#still haven't gotten over raw

[jmiehyter]

hey rhea i can do everything dom can do and i DON'T have an ugly mustache

[nana-au]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘, 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘

Satoru Gojo ♡ short drabble (pt. 2)

₊˚ପ⊹ Summary: Your best friend gets jealous when your childhood friend reenters your life. Let him show you just how much better he is.

₊˚ପ⊹ Warnings: desperate gojo, p in v raw sex, quickie you have to hurry before your friend comes back!

₊˚ପ⊹ an: part two is here! haven't seen pt. 1 ?

₊˚ପ⊹ taglist: @shokosbunny (ty for the support lovely <3)

MDNI

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

Satoru Gojo knew he had a limited amount of time with you, and he wasn't going to waste a single second of it. The moment your friend's headlight's pulled out of your driveway, your name fell out of his needy lips, his arms snaking around to your back pulling you into his lap.

"S-Satoru," you squeaked out, intoxicated by the foreign sound of utter want in his voice. His arms held you like a vice, pulling you into his chest like he was afraid you might try to run away from him. "What's gotten into you?" you ask him. His only response was burying his face into your neck, whimpering against the sensitive skin.

"Would it upset you if I wanted to kiss you?" he asked you bluntly, his mouth muffled by your skin. Shivers ran down your spine from the feeling of his lips against your pulse.

"What?"

He let out a quick huff at your lack of answer. Gojo rolled his eyes, "I know you understood me," his lips ghosting over the spot he wanted so badly to kiss. "Tell me you want me too," his voice was barely above a whisper, dragging his plump lips across the skin of your shoulder. He needed to hear you give him permission. He needed to hear you craved him in the same ways he craved you.

You were sat in his lap, mouth agape at the scene unfolding in front of you. The man you thought would never reciprocate your feelings; the man you spent night after night dreaming about was holding you in his lap, mouth touching your delicate skin but careful not to kiss it. The man you have always wanted was waiting for your permission to let him plant a kiss on your exposed skin. His thumb and forefinger played with the small strap of your tank top, his other hand still keeping you pressed tight against his form as he waited for your answer.

"We don't have much time," he was growing impatient, scared you were going to let the opportunity slip out of his fingers and he couldn't stand the thought of that. You needed to deny him. Slap him for ever daring to drag you into his lap, pressing his mouth hotly against your pulse. You needed to stop him if you really didn't want him.

But what you did after one full agonizing minute was tell him yes. It was quiet, almost hidden behind a shaky breath, but he heard it. That was all he needed.

His hot mouth opened to taste your flesh, sucking sweetly on your soft skin. He trailed across your shoulder, back up to your supple neck where he bit down. Your body was vibrating, the attention of his mouth on you had you mewling, pushing your chest into his. He just about groaned from the feeling of your breasts smooshing against his chest, his left hand making room for him to squeeze the squishy skin. You were breathing heavy now, whimpering as he played with your chest. He moved the fabric of your top down, exposing your bare nipple to his hand. He gently thumbed at the peak, his mouth still attached to your neck, now moving up to the skin below your ear.

"'T-toru," your voice shook, unable to keep your hips from grinding down on him for some release.

"Fuck-" he cursed, "keep calling me that," he pulled away to look at you. Your puppy eyes were wide open, not wanting to miss a moment of what was about to come and Gojo almost lost his resolve. "I wish I could take my time with you," he sounded genuinely heartbroken, wanting nothing more but to watch you come undone slowly as he carefully worked you up until you were putty in his hands. Unfortunately he was crunched for time. He had maybe 15 minutes to show you just what you meant to him. His right hand moved behind your head to grab the hair at the nape of your neck. Using his grip to pull you in. Both your foreheads touching as he spoke, "But we don't have time, baby. You're gonna be good for me though, right? Gonna enjoy every second?"

His sultry questions went straight to your core, pussy clamping around nothing, preparing for what his words meant. You nodded and he planted a quick kiss to your lips. They were soft and warm and everything you thought they'd be. He pulled back, giving you a reassuring look before fiddling with waistline of his sweats. He pulled them down to his thighs, the cool air hitting the wet spot of his briefs. You could see just how big he was even under the constricting fabric of his underwear. You had to fight the drool threatening to spill from your lips. As much as he enjoyed your ogling he had work to do, pushing aside the fly of his briefs to allow his cock to spring free. It was long, the tip red and wet with precum. Now free, he reached into your shorts, his intentions to rub your clit over your panties but he found that you weren't wearing any.

"If I didn't know any better I would think you were prepared for this to happen. No panties, baby? Fuck," his cold index finger slid down your slit, collecting your slick and rubbing slow circles across your clit. Your breath hitched, your body jumping up at the feeling of his digit teasing your velvety skin. His tongue poked out, wetting his lips, wanting nothing more but to be able to taste you. He didn't think he had that much time though, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if you didn't cum on his cock. If Satoru wasn't feeling impatient enough before he really was feeling it now. His hand grabbed at the hem of your shorts, pulling them down. You adjusted to help him drag them all the way off, discarding them on the floor below.

"Gonna have to be good f'me," he told you, pulling you back into his lap, the hot tip of his cock now poking at your entrance. His grip tightened on your hips, wasting no time dragging you down onto his length. You gasped from the sudden pain of his dick stretching you out, and he shushed you the best he could. "M'sorry baby. There's no time. We have to be quick. You'll forgive me.. right?" his need was only growing. Your cunt gripped his cock, squeezing him in retaliation for bullying his way into you without preparation.

"'Toruuu," his name fell from your lips as he pulled out slowly, only to shove himself roughly back in. Your legs were spread wide to accommodate his thighs, allowing him to reach deep inside of you.

He soon set a rhythm with his hips, using his hands on your waist to help drag you up and down. Your top was still tucked under your breast, allowing Gojo to watch them bounce with each thrust of his hips. His teeth bit down on his lower lip, barely letting out needy moans as he took in how beautiful you looked in front of him. He was going to think about this forever. Your dripping pleasure coating his cock every time he pulled it out and how your face dusted red from the intense pleasure, lips forming a tight 'o'. He sucked in a tight breath, willing himself not to spill inside of you right then and there. He couldn't live with himself if you didn't finish first.

"You're s'wet. Mmph... sooo warm," his groans were high pitched and needy and everything you needed them to be. The sounds of skin slapping as he fucked into you and his high-pitched whimpers echoed off the walls of your living room. "Mmmm, Haah.." he couldn't hold back his sounds and you were glad he didn't. His need was obvious, he was unable to stay quiet from the feeling of you taking him so well. One hand moved down to tease your clit as he continued his assault on your puffy pussy. You were lost in the feeling of his cock stretching your gummy walls, hitting that spot deep inside you that had your back arching. You were so lost you didn't even notice headlights shining through the windows that overlooked the driveway.

"Fuck!" Satoru cried out, "Looks like we're gonna have to hurry baby. You gonna cum on my cock? We don't have much time," your body was alight with a pleasure you didn't recognize. Did you really enjoy the idea of getting caught?

Gojo knew he wasn't going to last long as he felt your walls flutter at his warning, wanting to curse you for being such a dirty girl. But you were his dirty girl, and you were going to cum and that fucking loser wasn't allowed to see it. "C'mon baby, haaaaahhh," he was so close, sweat dripping down his brow as his fingers on your clit sped up. He couldn't manage to draw circles anymore, only able to flick his two fingers as fast as he could against your sensitive nub. You didn't have time to process that you were coming, throwing your head back and moaning loudly as your gluey insides gripped onto his cock. He came too, moaning just as loudly, his sticky fluid coating your walls; dick twitching with each spurt of cum he released into you. Heavy footsteps on the porch joined the sounds of both of your releases.

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

The door opened and you both greeted your friend as he placed the pizza on the coffee table in front of you. You managed to adjust your clothes in time and you were slightly out of breath from your hurried movements. Your friend looked at you, taking in your appearance. Your hair was tousled, lips wet, and cheeks dusted with a wild blush. You smiled sweetly to him, urging him to sit down next to you so you could all start the next movie. Gojo didn't bother to possessively pull you in - after all, his cum was leaking out of you at that very moment. Your friend's gaze was suspicious, unable to focus on helping you choose a movie. No - he was too focused trying to figure out if you had that bruise on your neck this whole time. He looked up to find Satoru watching him, the white haired devil shooting him a subtle wink when he met his cerulean eyes.

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: You Falling Asleep

A/N: Not requested! I just thought it would be a cute idea! Requests are still open. Be sure to read my rules in the pinned post :) Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher didn't want anyone visiting him in the hospital, but you weren't taking no for an answer. He'd been sleeping on and off, but when he work up again, you were asleep. Curled into a ball in one of the visitor chairs. You looked uncomfortable and cramped, but your expression was that of relief. For a little while you weren't worried about the state of the world or the future or his health. He knows you haven't been getting enough sleep. That didn't really matter when it felt like the world was ending every other day. When the nurses come in he makes sure to warn them. He couldn't be the cause of your fears and the one to wake you up. Someone brought a blanket and he gently placed it over you. He watched you, taking in this moment. You were finally relaxed. He knew you'd only done this because you were completely exhausted, you could barely keep your eyes open. It hurt him to know that he was a big reason why you couldn't eat or sleep or take care of yourself. He never meant to hurt you like this.

Hughie notices you can barely keep your eyes open. After that night at Tek Knights, you haven't been sleeping very well. You'd been so scared, so sure you were going to die with five new holes punctured into your body. You woke up from nightmares gasping for air, checking your skin for holes, afraid you were still in the sex dungeon. That you never got out. He's not sure how to talk to you about it and the guilt eats him alive. You and him are going through his files on Neuman when your head starts to fall only for you to startle awake. He insists you take a nap in his bed. You're reluctant, but you're so exhausted you eventually give in. He doesn't shut the door completely, wanting to be there if you have another nightmare. It's the least he can do.

Annie insists she'll stay awake for the both of you. The shape shifter captured you both. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. They ended up drugging the both of you. They switched between your two identities, tearing off their skin, taking your memories as well as your faces. Annie can see just how tired you are. Your skin is raw and you've run out of tears. She doesn't hold it against you. She fights against the chains quietly, hearing your breathing turn shallow. She would find a way out of this. She would get you out of this. You'd feel better after getting a good night's sleep. You weren't a Supe. You didn't have the abilities she had. And yet, she couldn't get them to work. She cursed herself for not protecting you, not saving you, not being a good enough Supe. She was grateful you weren't awake to see her fall apart like this.

