#string snapping under its own tension

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

I can not tell a lie, I am a simple woman and I like when fictional men who have been trained all their lives to be unbreakable finally fucking SNAP.

[fanaticsnail]

Dreaming of You

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 320+, 600+, 940+, 1,200+

Synopsis: They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. Law, Penguin, Shachi.

Warnings: wet dreams, afab!reader, masturbation, slight yandere: law-penguin-shachi, dub con (masturbating while you're unaware and in the same room, using your image to masturbate to), all individual 'x reader', headcanons, you can sense my favouritism and bias, NSFW, 18+, MDNI.

Notes: Had to get this out, it was driving me nuts. Brought to you by my obsession with the heart-pirates lately. Please read the warnings. Kid-Pirate Version. Art link.

Tag list: @sordidmusings @nerium-lil @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @indydonuts @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff

Cries of bliss fell from your throat as you allowed the unbridled lust overtake your body. You writhed, overcome with grinding and circling your hips to use his thick cock to chase your high, clenching around him tightly to tether yourself to him. Looking up at your face, witnessing its contortion in pleasure was all it needed for him to immediately bark out a string of curses, spilling his hot cum deep within your core.

The contractions of your walls fluttering around his throbbing cock prompted him to cry your name and chase his high with more intentional bucks and thrusts. You whine his name, gripping onto his shoulders while you allow him to use your body for his pleasure. Your own high propelled his to linger longer, his hot spurts splashing up within you as he molded your body to the shape of his throbbing cock.

“I-I’m cumming,” he whispered, his brows furrowing as the tension in his stomach snapped, “Oh, I’m f-fucking cumming.” The soft, smoky image of your body crying atop him scorched into his memories. He couldn’t get enough, his eyes glazing over as he witnessed you take his entire load deep within you. The whisper of his name on your tongue, the soft smile on your lips, and body glistening in the soft glow of lustful sweat had never had him so transfixed on a single moment before.

His body suddenly jolted awake, the images of you fading away from his mind as he immediately sat upright in his dimly lit bedroom. Lips parting, he threw back the sheets and growled at himself as he looked to his lower abdomen. The white, translucent cum coated his still quivering and throbbing cock: the sticky fluid pooling over his stomach, down his shaft and dampening the sheets beneath him. He groans, wiping his face and pinching his brow before falling back and wallowing in his own embarrassment.

“Fuck.”

Trafalgar Law

He snuck another glance down at his body, clicking his tongue to reprimand himself.

“What a fucking mess,” he growled, his lips curling up and frown furrowing in the middle of his forehead. He hastily reached for his bedside tissue box, swiping a square napkins from the slot and began violently wiping at his skin to rid itself of the cum spent below him.

He was so in control of himself, every aspect of his life being refined down to a fine art. His schedule never differed, he even jotted in when he had the opportunity to masturbate to rid himself of his pent-up stress. He had even stepped out of that routine and managed to relieve himself before falling asleep last night.

So why did this happen?

Overcome with complete embarrassment and shame, he hastily stood up and began peeling off his stained bedsheets and folded them into his laundry basket. Reaching for his linen closet, he growled under his breath while he redressed his bed with his fitted sheet, top sheet, and new cover for his plush duvet.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” he growled at himself, looking down at his cock while he snapped the buttons in place to contain the duvet. Lying back within the sheets, he growled at himself, rolled over onto his side and folded his arms over his chest.

“Law, I-I'm so close,” your fictional and illusionary voice rang in his ears, prompting him to clamp his pillow around his head to muffle the thoughts.

“Shut up,” he scolded his mind, grimacing as he felt a rush of blood pool in his cock. He attempted to ignore it, but the images of you wrapped around his cock prompted his knob to begin twitching at the thoughts.

“Just like that,” your voice called to him, face beginning to contort in pleasure as your illusionary body contracted around him in his mind, “Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” he barked, immediately peeling the pillow away from his head and throwing it on the mattress. He folded it in half, immediately slotting his cock between the silken material.

He ground his hips down into the pillow with his left hand holding the stuffed material down firmly atop his throbbing cock, his right gripping the headboard of his bed. His cock was so achingly hard, thick veins began throbbing with desire as his mind conjured what you looked like beneath him.

Your legs would wrap around his hips, your lips crying out his name as he hit that spot deep within you that had you scream for him. He imagined pressing down on your stomach, feeling how deep he was within your abdomen while his thumb stimulated your clit.

As he imagined you reach your high, he manically drove his cock harder within the plush pillow: the satin shroud feeling slippery against his steely cock. He pictured you sobbing as you came undone beneath him, your eyes glistening as he had you reach your peak.

He gently cried your name, sobbing as his hips staggered in an unsyncopated rhythm. His voice caught in his throat as he let out a final lengthy groan. Ribbons of his release coated his pillowcase, his forehead thumping against the wall beyond the bedframe as he shot the last spurt of cum into the material.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he mourned his sanity, moving away from his prior position and opening up the folded pillow. He grimaced at the mess, berating himself for not only making another mess he had to clean up, but angry at the fact he used the thought of his crewmate to seek out his own pleasure.

“Fuck.”

Penguin

After quickly snapping up from his sleeping position and locating his shirt from beneath his bedside table, he wiped at his cock and stomach with it to rid it of his sticky cum. He rolled onto his side, hastily scrunching his eyes shut and pouting as he tried to fall back asleep.

His thoughts were swimming with the image of you in the thralls of bliss, riding his cock as you used his body to coast through the waves of passion. He could barely halt his roaming hands snaking down his abdomen and clench around his already hardening cock.

