthday last year.”

Patrick blinked, clearly not sure whether Bucky was joking or not. “Well, you know, with finance and all... numbers just blur together sometimes. I have a lot on my plate.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Right. Numbers blur. Must be hard to forget when you’re counting millions.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

Patrick chuckled, but it was the kind of chuckle people do when they’re uncomfortable. “Yeah, well… finance life.”

Bucky gave him a pointed look. “Yeah, but I bet remembering your kid’s birthday gifts doesn’t really blur with anything, does it?”

Patrick looked away, clearly flustered, mumbling something about "busyness" as he shifted awkwardly in his suit.

From the other side of the party, you could see Clint and Tony watching the exchange with amusement, whispering something to each other while Steve shook his head at the spectacle. Nat gave a sly smile in your direction, clearly picking up on the tension, while Sam made a “yikes” face, pretending to zip his lips as if to say, Yup, this is awkward.

You couldn’t hold it in any longer, and you let out a snort of laughter, patting Bucky on the arm. “Well, Lucas, now you can... switch between your Switches?”

Lucas looked up, a confused smile on his face, while Bucky chuckled softly under his breath. Patrick, however, just stood there, looking like he wished the earth would swallow him whole.

Patrick, cleared his throat and forced a smile. “So, Bucky, what did you get Lucas for his birthday?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, glancing at you for a second before smirking. “Oh, I didn’t go the ‘two-of-the-same-gift’ route,” he teased, earning a snicker from you.

Patrick’s forced smile faltered slightly, but he maintained his composure. “Right, but I’m sure you got him something nice.”

Bucky gave a nod, gesturing toward the corner of the room. “Got him a custom-built bow and arrow set.” He paused for effect. “You know, something a little more memorable.”

Patrick blinked, clearly caught off guard. “A… bow and arrow? For a seven-year-old?”

Bucky crossed his arms, still smirking. “Hey, I’ve got a friend who’s pretty good with those. Thought it might be a good skill to have. Besides, Lucas loved it.”

Patrick glanced over at Lucas, who was currently showing the bow set to Clint, who was eagerly demonstrating how to hold it properly. Lucas was grinning from ear to ear.

Patrick, trying to recover, chuckled awkwardly. “Well, I’m sure the Nintendo Switch will still get plenty of use.”

Bucky leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough so only Patrick could hear, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know, if Lucas forgets he already has one.”

Patrick's smile tightened again as he awkwardly laughed, clearly regretting asking.

From the sidelines, you could see Tony and Sam observing the whole interaction with raised eyebrows. Tony leaned over to Sam, whispering, 

“I’m giving this five minutes before Finance Dad taps out.” 

Sam grinned, nodding in agreement.

× × × ×

The birthday cake was finally brought out, candles lit, and the room filled with the excited chatter of kids and adults alike. Lucas stood proudly at the center, his face glowing in the soft flicker of the seven candles. Everyone gathered around the table, cheering him on.

"Alright, everyone!" you called out, smiling down at Lucas. "On three! One… two… three! Make a wish, Lucas!"

Lucas squeezed his eyes shut and puffed out his cheeks before blowing out all seven candles in one swift breath. The room erupted into cheers, and you bent down to kiss the top of his head.

Just as the cheers started to die down, someone in the crowd—most likely Tony—yelled out, “Time for a family picture!”

The laughter and chatter quieted as you, Lucas, and Bucky moved toward the cake, ready for the photo. But, just as Bucky stepped up beside Lucas, Patrick appeared at the other side, standing just as close.

Both Bucky and Patrick froze, their eyes locking in an awkward stand-off. Neither moved, both unsure of what the protocol was in this moment. Patrick chuckled nervously, shifting on his feet.

“So… family picture, huh?” Patrick said with an awkward smile, trying to ease the tension.

“Yeah. Family picture,” Bucky replied, his tone flat, clearly unimpressed.

The two men stood on either side of Lucas, staring at each other, neither willing to give up the spot closest to the boy. Lucas, meanwhile, was too focused on choosing the biggest slice of cake to notice the tension brewing between the two.

Clint, who had been quietly observing the whole thing from the side, leaned over to Natasha and whispered, just loud enough to be heard by others, “Looks like someone's gotta blink first.”

Natasha smirked but said nothing, her eyes fixed on the scene in front of her.

Sensing the growing awkwardness, you tried to step in. “Um, you know what, why don’t we take a couple of pictures? That way, everyone gets in,” you suggested, hoping to break the standoff.

But neither Bucky nor Patrick moved. Instead, they both shuffled even closer to Lucas, determined to be the one standing right beside him. Patrick forced a smile, trying to mask his discomfort.

“Well, I mean... I’m his dad, so...” Patrick began, his voice light but strained.