M.M. does everything in his power not to wake you. You fell asleep on a surveillance mission in the van. You'd gotten so quiet, he felt like he was talking to himself. When he looked over, putting the binoculars down, you were curled in a ball in the passenger seat, fast asleep. He knows you haven't been sleeping well. If it's not the nightmares, it's the fear, the worrying. You recently admitted you'd kept a loaded gun where you could easily reach just in case. You were petrified something terrible would happen if you relaxed even a little, if you let your guard down. You needed this. He turns the engine off and puts his coat over you. He would've loved being able to talk about your heightened stress and anxiety, ways to cope, but this was a lot better. He hoped you'd feel safer, calmer after you woke up.

Frenchie freaks out a little internally. He thought you were dead. Your head was resting in your folded arms on your desk. Once he saw your body rise and fall with your breathing, he realized you weren't knocked out or dead. You were asleep. He thinks it's a little funny after getting over his initial panic. You've been working really hard lately. He wasn't sure how much sleep you were getting, if you were getting any at all. When the others walked in, bickering and laughing, he motions for them to be quiet. You needed this. Everyone whispers, going their separate ways. Frenchie turns down the lights, leaving a lamp on so that you're not totally in the dark. He wants you to rest as long as possible. You've been giving everything to this job, this cause, lately. You needed a lot more rest than this.

Kimiko knew you'd been having nightmares. It wasn't a secret. You confided in her one night that you haven't been sleeping well. Every time you close your eyes, you see Homelander. You feel his lasers slice through you until you're two halves. He's not just angry or upset, he's furious. You can't escape him. You two are hanging out when she notices you can't keep your eyes open. She tells you to lay down with your head on her lap. You laugh it off, but she's serious. She rubs circles between your shoulder blades, trying to ease you to sleep. When she notices your eyes are closed she doesn't stop. It brings her a lot of ease and relief knowing she can help you, at least a little. If you have another nightmare, if you face Homelander alone again, she'll be there when you wake up. She'll be there.

Bonus! Homelander either let's you sleep or orders you out of the room. If he likes you, he might warn the others to shut the fuck up. He'd move your meeting to another time and simply let you be. He might check on you every so often and when he sees you stirring he would gently wake you up, walk you to your room where you can sleep in a real bed instead of holding your head up in the board room. If he doesn't like you, he yells and berates and is this close to firing you before he realizes The Seven and Vought need you for your powers. You can apologize all you want, he won't listen. Either way you're completely embarrassed. You've just been so busy lately, it's been hard to fall asleep with everything going on.

[anantaru]

DAY 12 — COCKWARMING

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — heizou, alhaitham, baizhu

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, cockwarming, tit play, teasing you to the brim like staaaaaahp, a sprinkle of brat taming because why not, mean genshin boys

𖧡 — HEIZOU

"ah- i could get used to this."

and needless to say, it feels good, largely to heizou though— especially when he shadows his skilled fingers over your bare chest because he knows it'll drive you insane, his hand slowly settling down on top of your breasts, squeezing and massaging the mounds before groping your tits, together with his cock slipping past the solidness of your slit— throbbing, pressing and stretching inside.

you cling to him for your dear life, the fulfillment of his erection jammed within the bounds of you swelling pussy, candidly battering your cunt when you attempt to press down on his hips, or perhaps move for that matter, instead whimpering sweetly as heizou stills your hips with a solid arm whilst the other pinches your aroused nipple and tugs on it ever so slightly.

you pout out deliberately, yearning for him so terribly you cannot help yourself but moan into his neck, "heizou.." you say, stumbling over your words, "don't tease me now.. please." and it's not necessarily something your boyfriend would consider teasing— especially since in his opinion, you should be utterly aware on how his real taunting looked like.

in the span of no time, it had gotten to the point where it became a game between you both, one which he would most likely end up winning the moment he shushes your cute sniffles with a kiss, idly shuffling in his seat before unintentionally (it was very much intentional) moving his cock and thrusting up hard against one cloying, pressing, spot.

"fuck— well, you faced worse before, haven't you?" his words, although dripping of artificial consideration, vibrate all the way from your pouty lips, to your sensitive nipples being played with, to your wet messy core slicking up his buried shaft, shortly gushing around it so much that a white, thick ring of whites took shape around the base of his cock— he’s still entirely buried in you, with that single thrust hitting you like a sudden hot fever dashing on top of your shoulders.

heizou continues to keep you pressed against his cock, one hand long since branding the flesh of your juddering hips— and it's almost bruising to you, long fingers plunging into the skin hard enough to make you wince out and beg again, only to be met with a cocked up brow, a wet smirk and an even deeper throb of his erection.

your quivering body was exceedingly past recovering by now and you helplessly swallow down a bubbling sob from your throat when he grinds inside you again, yet with barely any strength aiding the move— the stiffened veins of his erection melting with your walls that the combination of those very sensations heizou brought forth focused on intermittently inching you into madness.

𖧡 — ALHAITHAM

your thighs clamp against each side of alhaitham's hips while one arm freely closes around your waist, the last thing he'd want is for you to move and disturb his peace— whilst the other, well, was occupied in holding a book he was currently reading, adventurous eyes deciphering each and every little letter printed on top, eagerly memorizing and pondering about a much deeper, more crucial interpretation behind the portrayed story.

yet you're taking him just like he needed you to, raw and hard, while he barely gifts you any attention. ugh, some sort of punishment coming from the scribe? might be, but you knew alhaitham very well and that his mind simply wasn't wired that way, instead he probably thought that it would cost him far less effort to put two into one, pleasure and knowledge, as he referred to it, stitched together with both sides unable to slip past his grip.

it's mostly exhausting around your legs, specifically the insides of your thighs that began to stiffen and ache, forcing you to taste subtle early signs of lightheadedness from your desperate attempts to not move nor clench down on him so strongly.

another breathy gasp, and you let him know that you're obviously struggling with his cock being way too big and heavy to remain in that way without moving at the very least— a warm puddle of your arousal exuding from your hole and divulging at the foundation of his shaft, sending droplets of the mixture on the office floor.

"please, oh, please." you whine, suddenly flustered when you realize you just blurted those frenzied pleas out loud, establishing them right against the shell of his ears, his headphones since long disposed of and placed on the table next to you— whilst beyond questioning, besides the fact that alhaitham was wholly absorbed into the fantasy novel in his hand, he'd never pass up on an opportunity to listen to your short-lived whines, the cute weeps or the loud thuds of your heart beat reverberating against his chest.

"already?" he speaks softly before you meet his eyes, surprisingly enough his pupils were blown wide and you cannot even fathom this level of discipline when it probably hurt him too to not move at least an inch up and down your fluttering hole. "i barely started this chapter."

"then read faster!" you interrupt him, no, practically snap at him, nervously licking your lips as your hands run over his cheeks to make him kiss you, his raw erection throbbing at the bold move as he for once redirects his entire attention from that pestering, bothersome, annoying book in his hand that you would love to just dispose of entirely.

"okay, okay," the man shuffles around, "you better make it worth my time then." and he teases you, always, then drinks up a trembling moan that spumes up on your mouth as his quick tongue darts out to run around your lips and wet them with his saliva, your throat aching in excitement for what's about to come. 

alhaitham bites back a groan when you swiftly mould your walls over his cock, needful and slobbering your arousal once more— you're so soft there, ah, it never fails to amaze him. but to get himself on top of things again, most importantly to not lose himself in you, he traces your back up and down with his palm before teasingly rutting into your wet sex, it's barely perceivable to you and maybe that's what would ultimately tip you over the edge if alhaitham does not stop those cruel tactics.

although, pondering over his honesty, it's quite cute when you're frustrated and bitter because of a situation he put you in, or how much harder it was to stay disciplined in focusing on his book when a coat of a heavenly expression litters across your bristling cheeks— it just feels so dreamy to be inside you.

alhaitham might just look past the little shifts of your body that you sneaked between pauses, despite them offering you the tiniest teases and moments of friction on your overflowing hole, and yes, your leg muscles were screaming for some sort of pleasure, regardless keeping yourself still and happy to take his perfectly shaped length.

𖧡 — BAIZHU

you brace yourself, without further questioning settling on baizhu's lap before lining your slit up with his leaking cock— his pre like a translucent film sheer on top of the rosy tip.

and for the most part, this scenario appeared to be quite familiar to you— at the end of the day, your boyfriend could never be entirely satisfied when you ride him for hours, he needs it without pause. it warms his heart when you’re on top— as if you were somehow claiming him, his groans exuberant with lust, a velvet tune on your ears so exciting as you watch how he succumbs to the touch of being engulfed by a warm, soft cunt.

this time, although, something didn't align with previous scenarios— because the second you had pushed him in, touched up his shaft with your wetness, baizhu instantly places both hands on your moving hips, breathily laughing in both bliss and an ulterior emotion as he squeezes the flesh of your ass, your pretty noises almost making him decide against doing this right now.

of course, you try to lift your hips so you could bounce up and down, his cockhead snugly enclosed and piercing your swelling flesh as he spread you apart by his girth, your body desperately clinging against his chest and it's only then, when you realize what's going on, your hot, breathless moans garnering his gentle attention.

"uh?" you tilt your head to the side, then wince when his cock reaches impossibly deep and nudges over your sensitivity, the infused tingles of that singular drag holding you captive, intimately trapped within his arms, "ah— is something wrong?"

"no, nothing." baizhu coos, mouthing a wet spot over your jawline before slotting his lips over your own. you fall into a kind of daze when he keeps you strong against his thudding cock, your hands on his shoulders when you press your nails into the clothed skin, breathing deep, slow, at least trying but your attempts immediately fall flat when he offers your body some teases of friction.

"is something supposed to be wrong?" you're sweating at his words, your leg muscles screaming when you gaze at him through confused, widened eyes, "i- i'm not sure," you babble, the shivers in your lower area doing everything in their limited power to keep the pleasure going for as long as possible, anything to make you feel at least something but baizhu wouldn't let you.