Praying that Shachi was still sleeping in the twin bunk beside him in their shared crew-quarters, he pricked his ears up and listened for the steady rise and fall of soft snoring in his ears. Once he deemed Shachi was sleeping deeply enough, he clapped his left hand over his lips and used his right to piston his cock within his fist.

If he was forced to cum within his dreams at the thought of you, he would intend on using that image to cum of his own volition. The way you bounced on top of him, flipping to wrythe beneath him, the soft slaps of hips meeting, the ripples of your ass as he bucked in from behind you; all of these images had him whimpering into his palm while he fucked his hand to reach his high.

He whispered your name, his eyes pricking at the corners as he spilled himself into the same shirt he used to clean himself up with moments prior. He was immediately overcome with disgust at himself. He had violated the image of you as his crewmate and turned you into his own muse to reach his orgasm.

Throughout the entirety of his shift with Shachi, his pout never left his face. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were shrouded even further beneath his hat, and his soft pout quivered into a deep frown the moment his eyes met with your body across the station. His red-haired crewmate beside him noticed his change in demeanor, giving him a soft nudge with his elbow.

“The hell is wrong with you, man?” Shachi arched his eyebrow, scowling with his upper lip curling into a soft snarl, “You’re actually doing work. And you’re so damn silent.” Penguin chose not to engage his workmate, picking up the pace with adjusting a panel on the Polar Tang.

“This got anything to do with...” Shachi leant forwards, whispering a soft moan of your name into Penguin’s ear, followed by a mocking tease of, “...I-I'm cumming. Oh, I’m f-fucking cumming.” Penguin’s face turned a deeper shade of red than Shachi’s hair, the blush flooding down his neck and igniting his skin beneath the burn.

Having a shared bunk with Shachi had its benefits: his closest friend being right there for him when the night terrors got too much for one another. He usually enjoyed having him there, but now that he was throwing his intrusive dream back in his face by mocking his sleep-talking, he was livid.

“Chill out, Penguin,” Shachi jokes, giving him a clap on the shoulder, “Happens to the best of us-.”

“-I’m not some prepubescent teenager who can’t control their fucking thoughts!” Penguin barked, prompting you to turn from your desk and look towards the two men. Penguin hushed his tone, whispering quietly to his friend. “I-I just-...” he snuck a look over at you, his breath hitching as he noticed your stare.

You shot him a puzzled look, glancing at him up and down before returning to your work. Shachi shook his head, clapping over his shoulder to support him.

“You know,” Shachi whispered, “They probably won’t bite,” he nudged him, urging him a little closer to you, “Why don’t you go ask ‘em if they wanna make your dreams come true.” Penguin snapped his head over to Shachi, who had already begun sprinting away from an enraged Penguin.

“Get back here, asshole!” Penguin roared after him, his blush deepening within his cheeks. Shachi chortled, reaching around your body and shielding himself behind you.

“Oi, don't bring me into whatever this is!” you chastised him, attempting to break away from Shachi’s grip. Penguin attempted to reach behind your shoulders, just as Shachi pushed your body into Penguin's.

As your chests collided, the angle of Penguin’s head trying to reach Shachi had his lips knit immediately with yours. You squealed in surprise, humming against his lips as Penguin's own surprise gasped against your own.

You both remained equally surprised at the fact that neither of you pulled away. In fact, Shachi reached for your wrists and clamped them around Penguins neck before he quickly scuttled away, almost forcing you to give into your mutual craving for one another. You felt the rise in heat on Penguin's cheeks, the warm burn causing you to smile against his lips.

Humming gently, you angle your chin up to deepen the soft kiss. You cradled his cheeks, squeaking in delight as he wraps his arms around your back and hoists you up into his chest. You break away from his lips to gaze deeply into his blushing face.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” he murmurs before giving you a soft peck on the lips, “Can we hold this thought for a second so I can go kill him real quick?”

“By all means,” you giggled at him, watching as a mischievous grin drew over his lips. As he releases you and begins to turn away, you draw his attention back with a soft hand atop his cheek. You draw him in close, giving his unoccupied cheek a soft kiss.

“Good luck.”

Shachi

Growling, he immediately threw himself into his shared lavatory with his bunkmate, Penguin. Never had he been so thankful that Law put Penguin on night shift with Ikkaku tonight without him. He aggressively scrunched at some tissue paper, cleaning up his spend all over his red happy trail. He groaned as he fisted at his semi-firm cock, ensuring all of the cum was out of his shaft and firmly squelched into the tissue.

Looking over at his bedside analog clock, he groaned and flung his head back. The small arm of the clock was barely touching the four, the larger one slowly moving to flick onto the ten. He slung his pajama pants over his hips, the material hanging limply and exposing his chiseled adonis belt.

“Not even 4am, for fucks sake,” he shook his head, peeling back his sheets and throwing them into his laundry basket. Weighing up his options, he decided it was not worth attempting to fall back asleep after remaking his bed with fresh sheets, and instead chose to use his time to have a lengthy and uninterrupted shower. He might even indulge in taking a lengthy, relaxing bath afterwards.

Considering the time and crew rotation, he chose the bathroom furthest away from crew quarters to not disturb those remaining in blissful slumber. As soon as he entered the room, he heard a soft humming melody echoing within the tiled walls and joined with the flooding water from the tap filling the large spa.

He turned the corner just as you dropped the towel from your body and stepped within the large bath. His eyes roamed over your thighs, hips, ass, stomach, chest and shoulders until he met with your gaze.