“And I’m here every day,” Bucky shot back, his voice deadpan, arms crossing as if he was daring Patrick to push further.

They stared at each other, tension hanging in the air, both waiting for the other to step back. By now, the Avengers had all noticed. From the other side of the room, Tony leaned over to Sam, his voice a stage whisper that was impossible to miss.

“Who’s taking bets? This is about to get good,” Tony said, grinning.

Sam chuckled. “Ten bucks on Bucky. He’s got that murder stare locked and loaded.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping forward before things got any more awkward. 

“Alright,” you said, laying down the final word. “Bucky, you can be in this one. Patrick, you’ll be in the next one.”

Both men blinked in surprise, caught off guard by your no-nonsense tone. Bucky gave a small, smug smile and slipped into place beside Lucas, casually throwing his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Patrick nodded stiffly, his smile tight and forced. “Sounds fair.”

“Great,” Tony clapped his hands dramatically, clearly reveling in the tension. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road. Everyone say ‘awkward’!”

The camera flashed, capturing the moment, Bucky’s subtle triumphant grin beside Lucas, while Patrick stood to the side, looking like he was mentally calculating how soon he could make a polite exit.

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

Idea for an animated kid's movie/comedy.

So there's this dinosaur park that's a thinly veiled Jurassic Park knock-off (call it Cretaceous Island), and it's a bit of a toy story situation, in that the dinosaurs can talk and communicate when the humans aren't looking, mostly at night.

The dinos don't really want to break out since they like their cushy zoo lives and five-star treatment from the staff, so they're willing to get oggled by a bunch of twelve year olds to keep the food coming.

Out main characters are a T-Rex, two raptor sisters, and a wise old triceratops. The raptors are bored with their lives and long for adventure, the triceratops is a wise-old mentor figure, and the T-Rex is lonely since the park won't engineer any other T-Rex's for safety reasons.

Through magical shenanigans they get sent back to the actual Cretaceous period.

Now these pampered genetically engineered dinos have to survive in the savage dinosaur era. To underscore the differences between them, the future dinos are animated as pretty standard cartoon dinosaurs, a la Land Before Time, while the dinosaurs from the past are animated to be as scientifically accurate as possible.

The dinos go through shenanigans, amke friends in the past, evade predators, and eventually make their way home through magic portal stuff, except for the T-Rex who elects to stay behind since he's fallen for a female T-Rex he met in the past. His friends are sad to leave him behind, but go to the present anyway.

Back in the present, the dinos think nothing has really changed, but they find that the exhibit in the visitor's center, previously a single roaring T-Rex skeleton, has been replaced with two T-Rex's, famous for being found fossilized together called "The Deadly Lovers", and its their friend and the mate he found in the past. It ends on the bittersweet note.

[inkieun]

Hide & Seek — Minhwan Ma x F!Reader

Just as the metallic click of Min-Hwan’s modified gun froze her veins, a whisper—“I see you”—came from behind, and when she turned, he was already there.

tw : hair pulling, noncon, gun play and manhandling let me know if i missed any.

Crouched low behind a bookshelf, My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. The library was unnaturally silent after hours—dark, claustrophobic, haunted only by the soft hum of the emergency lights and the occasional creak of wood. I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, every muscle locked, listening.

Then I heard it.

A whistle.

Low. Mocking. 

Min-Hwan.

His footsteps followed—slow and almost playful as they echoed across the hardwood floor.

“sweetheart…” His voice slithered through the air like smoke. “Baby, why are you hiding from me? I thought we were just starting to have fun.”

A crash split the silence—the brutal sound of books hitting the ground. I flinched and clamped a hand over my mouth.

He wasn’t just knocking them over. He was hurling them. Books slammed to the floor like bodies, pages fluttering like broken wings.

Thud.

Another shelf.

Closer this time.

“You always liked games, didn’t you?” he crooned. “Hide and seek is my favorite.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice dripped with poisoned sweetness.

“Come on, sweetheart. I promise I won’t be mad.”

Liar.

Then came the sound that froze her veins—the metallic click of his toy. The modified gun. Not quite lethal. But precise enough to drop her in one shot.

My pulse roared in her ears.

Min-Hwan chuckled—softly.

Another crash.

A chair this time.

I squeezed my eyes shut, breath trembling.

Silence fell again.

Too long.

Too quiet.

Then—

A whisper. Right behind me.

“I see you.”

My heart stopped.

I turned my head—and froze.

Min-Hwan was standing there.

Right there.

Towering over me like a nightmare. His face was dipped in shadow, but his eyes—cold, gleaming with a sick thrill—were locked onto mine.

Before I could move, before my body even remembered how to, his hand tangled in my hair—tight and brutal—yanking me to my feet with a savage jerk.