"think harder, darling." he grins, letting the exposed warmth of your cunt wrap around his cock as he lifts you up, "is this better?" no, of course not, you panic, this was even worse and you whine at the lost fullness, leaning against him to wrap your arms around his neck, his cock head still nudging at your slit.

"it's not, it's not, it's not.." you can hardly move, and baizhu swallows down your mewls with a lick into your mouth, nibbling at your bottom lip before smirking when he feels how you're rolling your hips, or at least, try— despite that, you're being met with strong resistance again, wondering how someone such as baizhu, who was perceived as a frail man, suddenly claimed such sturdy force in his arms.

"easy now.." he whispers cruelly, and you can practically taste his amusement on your tongue.

"maybe then "i'll move."

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Claws and Curses

Werewolf!Jason and Vampire!Reader. They’re best friends, your honor, even when Gotham gets weird. ~1.6k words

Being a vampire is hard. Seriously, five days of trying to adjust to sharpened fangs and claws has not been fun. You’re hungry almost constantly, and you can only take eating raw meat and draining the blood bags the GCPD has been giving out for so much longer.

On top of all that, you broke your bedroom door just by opening it. It hangs limply by its hinges now, and you haven’t gotten around to fixing it. You have no idea how metas with super strength deal with it.

You didn’t even get turned into a vampire the fun way. No, it wasn’t a bite that has you treating everything like it's made of glass but a curse. A witch with some sort of vendetta against Gotham cast a spell, and it left civilians, rouges, and heroes alike running around as monsters.

At first, it was funny, a day off of work wasn’t so bad, and you figured if Batman, who apparently got turned into some kind of wraith, couldn’t fix it, Red Hood would.

But by day three? You hadn’t heard from Jason once, and your boss was insistent that you could come back to work.

Day four, you still had radio silence from Jason, and Gotham was carrying on like Vicki Vale wasn’t delivering the morning news with snakes instead of hair and thick, heavy sunglasses hiding her eyes.

Day five, you were growing increasingly worried about Jason, and you were starting to wonder if you were gonna be stuck as a vampire forever.

Yeah, you had gotten used to opening doors without breaking them, but you had spent almost your entire shift trying to help one of your coworkers, who had been unlucky enough to transform into a yeti, try to deal with shedding. You were still trying to get tufts of white fur off your coat, even on your walk home.

You were so wrapped up in wondering if it was possible to curse a witch back, that you fail to notice the flock of harpies starting to box you in, eagerly trying to corral you into an alley.

They snap their talons at you, and it’s only then your attention focuses on the four bird-like creatures leering at you. “This is our territory,” one of them croons at you, sharp teeth glinting in the street lights, “and there’s a price to be here.”

Your mouth works before your brain does, and you tell them exactly what you think of their little power play, “That’s stupid.”

If they’re put out by your lack of fear, none of them show it. One of them inches forward, gesturing for your pockets, “Wallet and phone, unless you’d like for things to get ugly?”

Your lips curl into a frown. It would be smart to just hand over your things. You’re not exactly a seasoned fighter, and you’re not completely sure how durable vampires are in the face of other monsters.

A part of you wants to find out, to test how capable your strength and fangs and claws can really be.

You don’t get the opportunity to decide. A threatening growl fills the air, and as you whip your head towards the noise, as a large, intimidating werewolf stalks out of the alley behind you.

The harpies didn’t scare you. Most of the monsters you’ve seen haven't shaken you. But this one? He’s terrifying. Teeth and nails meant for shredding skin. Dark, matted fur, and eyes that seemed to glow. Just the sight of him is enough to have all your nerves on edge.

The flock behind you seems to feel the same way, and the air almost crackles with tension.

You’re not sure who moves first, if the wolf takes a step forward, or if the harpies turn to run from a clear apex predator, but someone moves, and your would-be assailants make themselves scarce before you’ve even registered they’re gone.

You half expect the werewolf to pounce, to hunt down the harpies, but he does neither. He sits himself down in front of you and gives you the most disappointed look you’ve ever seen, You didn’t even know wolves could make that face.

It’s then that you notice the clothes he’s wearing, the red bat emblem, the distinctive hooded vest. “No way,” you breathe out, unable to fight the grin spreading across your face, “Jason?”

He rolls his eyes at you, letting out a huff as if to say ‘Duh’.

“You’re a dog,” You point out, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice. Relief spreads over your body when he glares at your words. It really is good to see him alive, and just as expressive, even under the curse.

You reach out to scratch his ears, and he leans into your touch. They’re surprisingly soft under your fingers. “Shouldn’t we be fighting, or something?”

He blinks once, then twice. Jason lets out another low, almost indignant huff at your question. He lifts his head, questioning eyes locking onto yours as he waits for you to elaborate.

Your grin wider at him, almost teasing as you run your hand lazily over the fur on his head, “It’s just, aren’t werewolves and vampires sworn enemies? Shouldn’t you be trying to bite my fingers instead of going all lapdog on me?”

Jason’s ears flatten slightly, and he lets out a quiet, frustrated growl. It's clear that he doesn't appreciate the implication that he would harm you.

You laugh, moving to scratch under his chin, “Yeah, I know. Who cares about centuries of fighting and stereotypes when we have trash TV to watch together.”

His ears perk up at your words, and his tail starts to wag. He offers your hand a slobbery lick, which you make a face at. He grins at the offended noise you make, all teeth and mischief.

You pull your hand away, wiping the drool onto your clothes, tone accusing and playful all at once, “Now, I know the curse didn’t take your manners.”

He shrugs at you, at least as much as a werewolf can shrug, and starts walking towards your building. He glances over his shoulder expectantly, like he expects you to follow.

“Shouldn’t you be looking for that witch? Instead of walking me home,” you ask curiously, quickly catching up to him.

He leans into you a little, huffing in a way that’s so familiar you know he finds your question ridiculous.

You delight in how warm he is against your side, you’ve been running cold since the curse turned you. “I’m just saying,” you murmur, going quiet as you take in the fact that he’s really here. Your next confession slips out thoughtlessly, “I missed talking to you.”

His steps falter, and he turns his head to look at like you’ve said something important.

“Plus, I need you to fix my door,” you say quickly, embarrassed by your slip up, “Broke it with my vampire powers.” You waggle your pointed nails at him, voice light and teasing as you try to mask how much you actually have missed him.

You’re not sure if you’ve managed to convince him, but he keeps walking all the same. You make a note to look into jinxes to curse the witch when you get home.

You really do miss his voice, and the easy conversation that usually flows between you. You find it almost cruel that it’s been taken from you.

It’s that feeling that drives you to keep talking as you near your apartment, “You know you could come over, right? Even if we’re all still cursed? I can turn on that show we’re watching and help you with your fur.”

He has the audacity to look offended, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stares you down with faux hurt.

You have a stifle a giggle at his face, “C’mon, have you even had a bath since this whole thing started? At least let me brush it out if you’re still furry tomorrow. Deal?”

He’s reluctant about it, you tell by the way his ears flick back, but he nods anyway.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” you say happily, and reach out to pet his head. His eyes close when you do, and you bite back a fond noise at how his tail starts to wag contently.

You begrudgingly drop your hand from his fur, and you almost start scratching him again when he actually whines over it. You don’t know how he does it, but he gives you perfect puppy dog eyes that almost melt your heart.

“Don’t give me that look,” you whine right back, “Don’t you have to go save Gotham or something?”

He seems to contemplate your words for a moment, then gives in, nudging your side as if to say goodbye.

He nuzzles your side, almost long enough that you start to say something, before he pulls away to leave. It almost reminds you of how animals mark their territory with their scent, but you brush away that thought as quickly as it forms.

“Hey,” you call out, stopping him before he gets too far, “Make sure you come over, okay? Even if you still smell like dog.”

He grins at you and yips before disappearing into the Gotham night. You take it for the promise it is, and, as you head inside your apartment building, you wonder if he’ll be interested in the dog treats you keep around for Haley and Ace.

The idea makes you laugh, and for the first time since the curse took its hold on Gotham, you almost want to wake up as a vampire tomorrow, if only for the chance to tease your best friend.

[flawseer]

Not sure if you’re taking requests but can you please draw Orca? The murder mystery (the murder mystery sister) if you’ve already drawn her I’d love a link!

I wouldn't necessarily say that I'm taking "requests" as such, since offering that can be a rather precarious slope on the internet. What I am certainly open to though is suggestions! If it's something that intrigues me at the time, or I was already planning to do and just haven't gotten around to yet, I may give it a shot.

Incidentally, drawing Orca was something I already wanted to do at some point in the future, so...

Orca

I imagine Orca was very similar to Tsunami in looks and physique; both would be fairly large and well-built. Strong. Swift. Good at fighting. Orca might have had the edge in raw physical strength (as a sculptor she would be accustomed to moving large stone blocks around) while Tsunami has better reflexes and instincts.

They're still very similar though; if you were able to put them next to each other at the same age, they'd likely be difficult to tell apart (if one wasn't green and their markings weren't different). I picture Orca with two prominent and large luminous patches over her eyes, which is where she got her name from.

If she had lived, she might have had a potentially interesting dynamic with Tsunami. But in terms of causes of death, there are certainly worse ways to go than decking Coral in the snout.

[lloydskywalkers]

escape pod

dragons rising s2 part 2 is out that means PAIN TIME (cannot believe i got this to post with 2% service but please beware there are major major spoilers in this! if you haven't finished the latest dragons rising release steer clear)

Lloyd’s learned, a long time ago, how to ignore pain. 

It never quite works — pain doesn’t care for being shoved aside and silenced, and he’s also learned, on the steps of Borg Tower, the depths of his grandfather’s tomb, strewn among the shattered remains of Kryptarium Prison’s walls — it’s sure to remind you it exists with a vengeance. 

It’s taking that vengeance now. Now that he can’t distract himself with tournaments and battles and the exhausting adrenaline that beats out a steady alarm of go go go. 

The alarm’s still going off in his head, but there’s nothing left to do.

Well, that’s a lie. 

Lloyd buries his face in his hands, obscuring the blurring portraits in front of him. There’s so much to do — so many promises to answer and so many failures to make up for.

Jay. 

Arin.

The Source Dragons, the Forbidden Five, his uncle, Pixal, Skylor, and on and on and—

Nausea overtakes him, and Lloyd gasps raggedly. The smell of the monastery courtyard was comforting, once. It’s the smell of home, the smell of familiar incense and earth and smoke and seawater and ozone and Kai’s terrible hair gel.