“Oh!” you shrieked in shock, gawking at him as he arrived in nothing but his uniform pajama pants, “Sorry, Shachi. I hope I didn't wake you!” A soft blush rose to his cheeks, looking away from your form and walking over to the shower.

Bathing together was not something uncommon with the heart-pirates. All members of the crew would often indulge in dipping into an onsen together, sharing a ceramic cup or wooden box of sake and joking with one another. It was never anything other than platonic, purely getting joy from being warmed within the water as you shrouded uniformes and became of equal stations and standing.

But now that his mind chose to corrupt the image of you naked, he couldn't help but to turn away from you and ready himself for a very cold shower. Stripping himself from his pants, he placed them in a neat pile beside your clothes. He took off his hat and glasses, rubbing his hands through his hair and placed them on top of his pants.

“You didn't wake me,” he muttered with a straightened, tight-lipped smile, “Couldn't sleep, thought I'd start early. What about you?" He turned on the tap, wincing as the ice-like shards hit his skin.

"Pretty much the same, unfortunately," Shrugging, you gathered several items to scrub at your skin, "I'm on the early shift, too. Thought I'd have a bath." Washing your face first, you lathered the suds atop your cheeks and eyes before dipping yourself in the hot water.

You sighed, leaning back and submerging your hair to lather in foamy shampoo. Your eyes were closed as you arched your back to gather the appropriate angle to dip the crown of your head within the water. Shachi snuck a look at you from behind the tiled wall of the shower stall, immediately clamping his eyes shut as he took in the sight of your bare chest with peaked nipples dripping with opaque suds of soap. He hid his face behind the wall, his forehead resting on it as his cock sprung to life.

“Fuck,” he whispered, turning the cold tap on more to freeze his body out of the thoughts overcoming him. His cock refused to let up, immediately pooling with blood and twitching with anticipation.

“Shachi?” you called to him, brows knit with concern, “Shach, you okay? You hurt?” You attempted to peer around the ceramic wall, but ultimately decided to give him privacy and an opportunity to talk.

“‘M fine,” he grunted out, his right hand grasping his cock and attempting to choke the life from it, pleading with it to fall back to its usual, flaccid state, “Just got soap in my eye, s’all.” The lie was easy enough to believe, causing him to grimace at the fact he could so easily get away with this.

“Oh, I hate it when that happens!” you comment with a soft laugh, lathering up your scalp and groaning as you massaged your fingertips within the damp strands.

Shachi flinched beneath the icy water, his arousal now heightened as soon as he heard your groan. He clenched his teeth tightly shut, his hand moving of its own volition as he circled his thumb over his tip.

“Hey, Shachi?” you hummed in thought, dipping your hair into the water and removing the soap from the ribbons of soaked locks, “Ikkaku, Bepo and I were gonna go to the bar in-land after our shift ends tomorrow. Bepo was gonna ask Penguin if he wanted to come too.”

Shachi hummed in interest, his voice breaking a little in the middle as he listened to your statement. He couldn't help it, his hand began pistoning his shaft and strangling his knob with each crude thrust. He sucked in his bottom lip and clamped down harshly on the flesh.

“It's got that one cocktail I'm obsessed with there,” you added, gathering some conditioner and layering your hair within prayer-like hands, “Did you wanna come too?”

Shachi’s eyes went black with lust, hearing such a simple word as he worked at his cock behind the shroud of the tiled screen. His breath hitched as he felt his end reach its peak, precum beginning to pearl at his slit.

“Shachi?” you call to him, unaware that he was picking up the pace of his hand beating his cock to the sound of your voice, “Do you wanna come?”

Shachi whimpered, nearly reaching his high as his eyes rolled back to your innocent suggestion. He was right there, he just needed one more little push.

“Wh-What was that?” he tested, using the volume of the pelted water within the shower to mask your question from reaching him, “Can you speak up a little? Ask me again?”

“Shachi?” You asked him, your question so innocent, yet Shachi allowed his thoughts to run away with him the moment you asked your question, “Do you wanna come with me?”

“Y-Yes,” he whined, “I wanna come. Let me come with you. I wanna come so bad.” Shachi painted the wall of the shower with hot spurts of his sticky cum, his eyes rolling back as he chased his orgasm as silently as he could. Ropes of spattered cum wrote his sinful desires against the tiles, his toes curling and his hips lewdly bucking. After coming down from his high, he clicked his tongue to reprimand himself.

“Fuck, Shachi,” you giggled, “I've never heard you so enthusiastic about a cocktail before! You sure you wanna come with us?” Your teasing voice prompted Shachi to chuckle from behind the wall, his voice was breathy and filled with humour.

“I would love to come with you,” he panted, immediately wracked with guilt about using your voice and image to reach his climax for the second time today, “Just let me know when you're heading out, and I'll be ready.”

"Okay, great!" you giggled, rinsing the conditioner in the water and remaining blissfully ignorant to Shachi's orgasm erupting on the wall so close to you.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Give yourself some credit - Lewis Hamilton NSFW

Can be read as a part two to Later is it, but it's a piece on its own.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: unprotected sexual activities, angry sex of sorts.

Also, wrap it before you tap it

wordcount: +2K

a/n: This one really ran from me. It was suppose to be an angst but this story had a life of its own.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER, -18 DO NOT INTERACT

______________________________________________________________

Y/n entered quietly the dimly lit hotel room; her footsteps barely audible on the plush carpet as she took in the scene before her.

Lewis was lying on the bed, one arm draped over his forehead, his phone in his other hand, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram posts. The tension in his body was palpable, even from a distance, and Y/n felt her heart clench at the sight.