I gasped in pain, my scalp screaming, hands flying to his wrist. But it only made him laugh.

“There you are, baby,” he murmured, dragging me toward a chair in the center of the aisle. “Playing hard to get again?”

He shoved me down onto it—cold wood biting into my skin—then loomed over me, fingers still twisted tight in my hair.

“You’re such a little bitch when you run,” he sneered, voice slick with venom. “Do you like making me chase you? Huh?”

I struggled, but his grip only tightened, wrenching my head back until my neck arched painfully.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his breath hot against my cheek. “Pathetic little thing. Shaking like a leaf.”

He laughed again—low, broken—and the sound echoed through the empty library like a death bell.

The gun hung loosely in his other hand.

But he didn’t need it.

Not really.

Because the look in his eyes told me everything.

Min-Hwan didn’t need a weapon to hurt me.

He was the weapon.

I couldn’t move.

Not with his hand still fisted in my hair, not with my back pressed against the back of the chair, and especially not under that gaze—sharp, hungry, and too calm for someone who had just dragged me out of the dark like prey.

Min-Hwan tilted his head, studying me.

His free hand lifted the gun—not to aim, not to threaten. That would’ve been too obvious. Instead, he dragged the cold barrel across my collarbone, trailing it like a whisper down the center of my blouse.

I flinched.

He smiled.

“I’ve been wanting to see what you look like under this uniform,” he murmured, voice low and laced with something dangerous. The gun slid up again, brushing beneath my jaw before pausing at the bottom of my throat. 

His fingers replaced the steel. He let go of my hair only to stroke the side of my face, slow, deliberate. A mockery of gentleness that made my skin crawl.

I wanted to look away.

But I couldn’t.

Not when he touched me like he was memorizing the shape of my fear.

His thumb ghosted over my lips, tracing the outline softly, reverently.

“You’ve got such a pretty mouth when it’s not screaming,” he whispered. “Bet it’s good for all kinds of filthy things.”

The barrel tapped gently against my thigh.

Once.

Twice.

Not enough to hurt but just enough to remind me it was there.

Min-Hwan leaned in, and I could smell his cologne, the metallic tang of the gun, and something darker—hunger.

“You’re not going to run again, are you?” he said, voice mocking, almost playful.

He already knew the answer.

My legs weren’t moving.

My breath was shallow.

Despite the terror clawing up my spine, something inside me had stopped resisting.

His eyes flicked down, then back to my face.

“I want to see everything,” he murmured. “And I want to take my time doing it.”

Then he brought the barrel to my lips.

“Open,” he said softly.

Not harsh.

Just sure.

I hesitated. My eyes flicked up to his—and what I saw there wasn’t rage. It was lust.

Slowly, I parted my lips.

Min-Hwan’s breath hitched—just a little—as he guided the cold steel inside, resting it heavy on my tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek.

He didn’t push further. 

He just watched—his gaze dark and razor-sharp—as I sat there, mouth wrapped around his gun, pulse thundering in my throat, the whole library holding its breath with me.

His hand slid behind my neck, holding me still. “You look better like this,” he said. “Mouth full.”

He moved the barrel slowly, inch by inch, testing the limits of my mouth. Reading every tremble in my jaw, every flicker in my eyes.

This wasn’t about force.

It was about power.

Min-Hwan pulled the gun out with a slow, wet drag. A strand of saliva clung to the barrel before breaking.

“Messy little thing,” he murmured, tilting my chin up with it. “You like being used, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

His hand slipped down my neck, possessive and slow, trailing along the edge of my pristine collar.

He chuckled. “Still wearing this like it means something. Like you’re still the good little girl.” He leaned close, lips brushing my ear. “But I know what’s underneath all this.”

He started undoing the buttons.

One.

Then another.

Each pop exposing more skin, peeling me open like a secret.

“For someone so smart,” he murmured, dragging another button free, “you’re real fucking stupid to think you could hide from me.”

The shirt slipped from my shoulders, baring my chest to the cold air and his hotter gaze.

“You wanted this,” he said, voice rougher now. “To be talked down to. Stripped. Used. Touched like you’re nothing.”

His hand trailed lower.

“Look at you. You’re already falling apart. And I haven’t even told you to beg yet.”

I shivered.

Min-Hwan’s eyes lit with that same dark satisfaction. He drank in my fear like it was the finest thing he’d ever tasted.

“The way you tremble for me…” His voice turned into a low, filthy rasp. “It’s intoxicating.”

He tugged my head back by my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze.

The gun trailed mockingly down my neck.

“I could snap your pretty little neck right now,” he whispered, pressing the barrel harder. “But where’s the fun in that?”

His gaze roamed my body, lingering on the rise of my breasts beneath my bra.

“Perfect,” he sneered, cupping one roughly. “I’m going to mark every inch of you.”