The smell of everyone lost and missing and gone.

When he’d first woken up after the merge, alone with only the empty silence, he’d thought — that was the worst it could get. It was everything he’d ever feared, and he’d thought, after he found Kai and Arin and Sora and his family one by one, that maybe that was the worst it would get. That things would get better. 

“Stupid,” Lloyd curses again. 

His fingers clench over the hilt that’s tucked beneath his gi, close to his chest. The Source Dragon’s blade feels impossibly heavy, but it hasn’t left his side — he’s too terrified of losing it, of breaking it, of shattering the trust someone else has put in him. 

Why in the world people keep trusting him, Lloyd still can’t understand. It’s not even Lloyd they’re looking to, is it? 

Son of Garmadon, with countless eyes turned toward him in anger and suspicion.

Green Ninja, with countless hands outstretched to him, for him to save. 

Conduit, another vessel for another power and another responsibility. 

Master, the stupidest title he’s ever thought he could take—

Failure. Failing and falling and failing all over again.

Is that all you know how to do, Lloyd Garmadon?

He’s lost his mom and his father and uncle. Lost Jay, lost Arin, and he can only hope no one else is next. 

Lloyd’s fingers clench in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. It’s a pitiful distraction from everything else. 

Fever still burns hot and familiar beneath his skin, leaving an aching weariness that makes standing feel nightmarish. It’s outweighed by the jagged line of fiery agony that cuts from hip to shoulder, every movement sending firecracker bursts of pain that leaves him shivering and dizzy. 

Stupid. Lloyd’s getting sloppy. How many times has someone backstabbed him before? How many near-misses has he dodged, instincts born from years of training just saving him?

Stupid. Lloyd doesn’t need saving. He shouldn’t need saving. Lloyd is the one who needs to save others and all he’s done on that front is fail.

“What do I do,” he whispers, to absolutely no one. “What do I do, what do I do, what do I do—”

Does he go after Jay, with Kai and Nya? That’s the strongest pull — Jay is his family, his brother, Jay is a missing piece that’s been gaping in his chest for years, now bleeding and raw and how, how can he just leave him—

But then there’s Arin, Arin with his kindness and enthusiasm and incredible potential and pain, Arin who Lloyd’s failed and how he can leave him with Ras, knowing what could happen—

But then there’s Sora, who he can’t possibly abandon either, and the rest of his family, who he’s just gotten back, and the growing threat of the Forbidden Five and the Source Dragons’ thundering instructions and the crimson-edged blade burning a hole in his gi and—

Okay. Okay.

Lloyd lets out a long, shaky breath, biting back a whine at the spike of pain that flares across his chest. 

He can do this. He has to do this. He’s pushed his body to breaking before. Again and again, this time isn’t any different. All he needs to do is—

Stars explode in his vision. 

He barely manages to avoid keeling over as something pulls hard, as if to yank him from his own body.  

No, no no—

There’s a thundering ache pulsing through his head, like the strike of Ras’ gong over and over again. Lloyd fights back a strangled mix between a sob and a curse. 

He hasn’t managed it yet, overcoming a vision and staying calm. It’s too disorienting, too awful — the world blurring away into violent reds, horrible flashes of future failures like a demented strobe effect. The terrifying sensation of losing his mind and losing his body and losing the ability to move, knowing the world’s moving on without him while he’s stuck somewhere in some half-formed future. 

It’s like Morro, forcing into his head and tearing his sense of self from him. 

Another searing flash of pain, another aching pull—

A sharp scream tears through the monastery, haunted and familiar. 

The visions scatter like dust, and Lloyd is on his feet before he can think. 

One turn, a room down from his own — Lloyd slams the door to Kai’s bedroom open with an aching shoulder and staggers toward his brother.

He’s already cut himself off, strangling the cry in his hands as he gasps for breath, but it’s unmistakably Kai who was screaming. 

Lloyd steps forward, hands held open, careful to make his presence known. His heart wrenches as he catches full view. 

In the dark, Kai’s almost a shadow of himself. He’s too-thin and gaunt, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, almost ravaged from his time in the Netherspace. He’d come back so strong, burning and fierce and everything they’d needed, that at the moment, Lloyd hadn’t realized. He’d completely missed the toll it took on Kai, and hey! There’s another failure to add to the list. 

Not about you, Lloyd scolds himself fiercely. Enough.

“Kai?” he says, reaching a hand out for his shoulder. 

Kai shakes his head, face still buried in his hands. He’s muttering furiously, sweat shining on his forehead.  

“Can’t — sleep, can’t, gotta — gotta move—”

“Kai,” Lloyd’s voice breaks. He knows the panicked fear in his brother’s voice too-well. Knows the live-wire adrenaline that forces you to push through exhaustion and pain and abandon sleep, the feeling of failure on your heels. 

“Kai,” he rasps again. “Kai, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s—” He blinks back tears. As if that’s going to be a comfort. Kai’s got the world’s greatest expert in failing people here, lucky him.

Kai’s hand seizes around his wrist. 

“Lloyd,” he croaks. The panic is his voice is ebbing, the tremors in his hands growing just a bit less violent. “Lloyd?”

Carefully moving his hand atop Kai’s own, he nods. “It’s me,” he says, trying to sound perfectly put together.

Kai makes a shaking, broken sound. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, I thought—” His hand tightens around his wrist. “You’re here?”

“Yeah.” Lloyd gingerly slides next to Kai on the bed, taking both his hands in his own. “I’m here. For real.”

Kai holds his hands so tightly it almost hurts, as if letting go of Lloyd will land him back in the Netherspace. He stares at their hands, expression easing into something that’s a lot less frightened and a lot more Kai. 

“You’re safe,” Lloyd says. “You’re safe, okay? I promise—”

Kai gives a wet snort, pulling a hand free to scrub at his eyes. “‘Course I am,” he says, voice ragged but sincere. “I got you here.”

Lloyd stares at him. It feels, just a little, like he’s driven the Source Dragon’s blade right through his chest. 

He opens his mouth, ready to assure Kai of — something — and—

Promptly bursts into tears.

“Wha- Lloyd, what’s wrong?!”

“I’m sorry,” Lloyd swipes angrily at his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m fine, I’m fine, I just—”

He feels like his chest is crumbling. He sucks in a breath desperately, and tries to find a smile.

“I’m just really glad,” he says. “I’m really glad you’re back.”

Kai stares at him, brow furrowed in worry. Something flickers across his face, the gentleness Lloyd remembers from when he was small, and then Kai’s arms are wrapped around him and he’s being held tight. 

“Thanks,” Kai laughs wetly. “I am too. Really, really glad.”

Lloyd tries to reply, but it gets lost in the lump that’s formed in his throat, his eyes burning hot. Zeatrix’s wound sings in pain as he presses tight against Kai, but it’s easier to ignore this time. Instead, Lloyd buries his face in Kai’s shoulder, and tries desperately to force back any more tears.

The wet warmth against his own shoulder is the only thing that makes him feel a bit better. 

It takes a moment, for the wracking shudders to subside, but Lloyd finally finds his voice again. If he was a better leader, he’d know exactly what to say. If he was a better brother, he’d find the perfect, comforting words for Kai, he’d know just what to say to make him feel better.

But Lloyd is neither of those things, and at his core, he’s still only pretending to be older than he is. 

“D’you remember,” he asks, voice a whisper. “What you said, back before we faced the Overlord the first time?”

Kai’s hold tightens. “That we’d look back on this, one day,” he rasps. “And laugh.”

Lloyd nods. “‘Cause it would be over. It would just be — a bad memory.” He bites his lip, hard enough to bleed. 

There’s a ragged, shaky sound as Kai exhales.

“Kai,” he whispers. “When’s it gonna be enough? When’s it gonna — when are we—”

Their poor, broken family, fighting for so long. Jay, who’s bruised and bled and put everything on the line again and again for others, lost and alone and shattered. 

What did they do, to deserve — why are they still — 

Kai suddenly pulls back. His hands seize around Lloyd’s shoulders, his eyes pinning Lloyd in place. Dark and burning, Lloyd knows them better than he does his own. 

“Don’t leave,” Kai says. “You can’t — you can’t leave. Don’t ever leave.”

Lloyd remembers — the breath knocked from his lungs at Kai’s first hug when they found each other, the only ones left after the merge. Relief so strong he’d cried himself to sleep that night, crammed into his brother’s bed as they convinced themselves to hope the others were out there, too. 

“Promise me, Lloyd.”

Another promise. The Source Dragon’s blade burns hot against his chest. This one, Lloyd hopes, he’ll find easier to keep. 

“I promise,” Lloyd whispers. “I promise.” 

[wlntrsldler]

THE PROPHECY | LUKE CASTELLAN

synopsis: series of events between zeus!reader and luke that started the prophecy. not canon-compliant; inspired by the prophecy by taylor swift.

series masterlist | previous | next

I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope. A greater woman wouldn't beg but I looked to the sky and said "Please."

The first time you burned offerings, you had hope that your father would acknowledge you. It was the day after you got to Camp Half-Blood. You burned your entire plate of food, choosing to starve for the night, in hopes that your father would offer his condolences. Perhaps, he'd empathize with you. You both lost someone, after all, you a sister and he a child.

But nothing happened. You thought you did it wrong, that your father just didn’t hear your prayers– he wasn’t ignoring you, of course not, what parent would ignore their grieving child? You stayed up the entire night reading ancient texts, knocking on the doors of cabins to speak to head counselors for guidance. You were too naive about this life to notice the pity in their eyes then. None of them had the heart to tell you that your father wouldn't show mercy, at least not in the way you wanted him to. They never did.

You tried again the next day, only to be met with the same fate. But Luke, who had heard of your attempts, saved half of the food he was given and knocked on the door of the lonely Zeus cabin to share it with you. He'd gotten in trouble for not burning an offering that day, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to let you go to bed hungry two nights in a row. 

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, then years, your offerings began to get smaller and smaller, until finally, prayers became more of a chore, a thing to check off on your to-do list. It stopped meaning something. It was three years of unanswered, half-hearted, prayers. 