The day had been long for both of them, but the energy in the room felt stale, weighed down by the disappointment that clung to Lewis. She hated seeing him like this—defeated, deflated, and already done with a race that hadn’t even started.

She could still hear his voice in the back of her mind, the way he had told the journalists over and over “that was his weekend done” the infamous “it is what it is.”

Quietly, she approached the bed, her eyes never leaving his face. He didn’t notice her at first, too absorbed in his own thoughts, and it wasn’t until she was standing right beside him that he looked up, his gaze meeting hers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a taut string ready to snap.

Y/n didn’t say anything as she gently took the phone from his hand, her movements deliberate and calm. Lewis frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she set the phone aside and met his gaze head-on.

“I’m gonna give you five minutes to mourn that shit qualy” she said, her voice steady and firm, “then you’re going to pick yourself up and behave like yourself again.”

Lewis stared at her, surprise flickering in his eyes at her bluntness.

For a moment, he didn’t respond, just took in the defiance in her eyes, the way she stood her ground. He could feel the tension between them, it was tangible, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

“What if I don’t?” he asked, his voice low and challenging, though there was a spark of something else in his eyes—something that told her he wasn’t entirely opposed to being challenged.

Y/n didn’t waver, her gaze locked on his as she stepped even closer until she was standing right in front of him. “Then I’m gonna have to hammer it down onto your brain” she said, her voice soft but laced with an undercurrent of determination.

Lewis’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile, and he pushed himself up from the bed, his movements smooth and predatory.

He could see the fire in her eyes and the way she refused to back down. He liked this side of her—how she wasn’t afraid to challenge him, to push him when he needed it.

“Oh, really?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he took a step forward, backing her up against the wall. His hands came up to rest on either side of her head, caging her in as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin.

Y/n’s heart was racing, the intensity in his gaze making her pulse quicken. She could feel the heat of his body, the way his presence seemed to envelop her, and it took every ounce of self-control not to let him see how much he affected her.

But she wasn’t about to back down now—not when she was so close to getting through to him.

“Really” she whispered, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest, “I’ll remind you of who you are.”

Lewis’s eyes darkened, the challenge in her words the sign he needed that she was on it too.

“You really think that’s enough to get me out of this mood?” he asked, his voice a low growl as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear.

Y/n shivered, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, allowing access to his lips to graze over her jaw as she whispered, “I know it is.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes, his hands sliding down to grip her waist. “You think you can handle me, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

Y/n’s breath hitched at the way he was looking at her, the raw intensity in his gaze making her knees weak. But she wasn’t about to let him see that.

Instead, she met his gaze with equal intensity, her voice steady as she replied, “I have always been able to handle you, Sir.”

Lewis’s eyes flashed with something primal, and before she could say another word, he closed the distance, his lips crashing down on hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was fierce, hungry, and filled with a challenge that took her breath away. She responded in kind, her hands fisting in his shorts as she pulled him closer, her body arching into his as if trying to get even closer.

The fire between them was more than just physical—it was a battle for dominance, a fight to see who would come out on top, who would be the one to break the other.

With a sudden, almost brutal movement, Lewis gripped her arm, spinning her around and pressing her hand against the wall. She gasped, the force of it taking her by surprise, but there was no time to react as his other hand yanked at her pants, ripping the buttons open with a harsh tear.

His strength was intoxicating, and Y/n could feel her pulse quicken as the roughness of his actions got her aroused.

His hands moved with a purpose, one holding her arm firmly in place, pinning her to the wall, while the other found its way between her legs. He didn’t waste any time, his fingers pressing against her through the thin fabric of her panties, the pressure on her sensitive bud rough and almost painful.

Y/n moaned, the sensation a mix of pleasure and discomfort, but it was the intensity that pushed her closer to the edge, her body responding to his every move.

Lewis’s lips found her neck, his mouth leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin. Y/n’s breath hitched, her knees weakening as the relentless friction against her clit drove her closer and closer to the edge.

She could feel her orgasm building, a tight coil of heat low in her belly, ready to snap at any moment.

“Lewis” she gasped, her voice breathless and needy as she felt herself unraveling. But he didn’t relent, his fingers pressing harder, faster, pushing her over the edge with an intensity that left her trembling.

She came undone with a sharp cry, her body shuddering against his, the waves of pleasure crashing over her in dizzying succession.

Lewis held her steady, his lips still on her neck as he whispered dirty praises into her ear, the sound of his voice only heightening the aftershocks of her orgasm.

But he wasn’t finished—not by a long shot.

While she was still panting, her body limp and pliant in his arms, Lewis picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, her body bouncing slightly from the force.

Before she could recover, he was on her, his hands deftly pulling her pants the rest of the way off. Y/n barely had time to catch her breath before she saw him lowering the shorts he was wearing, his hard cock springing free, the sight of him making her mouth water.

She reached for him, her fingers desperate to touch him, but Lewis wasn’t about to let her take control just yet. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, while the other hand slid down her body, his touch rough.

His hand snaked to her throat, his fingers wrapping around it with just enough pressure to make her head spin, her breath hitching in her throat.

The dominance in his touch getting her mind in a sub state she tried to fight off but her body instinctively arched towards him, craving more of the roughness he offered.

With a smirk that promised more, Lewis used his free hand to guide the tip of his cock to her wet folds, the sensation of him brushing against her still-sensitive clit. Y/n trembled, the aftershocks of her orgasm mixing with the anticipation of what was to come, her mind spinning as she tried to brace herself.

But there was no preparation for that.

In one swift, powerful motion, Lewis pushed inside her, bottoming out in a single, mind-numbing thrust. Y/n cried out, her back arching off the bed as she felt him fill her completely, his cock pressing against every inch of her walls.