Then his hand slid lower.

Under the skirt.

Slow.

Purposeful.

He found the damp lace.

“Oh, you’re soaked,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles. “You can’t even pretend you’re not desperate.”

Without warning, he shoved my panties aside and plunged two fingers inside me.

I cried out.

He didn’t stop.

He pumped them in deep, hard strokes, grinding his knuckles into me until my thighs trembled.

“Pathetic,” he hissed. “You act like you’re in control, but your pussy tells me the truth.”

His mouth curved into a cruel grin.

Then he yanked me up by the hair and threw me to my knees.

I stumbled, breathless, off the chair, and he took my place—sprawling into it like a king.

“Get those panties off,” he ordered, already unbuckling his belt. “Then get over here and ride this cock.”

His thick shaft sprang free—long, hard, already leaking. He stroked it lazily, eyes locked on mine.

“You want it, don’t you?” he said, voice low, cruel. “Want me to fuck the brat out of you.”

I slipped my panties off with trembling hands.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered. “You’ve been dying for this.”

I made my way between his spread thighs, feet dragging against the carpet. His cock throbbed against my palm as I lined him up.

The second I started to lower myself, Min-Hwan thrust up—hard.

I gasped as he filled me in one brutal motion.

“That’s it,” he snarled, gripping my hips. “Take it all like the cock-drunk little slut you are.”

He began moving me, bouncing me hard in his lap, each thrust a savage command.

Skin slapped against skin. The chair creaked beneath us. My body was his to use.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled. “This pussy was made to be used. Mine.”

I whimpered, the force of him tearing sounds from my throat I didn’t recognize.

His grip tightened as he drove up into me, faster, harder—his pleasure a storm he dragged me into.

“Take it,” he roared, head tipping back. “Show me what a fucking slut you are.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

Pleasure and pain crashed through me like waves, merciless and unrelenting.

And then—he slammed me down one final time, locking me in place.

With a guttural moan, he came—deep inside me, hot and endless, claiming every inch of me from the inside out.

“Take it,” he hissed. “Take all of it.”

I sobbed, still trembling around him, overwhelmed by heat, by fullness, by the terrifying intimacy of it all.

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t look away.”

I met his eyes.

He kissed me.

Slow.

Gentle.

And that was what scared me the most.

Because in the quiet after, as I collapsed against him, I knew one awful, inevitable truth.

I would never escape Min-Hwan.

Not ever.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[seraphicsentences]

hlllo can you pleas do football!ellie ina rush and really needing her sport shirt that reader is wearing, but since reader is so unbothered to change she takes it off right there n it gets ellie thinking if she should even go!!!!!! maybe a little smutty smut ‼️‼️inluv with yur writinggg

hi baby yes i can thank you for the request sweet girl. sorry this took a little while i appreciate your patience. also yes i know i said i was going on a break yesterday and then proceeded to bang out this entire thing, my bipolar ass got bored. enjoy! <3

“BABE?”

“BAAAABE?” ellie calls louder as you hear her stumbling through your shared apartment, clearly in a rush.

“babe, have you seen my-oh there it is,” she swings into the room abruptly, stopping in her tracks when she sees her much needed football jersey, adorned by yours truly.

“hey els, what’s up?” you ask, propping yourself up on the bed, and shooting her a look so sickly sweet, savage starlight comic in hand.

ellie’s existence can be found in all aspects of you at the moment, from the clothes you’ve “borrowed” and your choice of fine literature, to the purpled bruises littering your jaw and collarbone.

ellie can’t help but let her buzzing pre-game thoughts slow at the sight of you, and fester around thinking mine, mine, mine.

“hey pretty girl, i just really need my jersey for practice. do you mind changing, pretty please? i’m late,” she says softly, leaning over the mattress to press a warm kiss against your forehead.

“aw, fine, i’ll just wear nothing then,” you joke, reaching over your head to pull off the top in one swift move, revealing your bare chest with marks to match your neck.

you watch knowingly as ellie quite literally shutters: caught up in the sight of what’s literally a physical manifestation of the guilty pleasure that is her possessiveness.

—and you revel in the power trip that this is. because how is it that mere nakedness, something that’s more you than anything else you could put on your skin, is enough to make ellie fucking williams crumble.

and so all you do is smirk when, without sparing even a glance away, ellie tosses the held-out jersey lazily over one shoulder and leans in to indulge herself with another kiss; this time a proper, messy one on your parted lips.

“on second thought,” she says, in between breaths, before diving down to swirl her tongue around your hardened nipples, greedily sucking and licking at them like your own fucking baby.

you’re nothing but powerless to her hypnotic ministrations, as much of a fool for her as she is for you, letting low moans out freely from the back of your throat.

moving back up to kiss you like she wants to consume your sounds, the aggressiveness of ellie’s actions leave you nowhere to go but fall backwards onto the bed, chest pressing up to brush your pointed nipples lush against ellie’s chest.