Luke stumbled into Camp Half-Blood midday. A large gash was across his face, blood staining his skin. He was clutching his side, shirt nearly ripped to shreds, similar to how his skin was raw and frayed under his clothes. He'd used all his strength to carry himself into camp before falling to his knees when his eyes finally found you in the chaos of it all. 

He said your name once, voice hoarse and scratchy like Ladon clawed his way inside Luke, ripping out his vocal cords, not sparing a part of him from destruction. When he finally collapsed, you ran to him, smearing the red of his blood all over your own clothes, as the Apollo kids pried you away from him.

For the first time in three years, you were going to bed hungry again. The charred remnants of what would've been your dinner created a foul scent in the air. Luke’s blood was still lodged beneath your fingertips, staining your hands even after you’ve rubbed them raw. It made you sick. 

"Dad," You pleaded, watching the smoke fade into the night sky. Your tears were flowing down your face, chest heaving as you ignored the distant sounds of the campers you were meant to be looking after. "I haven't asked you for anything in years, but now I'm asking you this. They can't take him. Please, not Luke." 

For a moment the world seemed to still. The clouds in the sky disappeared, specks of white faded into the midnight blue. You turned around, looking for a sign of life somewhere, anywhere. There was nothing but silence, no sounds of owls hooting in conversation, no whistles of the air, no chatter of the few kids who stayed at camp. 

When the flame in front of you extinguished with a whoosh, the darkness engulfed you, leaving nothing but the thin light illuminated by the moon. Black smoke rose from the pit as you looked up to the sky, "Please." 

A flash of light vanished as quickly as it came. There appeared a ragged line perfectly between the peaks of the mountains, bright white, leaving a haze of silver in your vision. Then a rumble of the earth, shaking the ground your knees were glued to. Lighting and thunder. A sign that Zeus had heard you. 

A high-pitched noise rang across the world, different frequencies like it was caused by more than just one thing. The noise made you cover your ears with your open palms, groaning as you fell over by the sheer power of it. Then the world resumed, like what you just witnessed, what you just experienced, was a glitch in the fabric of time. 

Your offerings were nothing but ashes now and the clouds returned to the sky, this time carrying the weight of water as droplets fell on your bare skin. You stood up, rushing to the infirmary, barely beating the relentless storm that was brewing. 

Lee Fletcher turned around at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide in shock for the second time that night. You stood at the door, trying to catch your breath. He smiled at you, as he took two steps to the left, then disappeared in the other room. Luke was propped on his bed, shoulders hunched over as he touched the bandages on his face. As if he felt your presence, he turned his head, wincing at the pain that shot up his spine when he overextended. Even with one eye taped shut, you saw his gaze soften. 

His voice came out as a whisper, barely audible, but you still heard it. "Hey, you." 

Your body seemed to have a mind of its own. If it wasn't for the sounds of your footsteps pounding against the wooden floors, if it wasn't for your hands reaching over to touch Luke's face, warmth spreading against your skin to anchor you, to show you that he's really there in front of you, you wouldn't have believed that this was real. 

The gods were cruel sometimes. They messed with your head until you were questioning your own sanity. At first, you thought this was one of their games, one of the things they did to toy with mortals for their own entertainment. Perhaps, Luke wasn’t really here; But then you felt it– his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Home. This was real.

"You're okay," You cried, hands grazing over every part of his body. You tried to ignore the raised flesh under the bandages, running across large expanses of his skin. The scars were still fresh, blotches of red marking the white cloth. "You're okay." 

"I'm okay," He repeated, a side smile appearing on his face. His hands gripped your waist, needing to feel you just as much as you needed to feel him. Luke wanted to tell you that all he thought of was you the whole time. Even when the sides of his vision darkened, and all he could do was drag himself through the familiar neck of the Montauk woods, it was the image of you that he kept chasing. 

You, waiting for him under the shade of Thalia’s tree. You, shaking him awake in the Hermes cabin to start your rounds around camp. You, smiling at him like there was something worth living for in this life. You. 

Luke wanted to tell you that it was the promise of spending life with you, even if he was nothing more than your best friend to you, that kept him hanging onto the thread of life. If he survived this, he swore to himself that he'd tell you how he truly felt about you. He couldn't die without you knowing.

"I shouldn't have lied to you," You said, "I should've told you to stay like I wanted to." 

Luke shook his head, "This isn't on you. I wasn't fit to go on this quest. I failed." 

"You're the strongest person I know, Luke." 

"This wasn't a test of strength," He snarled. Luke always got like this when he talked about things related to his father and the gods. Resentment dripped from his voice like honey. It wasn't a tone you were too familiar with because he never spoke to you like this. "I was right. This was a test of something else. He sent me on this quest to fail... and I fell for it." 

Luke did things with conviction. He was born to be a leader and it showed. He never cowered from a challenge. He held his head high, even when things didn't go his way. He learned from his mistakes and he made sure it would never happen again. 

But sometimes, in the rare moments where the pain of failure pierces his heart, he turns into the little boy you once met. The same one who did things for the approval of his father. The same one who defied the odds and fell into the traps of the insincerity of the gods. The same one who blamed himself for not being good enough– not good enough to save his mother from the Oracle, not good enough to save his friend, not good enough to warrant more than two sentences from his father. 

You always said that you and Luke were two sides of the same coin, both burdened by the feeling of knowing you should’ve done more, but differed in the way you went about life. Luke welcomed his responsibilities, fueled by his search for glory, while you shied away from this life as much as you could. 

Your mouth felt dry as the heavy raindrops trickled against the window pane, "I'm glad you're still here." 

"I couldn't leave you here on your own," He replied, voice dropping to a whisper. His hands tugged you closer to him. You let him wrap his arms around you, feeling his heart against your chest. "Can I tell you something?" 

"Always." 

"I–" This was it. He couldn't wait anymore, not when he faced death and all he could think of was how his heart would ache, longing for you, until your time came to join him in the afterlife. Even on the brink of his demise, all he could think of was you. He wasn’t afraid of dying, he was afraid of being in Elysium without you. Would it even be a paradise if you weren’t there?

Luke's words got caught in his throat. His confidence was at an all-time low. If you rejected him now, he doesn't think he'd be able to bear it. He didn't think he could handle the thought of facing the repercussions of this failed quest without you by his side. He cleared his throat, "I-I'm tired. Will you stay here tonight?" 

You nodded, running your hands through his hair as you gently laid him down on the bed, careful not to put pressure on his wounds. You kept your distance, afraid to cause more harm than good, but Luke was not having any of it. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his weak body. He couldn’t move much in fear that he’d tear his skin even more with any slight movement, but that was the least of his worries. In fact, he had no worries now.

He made it to Camp Half-Blood, alive, albeit a failure, but he was with you. There were no worries in the world anymore. 

“Luke?” You whispered. You turned to face him, recognizing the face you’ve grown to love even in the darkness of the cabin. The flashes of lightning illuminated his face every so often. Despite all of this, he still looked beautiful. Your Luke always did. 

“Hm?” He hummed, eye fluttering open at the sound of your voice. The noise of the storm was drowned out by your soft breaths against his cheek, warm and comforting. “What is it?” 

“You know I love you, right?” You professed, reaching up to touch the uncovered side of his face. He melted into your touch, feeling safe and seen in such a small action. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t make it.” 

“You should know by now that I’ll never leave you,” He chuckled, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll be kicking and screaming if they ever try to keep me away from you. They’ll have to send more than one dragon to keep me from you.” 

You laughed, “You’re insane, you know that?.” 

“I know,” He looked down at your lips. You’d both been in situations like this before, caught in the magnetic pull of each other, but had enough strength to pull away before either of you could do anything that would lead to regret. “For the record, I love you, too.” 

“Do you?” You breathed out, wondering if he understood your question. You said it to each other often. You both let it linger in the air, subtext and unsaid words on the tips of your tongues. “Do you love me?” 

The way you were looking at him made his heart race. Is it the right time to tell you everything? Is it too soon? Will you think that he was just saying these things because of what happened? Would you trust him if he told you that he loved you in every way that a person could ever love another? 

If he asked you if you trusted him with your life, you’d say yes with no hesitation. You’d trusted him with your life since you first met him. All his life, Luke had been taught to be wary of the people he met, but not when he met you. It was like you saw right through him. You understood him like nobody he’d ever met. 

“I love you,” He said, hoping that it was enough to show you. If he had his way, he would let you peek into his mind, his soul, and his heart, just so you’d see that all of him yearned for you. 

“Do you–” You paused, tilting your head to brush your lips against his. The storm began to calm outside. “Do you love me like this?” 

Luke’s grip on your waist tightened, hands burning against the exposed flesh on your lower back, “Yes. Always.” 

You sighed, placing your lips on his. You felt Luke shiver at the feeling. His lips moved against your own in a gentle kiss, innocent and kind. The rain ceased. You pulled away from him, continuing to trace patterns on his skin. Luke’s face relaxed as he held you in his arms, letting the tiredness in his bones win. 

When the both of you woke the next morning, the sun was shining brightly through the curtains, with no traces of last night’s storm to be seen.

[lxndonorris]

to be loved - Logan Sargeant

Y/N x Logan Sargeant Theme: angsty fluff you're invited to a gala to honor you're achievements at work. Logan, however, is doubting himself. You show him how much you love him just for who he is x word count: 1120+ taglist: @game-set-canet thanks to @iworldlywriter for the idea! Another Logan story might be coming very soon as well. Haven't written angst in a while...

The Miami Grand Prix has culminated in a whirlwind of emotions and adrenaline. Logan, your boyfriend and talented young racer, gave his all on the track, pushing boundaries and challenging limits. However, the aftermath of it all leaves him feeling more defeated than ever. As he sits in the dimly lit living room of his home, the weight of his recent crash pressing down on him, he can't shake the lingering sense of inadequacy that gnaws at his soul.

Across the room, you sit perched on the edge of the couch, your gaze soft as you watch Logan. Then, you look down at your phone, glancing over the email you'd gotten a few days ago. 

The success of your latest book, "Echoes of Eternity," surpassed even your wildest dreams. Its poignant prose and captivating storyline captured the hearts of readers around the world, propelling it to the top of bestseller lists and earning rave reviews from critics and fans alike.

Amidst the flurry of interviews and accolades, one invitation stands out above the rest—a prestigious gala to honor your literary achievement. As you read the elegant invitation again, adorned with intricate gold foil and embossed lettering, a sense of pride and gratitude washes over you.