He didn’t wait, didn’t give her time to adjust— setting a brutal pace, his hips slamming against hers with a force that left her breathless.

The room filled with the sound of their bodies colliding, skin against skin, the raw, primal moans echoing off the walls. Each of his thrusts was rough, deep, his cock brushing against her cervix with every movement.

Shockwaves of pleasure through her body that bordered on pain. His hand on her throat tightened slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her who was in control, who was dominating this battle.

But Y/n wasn’t one to give up easily.

And then she felt him falter, his pace stuttering slightly as his own desire started to catch up with him. That was all the opportunity she needed.

With a mischievous gleam in her eyes, Y/n clenched her walls around him, feeling the way his cock twitched in response, the tension in his body increasing as he tried to maintain control.

“Y/n” Lewis growled, his voice rough, almost desperate as he felt her tighten around him, but she just smirked, continuing, her walls tightly clenching around him in a way that got his head spinning.

He let out a low, feral sound, his hand leaving her throat as he braced himself above her, his arms on either side of her head, trying to regain the upper hand.

But it was too late. Y/n saw the opening and took it, using the leverage to push him off balance, rolling them over until she was on top, straddling him with a victorious grin.

Lewis’s eyes were warm, his hands gripping her hips tightly as she hovered above him, the head of his cock still buried inside her, her wetness coating him just about enough.

He was on the edge, she could see it in his eyes, the way his chest heaved with labored breaths, his body trembling beneath her as he fought to hold on.

But Y/n wasn���t about to let him off that easy.

She slowly sank down onto him, her pussy swallowing every inch of his cock until he was fully sheathed inside her, the sensation making them both groan. She could feel him throbbing, the desperation in his grip as he tried to control himself, but she wasn’t going to give him the lead again.

“I’m not gonna last at all like that.” Lewis muttered, his voice strained, his eyes half-lidded with lust.

Y/n giggled, the sound soft and teasing as she started to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that made his eyes roll back. “I know” she whispered, her tone playful and confident, knowing full well that she had the upper hand now.

She rocked against him, the friction driving him insane, his grip on her hips tightening to the point of almost pain, but she didn’t stop. She kept going, kept riding him, her movements purposeful, designed to push him over the edge.

Lewis’s breathing became ragged, his control slipping, and she could feel it—the moment when he lost the battle, his body tensing beneath her as he tried to stave off his orgasm.

It was no use, though.

With a deep, guttural groan, Lewis’s hips bucked up, his hands stilling her movements as he thrusted up deep inside her, the force of his release sending a shudder through both of them.

Y/n could only feel the warmth of his cum, the sensation overwhelming as she watched him come undone beneath her, his groans like music to her ears.

She stood still for a moment, savoring the feeling of him inside her, and the sight of how his body trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Then Y/n smirked and fell forwards, her fingers gently brushing a drop of sweat from his forehead. “You needed that” she whispered, her tone teasing but with an undercurrent of affection. “Had to remind you who you are.”

His eyes fluttered open, locking onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them softened. The intensity from earlier was still there, but it was tempered now by an understanding that went beyond the physical.

“You always know how to get me out of my head” Lewis admitted, his thumb stroking small circles on the skin of her waist as she leaned down to press a soft kiss to his chest.

Then with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Y/n decided it was time to move. She pushed herself up abruptly, knowing full well what the sudden shift would do to him.

As she leaned forwards in his lap, his semi-hard and still-sensitive cock slipped out of her, the sudden movement earning a sharp hiss from his lips. She couldn’t help but chuckle softly, her amusement clear as she watched him wince.

Lewis caught his breath, the discomfort quickly giving way to a grin as he blinked back to look at her, his eyes twinkling with lingering desire. “Was that my five minutes to grieve?” he murmured, his voice still strained.

Y/n smiled, her fingers tracing the lines of his beard as she whispered into his lips “More like 15, babe. Give yourself some credit”

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @itsmrshamilton @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora @goldenroutledge @timmychalametsstuff @jpgnsf

@priopp123 @strqirlhrts @hmmmmm-01 @bisexual-babygirl-mj @bebesobrielo

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

[themidnightcrimson]

palette ࿏ wm

summary: in which your mother commissions a renowned painter to paint your portrait.

words: 6.0K

warnings: top!wanda, fem!reader, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), lots of tense gay ogling, so much sexual tension, minor use of paint in sex, very victorian era girlie themed, mentions of men (scary!)

this post is for 18+ only. minors dni.

masterlist.

Your mother was being incredulous about the situation. Time and time again, you tried to convince her that you were not the marrying type, that she need not go to her extreme ends to find you a husband. Whether it was showing you off like show cattle at parties, offering to pay men to marry you with money or titles, or throwing you at the nearest man around, which one time ended up being the innocent post boy, she was relentless in marrying you off.

Any time a man did take an interest in you, which was not unreasonable due to your fair beauty and youth, you hated and despised him and dwindled down his integrity until he ran away like a dog clutching the remnants of his masculinity between his legs. Relief was momentary, for once you ran one off, she only brought around another.

Her new tactic that she invented in that stubborn little head of hers was to commission a renowned painter to paint your portrait to be hung in the halls of your wealthy home. With all the parties and dinners she hosted so desperately often to cling to her respected name in society, she thought that surely a young man would see the portrait of her jeweled and beautiful daughter and demand to own her. Of course, your mother demanded the best, so she hired the infamous Maximoff artist to paint your portrait.