“fuck, baby,” she rasps into your mouth, slipping her hand between the two of you to knead at your breast, calloused fingers thumbing over your nipples. she watches in awe as you shudder at the sensation, hooded eyes begging for more.

“fuckin’ tease,” she mumbles with a smile, mouthing over her previously left bruises with a hot, flat-tongued lick. feeling the vibrations on your throat as you laugh at her, she gently nips at your skin, letting out a laugh of her own as she feigns annoyance.

“shut up,” she chuckles, suffocating your laughs with the press of her mouth, continuing to make out with you in the delicious way that it is to make out with her.

ellie pries a knee between your squeezed thighs, nudging it upwards in such kind offerance to your burning heat— to which you take, hips immediately grinding up in desperation.

but just as quickly as it was given to you is it taken away.

ellie sits up with a jolt, mussing with your hair as she replaces her shirt with the jersey hurriedly. she stumbles towards the door with a guilty look in her eyes, pausing only to ramble, “coach is gonna kill me, sorry babe. that’s what you get for being such a tease! i’ll make it up to you, you fuckin’ minx. i love you!" before sprinting out the door, shoelaces undone.

you lay there, frozen and topless with your panties soaked, and you curse ellie out, that little bitch.

[wholoveseggs]

Stains {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} One spilled coffee, one ruined suit, and one infuriating man you can’t seem to avoid...

♡♡ Uh oh I wrote another series! Inspired by the many requests I get for another enemies to lovers fic ~ This is essentially a highly caffeinated version of Misbehavior ~xoxo ♡♡

3.7k words - Warnings: slow burn, enemies-to-lovers, eventual smut (duh), Elijah being Elijah about his suits, reader with a sharp tongue and a penchant for swearing, so so so much antagonistic banter, class dynamics, Elijah being a control freak (it’s his kink) && the tragic loss of a cappuccino...

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}

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@origshipfan @cocoabliss @eternalnoble

It was one of those mornings where everything felt hazy, like your body was running on autopilot while your brain lagged behind. You were going through the motions, getting ready for work, but it all felt distant.  

Finally, as you stood in line at the local café, you began to wake up fully. Glancing at your phone, you checked the time. You were cutting it close, but if you hurried, you could still make it.  

When it was your turn, you stepped up to the counter and ordered your usual. While waiting, you observed the morning rush: people in business suits, jeans, or workout gear shuffled in and out, the chaos oddly comforting. You tried to keep your irritation in check as a few impatient customers jostled their way ahead of you.  

At last, you grabbed your cappuccino and headed out the door, your eyes flicking to the clock on your phone again. Damn, you were going to be late.  

You picked up your pace, speed-walking down the sidewalk. Cursing under your breath, you glanced back down at your phone… just as you collided with someone.  

Hot liquid splashed everywhere, soaking through your shirt and bra. You hissed in pain, looking up to find the man you'd crashed into. His suit jacket and dress shirt were also drenched in coffee.  

He glared at you, his dark eyes murderous. He didn't say a word as he yanked off his jacket and attempted to blot at the stain, which only seemed to spread.  

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, fumbling to pull out your wallet. “Here, let me pay for your dry cleaning. I’m really sorry.”  

You went to pull out some cash, but he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Dry cleaning? No. You will pay for a replacement," he said with cold disdain.  

His attitude pissed you off. He was just as much at fault as you were, yet he had this entitled, pretentious air about him that made your blood boil.  

“It’s just coffee. It’ll come out with the right cleaner,” you said, trying to keep the bite out of your voice.  

“It’s a custom-tailored vintage Italian wool suit. Do you have any idea how much it costs?” he asked, his jaw ticking as he glared at you.  

“Well, maybe you should pay more attention to where you’re walking if you’re going to parade around in such expensive clothes,” you snapped, your temper slipping.  

“Are you seriously standing there, telling me this is my fault?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in disbelief.  

“Yup. Because it is,” you shot back, crossing your arms as you met his icy gaze. “I’m not about to buy you a thousand-dollar suit when dry cleaning can fix it.”  

“A thousand?” he repeated, laughing, and to your surprise, the sound was annoyingly pleasant. “This is a Brioni, not some off-the-rack garbage from Nordstrom. And I expect full payment. Interest included.”  

“Oh, fuck off,” you snapped, throwing up your hands in frustration. Turning on your heel, you stomped away, your blood still boiling.  

You had no idea what a Brioni was, and frankly, you didn’t care. He wasn’t going to bully you into paying for a ridiculously overpriced suit. You couldn’t even afford the cheap ones. And besides, what was he going to do? He didn’t even know who you were.  