Still, a heavy cloud of concern lingers in your heart for Logan. The recent string of disappointments on the racetrack weigh heavily on him, casting a shadow over his spirits even amidst your own success.

"Logan," you say softly, breaking the silence that hangs between you. "I want you to come to the Gala with me."

Logan's eyes flicker with uncertainty as he meets your gaze. "I don't know, Y/N," he replies, his voice tinged with doubt. "I'm not sure I belong there."

You move closer, sitting down right beside him, and take his hand in yours. "Logan, listen. to me," you say earnestly, but he lets out a long, deep sigh.

"Y/N," he breathes, "I know what you're going to say." Logan looks at you, searching your eyes for reassurance. "But this season... I haven't lived up to the team's expectations, to my own expectations," he admits, his voice lancing with regret. "I feel like I don't deserve the seat... like, I don't deserve you."

Logan's admission cuts deep, stirring a tumult of emotions within you. The raw honesty in his words lays bare the depths of his inner turmoil, and the weight of his self-doubt feels like a heavy burden on your shoulders. 

As much as you want to reassure him and chase away the shadows that cloud his mind, you know that healing his wounded spirit will take time and patience.

Tears well in his eyes as he avoids your gaze, but you softly cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Logan, look at me," you say firmly. 

"You are so much more than your racing career. You're kind, compassionate, and incredibly talented. And none of that changes just because of a few bad races."

Shaking his head in disbelief, his jaw clenches with pent-up frustration. "It just feels like I can't catch a break," he admits, his voice raw with emotion. "No matter how hard I try, it's like I am stuck in this endless cycle of bad luck."

You squeeze his shoulders gently, offering silent support as he grapples with his emotions.

"I know it's tough," you say softly. "But remember, racing is just one part of who you are. You're so much more than your performance on track."

He swallows hard, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty washing over him. "But what if I let you down as well?" he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Like I always do."

"You could never let me down," you reply, your voice unwavering. "Because being with you, sharing this journey together, is the greatest reward of all."

A few tears run down his cheek as he searches your eyes for even the slightest hint of doubt, something to fuel his belief in failure. 

"Do you really mean that?" he whispers again, his voice laced with vulnerability.

With every fiber of your being, you nod, your gaze unwavering as you meet his. "Yes, Logan," you say firmly. "I mean that with all my heart. I love you, not for being a professional racer, but because of who you are deep down inside yourself."

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, the weight of your words sinking in as Logan grapples with the depth of your love. And as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close in a tight embrace, you know he needed that.

With Logan wrapped in your arms, his vulnerability lays bare. You hold him close, a beacon of unwavering support amidst the storm of his doubts. Gently, you lift his chin, guiding his gaze to meet yours, your eyes filled with love and conviction.

"Logan," you begin, your voice soft yet resolute. "I believe in you. I believe in the strength of your spirit, the depth of your resilience, and the power of your determination. You are capable of greatness, of achieving heights beyond your wildest dreams."

A glimmer of hope flickers in his bright eyes, and his expression softens just a little. 

"What if I never live up to my potential?" His voice is barely hearable, rough, and husky. 

You brush a tender kiss against his forehead, your touch a gentle caress against the storm raging inside him.

"Every setback, every stumble, is a stepping stone on the path to greatness. And I will be here, by your side, every step of the way."

As the weight of your words sinks in, a sense of resolve settles over Logan, his shoulders straightening with newfound determination. 

"Thank you, Y/N," he murmurs, gratitude shining in his eyes. "For believing in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself."

"Always, Logan," you reply, your voice a whisper of reassurance in the night.

He leans in once more, hugging you tightly, and as you hold Logan close in a comforting embrace, you feel the tension slowly melting away from his body, replaced by a sense of peace. With a gentle smile, you pull away.

"Hey, how about we order some of your favorite takeout?" you suggest, your voice warm with affection. "And then we can snuggle up on the couch and watch that movie you've been wanting to see."

Logan's eyes light up at the suggestion, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

"That sounds perfect," he murmurs, his voice soft with gratitude. "Thank you, Y/N."

With a tender smile, you press a loving kiss to his lips, a silent promise of unwavering support and devotion.

"Anytime, Logan," you reply, your heart swelling with love. "I'm here for you, no matter what."

[daintylovers]

BABY OMG UR RECENT DALLY CASUAL DOMINANCE MAKES ME GO CRAZY IVE READ IT SO MANY TIMES

if ur comfortable ofc can you pretty please write a brat!tamer Dally Winston <33??

Like if you get too mouthy or have too much attitude all day he’ll punish you?

Despite popular belief I feel like hes actually pretty patient when it comes to his girl, but he still has a breaking point cause yk he is still Dallas Winston!

Thank you so much love!

*kicks feet and blushes like a slut* of course i can!!!

brat!tamer Dally feels like he's made for me-

it's not that he has a problem with you being mouthy, he loves that about you. hell, it's not even that you've had an attitude all day that's making his blood boil- he gets it, you have your days.

what's really making him want to bend you over his knee and spank your ass raw, is the fact that you're being a brat around the guys. come on now, you know his reputation. dally is this menace, someone not to be fucked with. so when his sweetheart angel baby girlfriend is rolling her eyes and giving him lip- the other guys start teasing him. and that is the breaking point.

so you're sat, huddled up in the curtis living room. and it's hot. uncomfortably hot. and dally is blowing smoke in your face. and you haven't properly eaten yet. and you're a little tired. so of course you start to get a little snippy with everyone. i mean, duh?

dally is pretty patient, so when it hits hour three of this behavior, and things have only gotten worse with you, he starts to clench his jaw. after you say something rude to soda, dally is quick to snatch your jaw into his hand, swerving your head so fast you swear you might have whiplash, what is your problem doll-face?

it's not sweet, and the pet name only further aggravates you. is that all you are to him? a doll there for whenever he wants someone to push around? the room has gone quiet- hell even the television seems to be listening in. glaring up at him through your lashes you say, you are my problem, dallas. you and your smoking is stinking up the house. it's disgusting. you're disgusting.

the full name is when he decides that the pair of you are leaving. but he lets you finish your sentence digging a deeper hole for yourself. the boys are taken aback, what happened to the sweet girl you were yesterday?

dally removes his hand from your jaw, attaching it to your bicep, yanking you off the couch so hard you go stumbling. but he's quick to catch you. drag you out the door. just for theatrics, so the boys know you'll get what's coming to you, he slams the front door closed.

neither of you says a word until you arrive at bucks. it's only when he's dragging you up the stairs do you realize the gravity of your situation. dally, I'm sorry! please, dal I'm so sorry! i was just hot and tired and i didn't mean to say that! practically pleading for your life.

he gets you into his room, and slams the door again. this time it makes you jump a little. is it bad that he likes you best like this? scared and wide-eyed, pleading with him. it's a power thing.

he sits on his bed and you stand to be in-between his spread legs. dally please, i really am sorry. i promise it won't happen again.

lay down, ass up.

you do as you are told, still pleading with him.

he flips your skirt up and the cold air has goosebumps rising.

you're gonna count. if you miss a number, i start all over again, got it?

and let's just say you have trouble sitting with everyone the next day.

[hearts4golbach]

can you make a long Johnnie x fem reader fluff?🙏🏼🫶🏼

Slumber Party.

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

a/n: happy april foolsss!

i impatiently waited for my boyfriend to text and tell me he was done recording with jake. i scrolled aimlessly on tiktok, reposting videos that reminded me of johnnie. about an hour had passed before i received a text from him.

johnnie: hey baby i'll be over soon if i can still stay over :))

me: ofc you can 😭 i'll see you when you get here ❤️❤️

johnnie: i'm so excited to see you

johnnie: i've been so busy

johnnie: i miss you

me: i miss you more, now hurry up and get here

johnnie: yes ma'am

10 more minutes had passed, my heart beating faster as i heard a knock on the door. i practically sprinted towards the door, throwing it open to reveal my handsome boyfriend. he stood there with a smile on his face before pulling me in for a tight hug. i jumped up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he laughed.

"did you miss me?" he teased, running his fingers through my hair. i remove my head from the crook of his neck, giving him the look. he giggled again before leading me back to the living room. he gently dropped me on the couch before plopping down next to me. "did you have anything planned."

i nodded, "mhm. i bought cookie dough so we can make cookies and watch a movie. but, we don't have to do that." i smiled softly.

he pats my knee before standing up, "well, let's go make those cookies. are you gonna watch scary movies with me tonight?"

i roll my eyes as i open the fridge. "why are you so persistent? horror movies aren't really my thing." i complain, setting the dough out on the counter.

johnnie had already gotten the cookie sheet out. "i think you'd really like them, you just haven't gotten to see any good ones!" he protests.

"fine." i give in, earning quiet cheers from johnnie. "if you traumatize me even more, i'm going to kill you."

"whatever you say, love." he smirks before placing a kiss on my forehead.

we began to make small balls of cookie dough and placed them strategically across the pan. i made johnnie put the pan in the oven since i had always been afraid of heat. i thanked him quickly, placing a kiss on his lips before eating some of the raw cookie dough. i gathered some of the leftovers on my finger and licked it off, my mouth making a pop sound. he raised his eyebrows before doing the same.

i smacked my lips slightly. "so, i had an idea." i smile nervously, "we should do face masks."

he raised his eyebrows higher. "i mean, sure."

"do i get to post us on instagram if we do?" i plead, pressing my hands together.

he dramatically rolled his eyes, "sure."

"your fangirls are gonna eat that shit up." i teased. "we can put them on while we wait for the cookies to bake."

"yeah," he held a goofy smile on his face.

we took an adventure to the bathroom. i pulled out a container of peel off face mask that i had gotten at dollar tree, funny enough. "this shit may burn our skin off, it's from dollar tree."

"oh, whatever. my skin is fucked up anyway." he replied, covering his face and shaking his head.