“He will be here any minute,” she whispered behind you as she violently tightened the strings of your corset until you felt your stomach was tucked inside your ribcage.

Taking a shallow breath, the deepest one you could breathe, you looked down at the emerald green dress. It was a beautiful dress, sure. Gold lace crawled over the green corset at your waist, and the green parted at a low point in your bosom, opening wide to reveal your entire chest, metal wires ensuring that your breasts were pushed up and on full display. One thing about your mother was that she hid no tricks. You were her trick, and you were sure she would have you painted naked like a whore if it meant having a son-in-law and grandchildren.

“Mother,” you gasped when she tightened the corset even further, struggling to breathe. “Do you not expect a common man to want a wife who breathes?”

“Hush,” she snapped as she tied off the strings at your back. The dress’s intricate under-weavings made sure that your hips looked wider than your own intellect. Most of the time, you liked to prance around in delicate underdresses in which you could breathe and move freely. This dress, with its constricting corset and heavy hips and layers upon layers of white underskirts, made you feel like you were standing with your head in a noose.

“If he’s such an excellent painter, can’t he just use his own imagination about what I’m wearing? That’s what most men do in their heads, anyway.”

“Mr. Maximoff is the most respected artist in the country,” she breathed, circling you to look you once over. Her hands went to the breast of the corset, trying to lower it down even more.

“Mother!” you shrieked, widening your eyes at her and tugging the fabric back up. “Why are you trying to make me look like a whore in front of who you say is the most respected artist in the country?!”

“He’s Sokovian,” she argued. “They’re exotic.”

You rolled your eyes at her bitter distaste for foreigners, and if you could breathe, you would have let the venomous words roll off your tongue.

“Besides, even if he doesn’t paint you as a doable wife, perhaps he would graciously take you himself.” Her eyes flickered up to your hair which was swooped high up on your head, a few curls of your hair hanging over your cheeks. The earrings on your ears were heavy, and the jewels on your neck were even heavier. You felt like your outer bearings weighed a thousand pounds and were crushing your frail body with every passing second. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to die in that moment, you certainly did, but you would be damned if it was in such a ridiculous outfit.

A housemaid rushed into the room suddenly and declared, “The painter has arrived.”

Your mother nearly slapped you across the face with how fast her hands went to fixing your hair. “Send him in!”

There was a hesitant look on the maid’s face, but she left with her hands fumbling together. Your mother turned your shoulders towards the door, harshly slapping your lower back to make your back straighten. You sighed, feeling anxious at how little you could breathe. You grabbed at your neck as if that would help you breathe, but your mother slapped your hand away. “Don’t fidget.”

She stood next to you, her hands posed at her front, a wide smile on her face. You were pretty sure that she wanted her men to desire herself as much as they desired you, and sometimes you wondered if you might marry a man just so he could fuck your mother and get her out of your own ass.

“Smile,” she whispered, but that was one thing she would have to slap across your face before you ever would.

The door to the library opened slowly, and you could feel your mother’s excited breaths beside you. A booted foot stepped into the room first, your eyes following the body that stepped through. A leg clothed in wide grey trousers, a frilly cream blouse tucked into the pants. You were offput by a mane of long, wavy brunette hair, though your first instinct was maybe Sokovian men donned long hair as a cultural preference. But when you saw the face that glowed into the room, those viridescent eyes, sharp cheekbones with a feminine curve, supple pink lips, your own lips fell open as you realized that Mr. Maximoff was, in fact, a woman.

You thought your mother was going to spontaneously combust in a theatrical display of steaming, rageful sparks. You looked over at her—her eyes were glancing down the woman over and over again, trying to figure out how in the world this person could possibly be a woman, this person who she had built up to the be the key to breeding her own daughter.

You couldn’t help but gleam at the impossibly devastated look on her face. This painter was a woman standing here in pants, holding an easel with a canvas under one strong arm and a bag full of paints in the other.

“Mr. Maximoff?” your mother gasped stupidly.

By the look on the woman’s face, you could tell this wasn’t the first time. “Ms. Maximoff. Wanda.” She stepped forward, setting her supplies down on the floor. “It is a pleasure to meet you and have the honor of being commissioned by your name.” Her Sokovian accent was thick and velvety. She came closer, holding out a hand to your mother. She eyed it like it was a snake, but took it, and Wanda shook her hand like a man.

Her snakelike eyes flickered to you. “I presume this is your daughter—my subject?”

“Uh…” Your mother began, her eyes focused on the shape of Wanda’s breasts under her shirt as if in disbelief. “Yes, this is my daughter, y/n.”

Your eyes were trained on Wanda’s. They were looking at you pointedly, a little wide, soaking up every inch of your presence as if you were the only source of light in the room. Her lips curved into a coy smirk. “Pleasure,” she gently spoke, reaching for your hand. You gave it to her, expecting her to shake it, but she gently turned your palm over, her thumb tracing the soft skin on the back of your hand, before she lowered down and pressed her lips there.

It became even harder to breathe as the woman rose back up, the feeling of her lips still tingling on the skin of your hand. “You are as beautiful as your mother spoke of you.”

For once, you actually smiled without your mother forcing you to. Wanda stepped away, looking between you and your mother expectantly. “Well, shall I get to work? I do charge by the hour.”

Your mother was in some sort of trance. “Oh, um… Sure—well, you see Mr.—Ms. Maximoff—”

“Wanda.”

“… Wanda. I was, admittedly, under the impression that the painter I commissioned to paint my daughter’s portrait would be a man. Are you sure that you do not have a father or brother by the same name, or even a husband, who can come instead? You see, this portrait is going to be very important to me. I intend to show my daughter’s beauty and wealth so that I can find her a proper husband, and given that is such an important cause, I need a painter with the highest skill and artistry to do it properly.”