You didn’t hear his footsteps behind you, but suddenly, he was in front of you, blocking your path.  

“I’m not done talking to you,” he said, his tone cutting through the air like ice.  

“Yeah, well, I’m done talking to you. Get the hell out of my way,” you snapped, trying to sidestep him.  

His hand shot out, grabbing your arm and holding you in place. You were about to slap him when his free hand darted into your pocket, pulling out your wallet.  

“Hey! What the fuck?” you yelled, trying to snatch it back.  

Ignoring you, he opened it and rifled through your cards and cash with infuriating calmness. He pulled out your driver’s license, glancing at it, and you could have sworn he smirked.  

“So, Miss L/N, I’ll be in touch. And perhaps you should pay attention to where you’re walking. You never know who you might bump into,” he said, his voice full of smug amusement as he slipped your wallet back into your pocket.  

Before you could respond, he turned and strode off down the street, leaving you standing there, fuming.  

You sat at your desk, staring blankly at the screen, willing yourself not to think about the events from earlier. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept circling back. You couldn’t believe his fucking audacity.

The way he’d just grabbed your wallet out of your pocket… like it was nothing, and then had the nerve to smirk at you. The memory made your blood boil all over again. You were livid.

It was obvious he was wealthy, the kind of man who was used to getting whatever he wanted. But you weren’t about to be bullied by some rich asshole. You couldn't stand people like him, entitled, out of touch assholes.

But… lord, was he hot.

Your thoughts betrayed you, conjuring up his sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and those dark brown eyes that seemed to smolder even when he was furious. He exuded danger. The kind that drew you in, whether you wanted it to or not.

For a moment, your mind wandered, imagining what it would feel like to run your hands through his hair, tugging at it as he…

No. No.

You shook your head, physically trying to jolt yourself back to reality. You weren’t about to let your thoughts go there. He didn’t deserve a second more of your time.

After work, you were exhausted, and all you wanted was to curl up on the couch and watch something mindless. As you walked down the hall to your apartment, the sight of an envelope sticking out of the door made you frown.

You approached it slowly, pulling it from the door and turning it over.

The handwriting on the front was neat and tidy. The letter itself was a single piece of paper, folded in half. Your name was scrawled on the front.

Hesitating, you unlocked the door and walked into your apartment. It was small, barely enough space for you, but it was the only place you could afford.

Closing the door behind you, you opened the letter.

Miss L/N, I trust you found this note where I left it. Please see the enclosed invoice for the cost of replacing my suit. If I do not receive a response within five business days, I will have no choice but to involve my lawyers. Sincerely, Elijah Mikaelson

There was a paper inside, folded in half. Pulling it out, you found the bill:

Invoice: Total cost of suit and emotional damages: $20,325.00

What the fuck?

The number at the bottom made you want to vomit. How the fuck could a suit cost that much?

There was no way in hell you could come up with that kind of money. If he tried to sue you there was no way you would be able to pay it.

Fuck. Fuck.

You stared down at the invoice, panic starting to build. His phone number was listed at the top, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you dialed the number, your heart hammering in your chest.

After two rings, a deep, infuriatingly familiar voice answered.

"Miss L/N, I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten my note," he said, sounding amused.

"You can't be serious. That suit cannot cost that much," you snapped, trying and failing to keep the fear out of your voice.

"As a matter of fact, it can. You should feel lucky I'm not asking for more, considering the insult to my character. Or do I need to remind you of how you behaved?" he asked, his tone dripping with arrogance.

"How much emotional damage could a spilled cup of coffee possibly cause?" you scoffed, unable to stop yourself. "I'm not paying that. No way."

"Well, unfortunately, the suit is ruined. My dry cleaner tried his best, but it was simply too late," he said, his words clipped and precise. "Now, we can settle this between us. Or I can call my lawyer, and the two of us can hash out a deal in court."

"What the hell do you want from me?" you asked, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice. "You think I have a couple grand lying around? I can't even afford my rent, much less a suit that's worth more than I'll make in the next year!"

"Then I suggest you get a better job," he replied, his tone dismissive. "I have no interest in playing games with you. Either pay what you owe, or face the consequences."

"Go fuck yourself," you hissed, hanging up and slamming the phone down on the table.

He couldn't be serious. There was no way. He was a sadist, clearly. Just an entitled, privileged prick, and you had no doubt he would go through with his threat.

Your phone started to ring, and you glared at it, tempted to ignore it. But you knew that would only make things worse.

With a sigh, you picked up the phone, answering it and pressing it to your ear. "What?"

"Well, that was rude," he said, his voice cold.

"Yeah, well, so is threatening me," you shot back.