"oh, shut up." i laughed. i handed him a headband. "we gotta pull your bangs back, babe."

he scrunched his nose before obliging, slipping on the slug eye headband to reveal his forehead. i took a makeup wipe and began to take off all of the excess makeup he had on. he washed his face as i did the same, taking off all my makeup then washing my face whenever he was done.

i hopped up on the counter to get to eye level with Johnnie. i squeezed some of the face mask onto my finger before spreading it all over his forehead and face. the sparkly hot pink face mask was a drastic contrast to his fully black clothing and dark hair.

he looked in the mirror, making weird faces as the face mask began to dry. "give it here, let me do yours." he giggled like a child before taking the tube from my hand.

while he was putting the pink goo all over my freshly washed face, another idea popped into my head. "what if we built a fort to watch a movie in with our cookies?" the giddiness in my voice shone through.

he smiled, "what? are we in 5th grade?" he asked me teasingly as he washed the leftover face mask off of his fingers.

"no, but what's stopping us? come on, it'll be fun!" i pleaded with him.

"i'm just messing with you, i'd love to." he admitted. he kissed me forehead, getting face mask on his lips. he laughed, "shit." he mumbled as he wiped the residue off of his mouth.

"okay, let's go heck on those cookies." i dragged him out of the bathroom back into the kitchen. as i opened the oven, a strong draft of chocolate chip cookie smell hit me. "oh my god, they smell so good." i exaggerated.

"well, are they done?" he asked impatiently.

"looks like it." i scooted out of the way so he could pull them out of the oven.

we let them cool as we migrated to the living room to make our fort. johnnie pulled in chairs from the dining room as i gathered all of my extra sheets and blankets. i made a palette on the floor and Johnnie put a chair at every corner and 2 on either side of the blankets. from the floor, we could see the tv perfectly. using teamwork, we draped a sheet over all of the chairs. finally, we tossed all of our pillows inside.

the cookers were still warm but now they were edible. i tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave as we plated the cookies and grabbed glasses of milk and another miscellaneous drink from my fridge.

Johnnie and i crawled into the blanket fort. i leaned back into his shoulder, careful as to not get any face mask on his shirt. he smelled faintly of his cologne and the face mask. i turned on IT, specifically the one from 2017. It was one of my favorite movies, obviously. i pulled out my phone and took a picture of the two of us before setting it as my new wallpaper and posting it on instagram.

Johnnie began to pick at his now dried face mask. “i think mine is fully dried.”

“the. you can peel it off and put the scraps-“ i paused, looking for somewhere to set them for the time being. “somewhere. we can throw them away later, i don’t want to get up now.”

after i had peeled all of mine off, i curled up in johnnies arms. i leaned my head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around me, pulling me closer. we laid like that for a couple hours, adjusting as needed as we watched IT and the sequel to IT.

“you hungry?” Johnnie gently shook my shoulder, making sure i was awake. “i’ll door dash us something to eat, if you are.”

i nodded, “yeah, i am.”

“wanna order Chick-Fil-A?” he asked, scrolling through the door dash app.

i hummed, “that sounds so good right now, yes.”

he made the order. i rolled over to check my phone. it was around 1 in the morning, and surprisingly i wasn’t all that tired. Johnnie decided to turn on The Crow since i had never seen it before.

whenever the food finally arrived, we ate our hearts out and finished off the rest of the cookies we had made. we turned on another movie whenever that was over. Johnnie and i laid there in each others arms, full and content.

as both of our eyelids began to get heavy and our eyes watery, we decided to move upstairs into my bedroom. i threw myself onto the bed and Johnnie crawled in next to me, wrapping his arms around me before pulling me closer. he kissed my forehead, whispering a sweet goodnight before we both drifted off to sleep.

[yet-another-heathen]

Wick's Whump Drive - I

This is a commissioned piece for @light-me-on-pyre, who was kind enough to participate in my ongoing whump drive for Palestinian aid.

Want in? Donate $5/€5 or more to ANY Palestinian fundraiser, send me the receipt, and I'll write a custom whump drabble for you, too.

Prompt: "How would you write deconditioning?"

[ My lessons on how to write realistic conditioning can be found here. ]

---

TW | realistic whump recovery, emotional whump, brief argument, PTSD, flashbacks, intentional deconditioning attempt, implied past character death (whumper)

It wasn't the word itself this time. It was the way Caretaker said it.

"Kneel."

Whumpee went down hard. The mental cursing began when his knees were about two inches from hitting the ground. Too late to stop the movement. Plenty of time to hate himself for following through.

Where his knees hit, the jarring spike of stacking bruises felt like a punch. Failure.

Another. Fucking. Failure.

Whumpee groaned in frustration, hands balling in his hair. Then he was on his feet again, pacing. "Again."

"Whumpee, I think we've had enough for toni—"

"No! No, I need to try again! I have to get this right just once before I stop." He turned again on his heel, leaving another path in the carpet. "We keep going. I just— I just need to keep going."

Caretaker raised an eyebrow, not moving from where he knelt. With that endless patience that was beginning to grate on Whumpee's nerves, "...we have been at this for an hour. Your nerves are getting more and more frayed by the minute. You said yourself that this works best when you're calm."

"And what if I'm wrong?" Whumpee whirled around on him, tears in his eyes. "I keep failing. I've barely managed to stop myself three times this whole week. Out of what? Four dozen attempts? Five? Every time I quit I end up backsliding more and more. I can't keep giving up. This has to work."

"It will be easier—"

"Are you going to say it or not? You said you would help me!"

Caretaker looked taken aback. And just as quickly, his expression shuttered.

"What do you think I've been doing for the last hour?" he asked. "Don't forget— I still get to say 'no', too."

The reminder hit like a slap. Not because Caretaker was wrong. Because he was right.

It had taken everything Whumpee had just to keep making it through the practice sessions. With how bad things had gotten, he barely had the capacity to take care of himself right now. Let alone worry any of the people around him.

Was that how he'd been acting? Was that what Whumpee was denying him? Even the choice to be a part of this?

After standing there for another far too long moment, Whumpee let out a sigh and came back over to Caretaker. He slipped to the floor beside him, folding his knees up to his chest, back pressed to the couch.

Quieter, rougher, "...Yeah. Yeah, you do." He couldn't bring himself to look at him. "I'm sorry."

Although Caretaker didn't say anything, Whumpee could see the moment the tension in his shoulders let go. The fight passed over them like a distant shadow.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this," Whumpee murmured. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on his forearms. "Between the nightmares and the memories... I'm just... I'm so tired." Quieter still, "I can't seem to get that monster out of my head."

"You've not been sleeping." It wasn't a question.

"...I've been trying to. I really have. But I end up just laying there, thinking the same five thoughts on repeat, over and over and over. Things haven't been this bad since—"

A flash of bright light. Wrists rubbed raw. Whumpee was doubled over, arms wrapped around himself. Screaming himself raw with a flood of relief and despair and a hundred other emotions that he could never admit aloud. Blood spreading on the cement floor. Blood that finally, finally wasn't his own.

Whumpee flinched, twisting his face away from the sight. As if this was something he could just look away from. As if the memories weren't printed into his retinas like the afterimage of lightning.

He took a few slow, steadying breaths, shaking on every exhale. Clenched his trembling hands, open and closed. Open and closed. Eventually he managed a raspy, "...since before."

Caretaker watched, worried. But he knew better than to reach for Whumpee without asking first.

"Whumpee... you've been butting up against this same block for weeks now. I've watched you try everything except the most obvious thing there is. You need to rest." Whumpee opened his mouth to say something, but Caretaker cut him off before he could argue. "—I'm not telling you to quit. I know why you can't, and I would never ask it of you. But there's a difference between giving up, and taking enough time to catch your breath before the next sprint."

Whumpee averted his eyes again, throat working against the burn of building tears. But he was listening.

Softer, "You said this was something you'd be working on for the rest of your life. If that's true, then there's time. For just a few days... give yourself some of the softness you went so long without. Take enough time to be gentle with the man you're trying so hard to save."

The words had hit their mark. He watched as Whumpee's face crumpled. His breath hitched once, and he broke into a sob. Then Whumpee finally reached out for him, and Caretaker didn't hesitate to pull him into hug.

He buried his face against Caretaker's chest, everything he'd been holding back falling apart at once. Pain. Despair. Hope. Grief. All of it came pouring out with his voice.

"There. I've got you," Caretaker murmured, closing his eyes. Exhausted, but relieved that something had finally gotten through. "...I've got you."

[whorediaries-09]

i still do it for you, babe 🩷 bf!sirius black x gf!slytherin!reader in a secret relationship bc she's friends with regulus black, hiding and having the best night with siri in the ROR also HI, how have you been?

i've been really stressed lately, considering exams start from the 20th. anyways, how about you?

so high;

pairing- sirius black x slytherin!reader warning(s)- 18+ content. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- did. ya'll. listen. to. freak. by. ldr. (demo).

ps- i hope ya'll like hehe.

the slut club

you ain't gotta say a word, just spark that, let's get burnt

he had you pinned down to the mattress, as he teasingly pressed kisses all over your face, slowly moving down your neck. the slow sensuousness of his kisses were contrasted to the way he roughly pounded into you. his cock was deep into you, hitting just the right spots inside you. the room echoed the sound of skin slapping and heavy moans of pleasure.

'i haven't felt you in so long,' he breathed, completely enamored by your body. you nodded, your mind too blank with consuming ecstasy to reply. you breathed heavy, tangling your arms around his neck, pressing his temple against yours. it was a never ending loop of pleasure that burned through you, simmering under your skin.

'i missed you so much,' you whispered, feeling his cock hit your g spot just right. sirius had your body memorized, and he could sculp you out, pore by pore even with his eyes closed. you were a drug, a fallen angel from heaven. he was high, not from his cigarettes but by you. he felt like a fucking domino, he'd fallen on his knees just for you, and worship you like his goddess. you'd gotten him good.

the tears of pleasure strained down your face, ruining your eye makeup. he could feel the heat radiate of your neck as he entangled his fingers into your hair, pulling your lips to his. he slid his tongue into your mouth, capturing you in a filthy and dirty kiss. his cock plunged in and out of you, your stomach boiling with the hotness of your release.

he could feel it. you were clenching your walls around him, curling your toes, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. he could feel your thighs shake. he slid a finger down between your connected bodies, rubbing your clit. he left your lips, a string of saliva following your swollen lips.

'cum for me sugar. scream my name as loud as you want to,' he begged, pounding into your convulsing walls. his ears wanted to hear you moaning his name like a sweet fucking melody. it was the fuel to his fiery desire.

you nodded, as you felt your coil of orgasm snap, painting his abs. you cried out his name, your throat raw and harsh. it was a cacophony of your moans and his when he continued pounding into you through your release. he chased his own, your puffy walls and moans fueling him to paint yours his.