Wanda only blinked. “There is no other Maximoff but myself. I understand your concern about this portrait, but I ensure you that my skill and artistry will serve the best purpose for your daughter, though her beauty so obvious that even a street painter could convey it.” Her eyes flickered to you again, drawing up another smile on your face. It was funny how she was painting your face without even holding a brush.

Your mother’s eyes danced around uncomfortably. “Well…” She paused, looking over Wanda once again. “Alright.”

“Shall we do it here?” Wanda asked, pointing towards a sofa that sat in the corner of the library against a beautifully wallpapered wall.

“Alright,” your mother said reluctantly. Wanda instantly went to work, setting up her easel and canvas in front of the sofa. She then turned to you, holding out her hand with that sort of smirk on her face. “Come.”

Hesitating, you stepped forward, sliding your hand into her soft, gentle one. She led you over to the sofa, gesturing you to sit, holding your hand until you were fully seated. You squirmed a little as she looked down at you, her eyes appearing darker now that she was turned away from your mother who stood watching with nervous eyes and fidgeting hands. Wanda was staring down at you with an unreadable expression, and when your mother cleared her throat in the silence, it seemed she almost forgot she was there.

Wanda turned to look at your mother, clasping her hands behind her back and taking a few steps towards her.

“My lady, I do find my creative focus more intent when in the presence of only my muse and myself,” Wanda spoke confidently. Your mother was obviously taken aback by this, as if she had expected to watch the entire process, her hand of control over every little thing. She liked to think she was God, or at least God of your world and everything that had to do with you.

“Oh—are you sure?”

Wanda smiled graciously and nodded.

Your mother looked between Wanda and you reluctantly before finally nodding and stepping away. “Well, if you need me, you can ring the bell for the maid.” She paused again, waiting to be told to stay, but Wanda only stared at her, so finally she left, closing the door gently behind her.

You could breathe a little easier now that your mother wasn’t in the room. Wanda sighed and turned on her heel to face you. Your back straightened instinctively under her prolonged stare, your eyebrows creasing to try and figure out why she was staring at you with her head tilted as if you were already a painting hung in a gallery.

“Confusion doesn’t look good on you, darling, and it surprises me so that anything could not look good on you,” she smoothly murmured, taking slow steps parallel from you. She disappeared behind the easel before reappearing on the other side of it, her eyes still trained on you.

You shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “You’re staring at me.”

She blinked, a smile widening on her face. “I’m supposed to paint you. How can I do that without ever looking at you?”

Your face warmed a little, eyes darting down to the floor. She made a noise with her tongue before she went over to the large window of the grand library, pulling on a chain to close the thick, heavy curtains until the room was blanketed in darkness. You could hardly see anything now—you heard the fumbling of things and the striking of a match before a golden light emanated from the table nearby. Wanda had lit a candle, bringing the match near her lips and blowing on it to put it out.

“What are you doing?”

She walked to the other side of the sofa where another smaller table was and lit a candle there too, so that now you were blanketed in a soft, orange huge.

“This painting is to attract men to you for the purpose of marriage, correct?” she asked as she blew the second match out. “What’s more attractive than dim lighting under the intimate glow of candles?” Her eyes, darker now, flickered to you as she walked back to her easel, dragging a nearby stool to the easel and lighting one last candle there so that she could see her work.

“How sensual,” you remarked, to which a hidden smile curled on her lips, shadowed by her hair.

Wanda reached into her bag and brought out a palette, a tin can of brushes, a jug of water, and several bottles of paint, placing them all on the stool beside the easel. You expected her to just be quiet and start painting, but she walked towards you. Your chin rose to keep your eyes on hers as she neared you, looking down at you analytically.

“Sit back a little,” she said softly, “So your back is against the cushion.” You did as she said, scooting back until you could sit up straight with the support of the cushion. “Good. Now, your hands…” She looked at where you had placed them, lying mindlessly on either side of your lap. “What are we going to about those?” She smirked again.

“What do you mean?”

“Hands are as integral part of a portrait as is the face,” she tilted her head and leaned back, imagining your visage as a whole. “Cross them over your lap.”

You plopped them over each other on your knees, expecting that to be good enough, but when you glanced back at her, she was trying not to laugh. “What?” you asked defensively.

“Nothing,” she said, her Sokovian accent edged with amusement. “Here.” She knelt down in front of you, gently taking your wrists into her hands. You held your breath as she positioned them very particularly over your lap, trying to ignore the way her fingertips grazed the fabric of your skirt and left wrinkles in the fabric there, indentions of her touch. Her hands touching yours so delicately was sending jolts of electricity up your spine. You blasphemed yourself for being so shy of a simple touch, from a girl, nonetheless.

Once she had your hands positioned the way she wanted, she stood back up and assessed your top half. You caught the way her eyes fed upon your chest for a brief, startling moment before she looked up to your face. “Sit up a little straighter.” She put her hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you to sit up, her fingertips sliding to your upper back. You grew bothered at how handsy she was being. Her hands moved to your face, adjusting the curls of hair that were left out of your updo. Her face was close to yours now, her cool breath fanning across your mouth and leaving you no room to breathe, a heat forming under the skin of your face.

You recoiled suddenly, and she looked at you with unnerved eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

Her sudden change of confidence at the thought of somehow paining you by moving your hair eased your discomfort a little. “You’re reminding me of my mother. Always picking at me, fixing me.”