"You're being unreasonable," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "We can settle this like adults. If you can't afford the suit, perhaps there's another way we can work out our differences."

"If you're trying to blackmail me into having sex with you, fuck off. I'm not a hooker," you snapped.

He laughed, and the sound made you shiver, even as it enraged you. "Hardly darling, I don't pay for sex,"

"Then what the fuck do you want?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"An apology," he said, and there was something dangerous in his voice, a hint of a threat.

"Fine," you said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Now, leave me the hell alone."

"No, I want an apology in person, perhaps over dinner. After all, we never had a chance to get properly acquainted," he said, his voice smooth.

"That wasn't part of the deal," you hissed. "You said an apology, not a date."

"Are you trying to negotiate terms with me?" he asked, his tone amused. "Because I'm not sure that's wise. After all, if we go to court, I'll win. I have excellent lawyers."

"Are you seriously going to sue me over a stupid suit?" you asked, the anger in your voice fading, replaced by fear.

"That depends. Are you going to refuse my request?" he asked, his voice soft, yet firm.

You hesitated, weighing your options. On one hand, you could try to stand up to him. But there was no doubt in your mind that you would lose a court battle… you did damage his suit after all.

"Fine," you said, the word leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

"Excellent. I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven," he said, sounding satisfied.

Before you could respond, the line went dead.

You stared at your phone, furious. This wasn’t an apology; it was a trap. But what choice did you have? You’d give him his stupid apology…and then, hopefully, you’d never have to see him again.

At first you decided you were just going to wear a sweatshirt and leggings. Let him deal with it. You weren’t about to put the effort in. But a small voice inside told you that it would only make things worse. Besides, if there was any chance this would be the last time you had to see him, maybe you should look good. Show him that you weren't some charity case.

With a sigh, you put on the nicest dress you had, a simple black shift. You spent some time doing your hair and makeup, and as you stared at yourself in the mirror, you felt a flicker of pride.

You could do this.

As you finished getting ready, you wondered if he was going to show up in another ridiculously expensive suit. Probably. It seemed like his entire identity was tied up in his clothing. A small, diabolical part of you considered ruining another one of his suits, just to spite him. But you dismissed the idea. It wasn't worth the cost.

Just as you finished slipping on your heels, the buzzer rang. Grabbing your purse, you headed down the stairs, taking a deep breath as you pulled open the front door.

There, waiting for you, was Elijah, looking infuriatingly handsome. He wasn't dressed in a suit this time, in fact what he was wearing was much less formal, and a lot sexier. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, and a dark blue shirt, the top two buttons undone, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Was he aware of how ridiculously hot he was? Of course he knew... A man with all that wealth and confidence wouldn't have a doubt in his mind that women would fall at his feet.

"Hello, darling," he said, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he gazed down at you. "You look lovely."

"Don't," you said, holding up a finger and glaring at him. "I'm not your 'darling' and you don't get to call me that."

He chuckled, the sound making your skin prickle with heat. "Very well, shall we?"

He offered you his arm, and against your better judgement, you took it, allowing him to lead you to his car. You were surprised when he opened the passenger side door for you, but didn't comment, sliding into the seat.

"I expected you to be wearing another suit," you commented, trying to keep the bitterness out of your voice. "After all, they're such a large part of your personality."

He looked over at you, his gaze moving down your body, taking in the curves of your breasts and hips, lingering on your legs.

"And I wasn't expecting a dress, but here we are," he said, his eyes meeting yours, the challenge in them clear.

"You're insufferable," you muttered, turning to look out the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"I could say the same about you," he replied, his tone amused. "Though, I will admit, I admire your spirit."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" you asked, your brows furrowing.

"Yes, it is," he said, keeping his gaze on the road.

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"A little restaurant not far from here," he said, not elaborating further.

You were tempted to ask him more, but you didn't want to seem overly interested. You were still trying to figure out his motives, but you didn't want him to think he was winning.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, and soon, he was pulling into a parking spot. He came around to open the door for you, and you ignored his hand, standing on your own.

You followed him into the restaurant, a quaint, homey place with dim lighting and candles on the tables. The waiter seated you, handing each of you a menu and taking your drink orders.

When he walked away, you turned your attention back to Elijah, studying his face in the low light. His features were strong, defined, and there was something oddly compelling about his eyes, the way they seemed to see right through you.

"So, what's your story?" you asked, breaking the silence. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a philanthropist," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "I invest in various causes, and also provide grants to those in need."

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Of course you are,"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked, a slight edge to his voice.

"You just scream old money, the kind of guy who's never had to work a day in his life, never had to struggle," you said, not bothering to mask the disdain in your voice.

He arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching up into a half-smile. "You're quite judgmental, aren't you?"

"Says the man who's trying to extort money from me," you retorted, your temper flaring.