'sirius, cum inside me, make me yours,' you encourage through gasps, digging your nails into his back. he gasps, as the nail hits the coffin, releasing himself inside you, painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum.

he moaned, pulling himself out, and falling beside you. he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. he wanted to feel your skin against his, feel your scent infiltrate him, infuse him. he pressed soft kisses down your back.

'i love you so much,' he said, squeezing your hip. you turned around to face him. your eyes bore into his. they were blown with lust and love. you pressed a soft kiss on his nose and he smiled.

'i love you more...but i've to clean,'

'no,' he whined. you laughed, clenching your thighs together, hoping the next day wouldn't be much of a sticky mess.

'okay we'll do it tomorrow,'

******

'where have you been!' regulus shouted. he was normally a soft spoken person, but you'd missed a few lessons, and he was concerned. so when you finally showed up from god knew where, he exploded.

his eyes slowly wandered over you. he opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. you hoped sirius hadn't given you any hickeys you had to cover up.

'i-i slept in,' he stared at you skeptically.

'are you sure?'

'yeah!' you chimed, a little too enthusiastically for it to be an honest statement. he deadpanned an expression of thoughtfulness before he replied,

'you're wearing a red tie,'

[squirting-sub]

Painful paddle

I'm not very sensitive when it comes to pain during impact play, but I am a masochist and love pain. My dom also loves hurting me, so we picked out a new paddle (pictured below). The cutouts have very sharp edges and light hits warm up the skin really fast.

First, my dom warmed me up with a flogger while I was bent over her desk. Then, she started with light taps with the new paddle, eventually telling me to get on all fours on the sofa. She cuffed my legs to a spreader bar and told me I'll be getting my previously earned reward of 92 (hard) spanks. Working her way up with the intensity, she waits for the moment I scream into the sofa before telling me to start counting. She tries different spots on my body, seeing which place makes me scream the most. About twenty hits in, after my skin is already red and swollen, she takes the split leather paddle. I've gotten used to it and it didn't hurt me as much anymore. However, with my skin already raw from the new paddle, it made everything more intense and painful. She didn't start out with a light slap either. She immediately went in with full force, making me scream into the sofa even louder, instinctively moving away from her. She throws a blanket over my head so I won't see the slaps coming and to muffle my screams so her neighbors won't hear. Sometimes, she wouldn't use as much force and those slaps didn't count.

30-40 slaps in, she takes the spreader bar and flips me around so I'm on my back. She tells me to remove the blanket so she can look at me. Pushing the bar back, she hits my inner thighs and right below my ass with the new wood paddle. It hurts really bad. For the first time since we started playing together, she sees actual fear in my eyes. I flinch when she raises the paddle to hit me again and she smirks, not hitting me when I expect it but then going even harder. Even though I'm scared and it hurts like never before, I get incredibly horny. The pain turns me on and I like the fear. I especially like how much she's enjoying it. I haven't seen her get this happy when hitting me in a while.

I'm struggling, but she keeps me from moving by holding onto the spreader bar. With the split leather paddle, she also hits my boobs. She hasn't done that before and it stings. After a couple of slaps, I cover my chest with my arms, trying to soothe the pain but also to prevent further slaps in that area. "Move your arms away this instant, or I'll tie them up for you.". I refuse and she hits my arm with the leather paddle. It hurts less than her hitting my chest, so I keep covering myself. Then she counts down from three. It's been an intense weekend and while I love getting her angry and her being rough with me, I don't want to overdo it. I'm thankful she's even trying the new paddle and not waiting. For the first time, I'm also scared what the punishment for not listening could be. So, at "one", I remove my arms, and of course, she immediately slaps my boobs again.

Eventually, she flips me around again and just has fun using all her tools on me. The wood paddle made me sensitive, so the riding crop hurts more than usual as well. A couple hits with a thin wood cane make it break. We both laugh and she continues using her other toys. At 72 she hits me so hard and fast, I can't count anymore and just struggle. I scream and try to get away but she keeps me in place with the spreader bar. After she stops, she checks on me and I smile. "That was good. I like it.". She takes that as an invitation to hit me more, with the same intensity. I never finished counting the 92 slaps.

Some (not so great) photos she took right after to show me the result. I've never bled like this from impact play before and she had to listen to my whining the rest of the night whenever I moved and changed my position. She did put lotion on me and got me ice packs though.

The next day, most of the swelling is gone, but bruises formed and the imprints from the paddle are still very much visible (pictures below). Sitting hurts, but not unbearably. I love being reminded of our sessions throughout the day like this and I keep looking at the interesting new bruises.

[absolutebl]

Genuine Question: Given how much people hate problematic topics in BL eg: kp, mame, love syndrome, etc. why is everyone so damn excited about Only Friends? Like we know nothing about the show. It's GMMTV so how sexy is it going to get? you know, like it's GMMTV. I like the cast as much as anyone and particularly FirstKhao but I don't see this 'sexiness' everyone is going so crazy over? Is it some bts thing like I know the director is jojo and he's gay. Is that why everyone so excited? Is it because we just haven't gotten anything really brilliant this year that gets the whole BL fandom together and that's why people are hoping this will, is that what's going on? I like everyone involved well enough but 'sexy', 'crazy', 'problematic', 'high heat'... I don't get it.

Only Friends & Jojo

Genuine answer.

Okay so this question got me invested enough to get off the phone, over to the laptop, and onto hotel wifi, which means typos rather than dictation homophones, but there it is.

I guess what I am saying it...

mistakes will be made

From the tenor of your question methinks you have not watched Friend Zone? It's a 2 part series. Mostly messy hets but...

Also a TON of broad spectrum queer rep (lesbian, bi, ace, demi). Real queers, not sanitized for straight consumption.

Because yeah, GMMTV will get messy and go into higher heat levels in a late night way (not in a KP way).

But actually what has most people excited about Only Friends is it being sourced in this man:

Jojo Tichakorn Phukhaotong

Jojo is a screenwriter (originals) and director, openly gay, multifaceted and a little experimental, naturally talented (on the job trained - he's an archaeologist originally), and he is behind:

The Warp Effect, Friend Zone and MOST importantly (IMHO)...

3 Will Be Free

There are others too, but for the purposes of this post, those are the 3 that count. I think of him a little as the GMMTV director version of Ohm's acting.

Jojo specializes in:

ensemble pieces,

good chemistry (NOT necessarily high heat, so by this I mean actor chemistry with each other all around - couples, cast, team, production)

working with and finding actors within GMMTV's stable who work well together (even if that means busting up a pair),

a queer lens,

queer rep,

and often very messy story (as in he is not invested in the traditional beats of a romance, let alone a BL).

AND he can shoot action (this is a specific skill set for directors and it's NOT easy),

thus he will shoot his sex/intimacy & COMEDY scenes as if they WERE action sequences.

This makes his stuff particularly exciting to watch. It's dynamic, there's a lot of movement, the eye is caught and dragged places. He doesn't use dirty/peekaboo framing or central aperture or manga style (not with INTENT the way trained directors do). In fact he does none of those things I harp on about because I like the romance stuff.

He's not being clever with us. He's being honest, but still applying skill. His stuff not quite raw, but also not really directed. You can tell he gives his actors a script, throws them together and then instructs them to just BE THOSE CHARACTERS. He has a light touch, he trusts them. He's not fussy or nit-picky. He's not doing a million takes to get that sene exactly how he envisions it. His ensemble pieces are just that, group projects.

His eye is wide, even for intimacy, by which I mean: he controls and watches for multiple actors at once when there are a lot of them on screen together, without them feeling stiff.

His style is quite organic but not too gritty.

Struggling to understand what I mean?

For example, watch a Jojo "group of friends chatting" scene where everyone is just standing around then watch the same thing in, say, SCOY. You'll see what I mean. SCOY is also a very queer ensemble piece, but it will feel quite stiff, unnatural, and "planned" (staged) by comparison.

For the giffers out there you might notice that Jojo's stuff is particularly difficult to gif cleanly? This is why.

I find him an exciting director. I didn't cover him in my directors overview because at the time he hadn't done much BL (and frankly, he still hasn't). It's not his focus.

I think Only Friends is actually not likely to be very BL. Queer = yes, BL = NO. He won't hit the tropes and there is no reason to assume it will end happily for all couples (if any). That's not Jojo's point of view.

He doesn't play our game. As a result, some of those excited by the idea of this show (or excited the general enthusiasm & anticipation around it), may be doomed to disappointment.

It's one of the reasons you don't see me getting excited about it.

I'm a fan of specifically the fluffy side of BL, this will NOT be that. And I can appreciate a director without necessarily liking the stories he tells.

I am industry enough to acknowledge Jojo's skill (and I LOVE 3 Will Be Free - just not as a BL), but I don't always like his narratives. No matter how good he is, his stuff is not why I personally watch Thai BL.

It's GMMTV, so how sexy is it going to get?

Again, see Friend Zone. GMMTV has a late night pantheon, mostly for het, but they will get salacious. Lots of cheating and terrible decisions. There will be no archetypes. Characters will exist in grey areas, even the "good" characters. There will be no paladins in this show. No seme/uke.

To answer this frankly?

Only Friends will get soap opera or telenovella sexy but no more. So we will be in Midnight Chicken territory, not Bed Friends.

I think the words being bandied about:

'sexy', 'crazy', 'problematic', 'high heat'

are used here on tumblr (and in fandom) as an attempt to articulate expectations set up by Jojo's style.

Most viewers only react emotionally to the tenor of a director with this set of skills. That's fine, that's what the production company wants: A visceral emotional reaction.

But I hope I've managed to clarify from a film-critic perspective what's bringing this sensation about?

But ALSO seeing a bunch of, essentially, lower heat pure BL pairs, have to push themselves into messy queer spaces? (Notice GMMTV only let the more established actors into this one? No JoongDunk, no GeminiFourth)

This is probably really what everyone is excited about.

They are gonna see their favorites cheat, sleep around, be gay (not BL gay, but actual gay). Some are legitimately excited about this, some are shipper excited, and the BL-stans who don't know Jojo are doomed to disappointment.

I'm mostly excited by how messy this is gonna make the fandom.

Su su na.

(source)