"Sweetheart, you don't know anything about me or my struggles," he said, his tone deceptively calm. "I think it's best if you keep your opinions to yourself."

You glared at him, your jaw clenching. You wanted to fire back, tell him he was wrong, but a small, logical part of you warned against it.

"Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms. "I'm sorry...again."

"Apology accepted," he said, his expression smug.

Before you could respond, the waiter returned with your drinks.

"Are you two ready to order?" he asked, giving you both a polite smile.

"Yes, I'll have the steak," Elijah said, handing the menu back. "And she will have the pasta."

Your eyes narrowed at him. "No, actually, I'd like the salad,"

"Nonsense," he said, dismissing your objection with a wave of his hand. "Trust me, you'll like the pasta better."

The waiter nodded and collected your menus, leaving you alone once again.

"Did I say I wanted pasta?" you asked, irritated by his high-handedness.

"It's delicious, you'll see," he said, ignoring your question.

"So, is this how it's going to be all night? You making decisions for me, and me being pissed about it?" you asked, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of your voice.

He let out a soft chuckle, his dark eyes meeting yours. "Probably, yes."

You shook your head, biting back a scathing retort. Clearly, he enjoyed being an asshole. And you were determined not to give him the satisfaction of provoking you.

He was watching you closely, a smug smile on his lips. "So what do you do for work?"

"I'm a planning coordinator at a nonprofit," you said, your voice tight.

"That's interesting, what is the organization?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"It's an outreach program for the homeless, I manage all the paperwork and the grant applications, that kind of stuff," you said, shrugging.

"How noble," he murmured, his gaze assessing.

You weren't sure if he was being sincere or not, and the comment rubbed you the wrong way.

"It's just a job," you muttered, not wanting to admit that it was something that mattered deeply to you.

"That makes you very little money, apparently," he said, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Well, not everyone can be a rich philanthropist," you shot back, your temper flaring.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Fair point."

"Why are you really doing this?" you asked, unable to hold back the question.

"Doing what?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Blackmailing me into going on a date with you," you said, narrowing your eyes.

"You seem to have a lot of misconceptions about me," he said, his tone amused. "For starters, this isn't a date. It's an apology dinner."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Yeah, right. I've already apologized multiple times. Why did you really want to meet me?"

"You intrigue me," he said, his expression unreadable.

You were about to respond when the waiter returned, placing your meals in front of you.

"Here you go, enjoy," the waiter said, giving you a quick smile before heading off to another table.

You stared down at the pasta, it looked absolutely delicious, but you weren't about to admit that. You took a tentative bite, trying to hide your enjoyment, but it was no use. The pasta was amazing.

"Told you," he said, a knowing smile on his face.

"I'm not admitting anything," you muttered, taking another bite.

"Of course not," he said, his tone laced with amusement.

As you ate, you stole glances at him, trying to figure him out. He was a puzzle, that much was certain. But there was something dangerous lurking beneath the surface, a darkness that set your nerves on edge.

You were halfway through the meal when he spoke again.

"So, tell me more about yourself," he said, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

"What do you want to know?" you asked, keeping your voice casual.

"Anything," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You considered his question for a moment before responding. "I work, I go home, that's pretty much it."

He gave you a look, one that said he wasn't satisfied with your answer. "That's all? There must be more to you than that."

"Nope," you said, popping the 'p' for emphasis.

"I see," he said, his expression giving nothing away.

"What about you? I know you're a rich asshole who is obsessed with their clothing and extorts money from innocent people, but other than that, not much," you said, a hint of a smile on your lips.

"You think you have me all figured out, don't you?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

"Pretty much, yeah," you said, shrugging.

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "What would you say if I told you that I'm an ancient vampire who runs this city with my equally powerful and ruthless family?"

You couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, so you are crazy. Good to know."

He didn't respond, simply staring at you, his expression deadly serious.

You shook your head, finishing the last few bites of your meal. "Come on, really? Vampires? Don't insult my intelligence."

He smirked and shrugged, leaning back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Fine, don't believe me."

The waiter returned with the check, and before you could object, Elijah paid, adding a generous tip.

"Ready to go?" he asked, standing and offering you his arm.

You wanted to refuse, to insist on paying for yourself, but the rational part of you knew that it would be futile. Besides, maybe he'd finally leave you alone after this.

"Sure," you muttered, taking his arm.

As he led you out of the restaurant, you couldn't help but notice how good he smelled, and how firm his muscles were under your hand. You hated yourself for it, but he was undeniably attractive.

"Are you done terrorizing me?" you asked, as you made your way towards the car. “Is my debt to you cleared?”

He chuckled, opening the passenger door and waiting for you to get in before responding. "The debt? Yes. Terrorizing you? Not even close.”

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}