Her lips pursed together. “Your mother fixes you to her liking. I’m fixing you to yours.”

You eyed her suspiciously. “I haven’t said a word to you about any of my likings.” You noticed how quiet you were speaking, how quiet the room was, how close you were together in the corner of the large room.

“You don’t have to. I can tell,” she whispered with a crawling smile, adjusting your hair one last time before finally moving away from you. “Now, just sit.”

“Seems simple enough,” you breathed once she was finally behind her easel, trying your best to stay still.

She picked up her palette and started mixing paints and water, tussling through some brushes before finding one she wanted, and you finally heard the scraping of her brush on the canvas. You would have much rather been behind the easel with her, watching with as much curiosity and intrigue as you had then as she worked, than be sitting still like a lifeless doll as her eyes stared at you.

After several minutes of having her look between you and the easel, you started to get uncomfortable. The corset was still restricting your breath, and it felt impossible to keep your hands completely still. The dress was making your back hurt, and the painful silence and the feeling of Wanda’s eyes constantly on yours was enough to make you go mad. You hadn’t even realized that you were starting to squirm, accidentally moving your hands and your position.

You heard a sigh which led you to look back up at Wanda. She set the palette down, along with her brush, and stepped out from behind the easel, pacing back and forth with her eyes set upon you in a sort of disappointed and confused stare.

“What?” you blurted, feeling offended that somehow she thought you couldn’t even just sit to her liking. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re fidgeting,” she said with more seriousness, her artistic focus shining through.

You looked down and realized that somehow over the course of a few minutes you had completely lost the original position she had you in. You sighed, deflating as sharp pains ran up your torso. “I’ve never been painted before.”

“Well, it’s an honor to take your portrait virginity,” she countered with a little smirk, ceasing her pacing to stand staring at you with a tilted head.

A searing hot blush fled to your cheeks. “You speak like a man.”

“You’re sitting like one.”

You realized you were lounging disgracefully on the sofa with your back hunched and legs open. Snapping your legs shut, you groaned and laid back on the sofa dramatically. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t want to be painted?”

“No! And I don’t want to be married off to some bastard and bred like swine until I die. I cannot breathe without her trying to stuff me into a man’s side like an armpiece. I cannot breathe with her constantly in my ear speaking to me how I should talk better, walk better, sit better, stand better, look better. I cannot breathe—I just cannot breathe!” You leaned forward suddenly, feeling faint and gasping for air, clawing helplessly at the front of your corset whose fabric was stuck to your skin.

Wanda neared you calmly, holding out a hand in front of your face. Still gasping, you looked up at her, eyes falling to her hand. Feeling helpless, you slid your hand into yours and stood to face her. You realized then suddenly just how beautiful she was, with her full mouth and sharp eyes that were always piercing into you. Without speaking, her hands slid over your shoulders and smoothly turned you around. You froze, confused about what she was doing until you felt her fingers at your back and the sound of strings being undone.

“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed, knowing how long it took your mother to zip you up in that dreadful thing and how, if she knew you had undone it, she would tie it up even tighter.

“I cannot paint you like this,” her husky voice spoke close behind you. “You look dead in this dress.”

“God,” you breathed as she tugged at the strings, causing your body to move with her force. “That’s an interesting way to call someone ugly.”

“You are not alive like this,” she explained, “I can tell that this is not you. This is only a shell, a makeup of your mother. I am not here to paint your mother—I am here to paint you. My muse has to be completely herself, with no facades or lies. I need to see you as you are, truly and honestly. And also, you do look two heartbeats away from death by asphyxiation in this damned thing.” With a forceful tug, she ripped the back of the corset open so forcefully that your body was yanked backwards towards her, but she caught you, hands firmly on your waist.

You gasped in a full breath of air, and although it was a dusty library, it was the freshest breath of air you had ever taken. You were leaning back against her chest now, strands of her brown hair over your chest. Her hands holding your waist slid upwards a little, your body shivering at the feeling.

Her mouth was close to your ear as she whispered, “I’m going to undress you as gently as I can…” As her breath fanned against your ear, alighting all kinds of nerves in your spine that you’d never felt before, her hands slid around the front of your abdomen. “But forgive me if my creative expressions make me a little…forceful.”

She punctuated her words with an aggressive tug on your corset, which made you gasp sharply. She peeled it off your upper body, grabbing at the hips of the dress and tugging it down, also, bending and pulling all the green off your body until it was pooled at your ankles in a pathetic lump of fabric. You turned your head, looking down at Wanda who was crouched at your calves and staring up at you with parted lips and seductive eyes.

Wanda’s hand snaked around your smooth ankle first, cupping your shin as she started to rise, moving back around to behind your knees, lifting up your layers of underskirts as she went. She rose up behind you now, dragging her hand all the way up your leg under your skirt until it was on your hip, centimeters away from your bum.

Your heart was beating fast in your body that was growing warmer even without the top layer of clothing now. All that was left was the white slip that covered your body and the second underskirt.

“I need to see the real you, detka,” she spoke, Sokovian accent think and sensual in your ear.

You could smell her strong perfume of fig, her soft hair tickling your shoulders. You couldn’t believe that this woman had just ripped your dress from you and had you standing in barely any clothing that you wouldn’t even let your mother see you in.

“How can I convey you on canvas if I don’t know you?” She whispered, and the slightest graze of her lips against your ear sent a jolt down your body.

Her fingertips went to your shoulders, tickling your skin as she guided the thin strap of your slip down your shoulders, bringing you to shiver.

“Wanda,” you breathed, unsure of what you wanted to say. Sliding her hands over your skin, keeping her touch on you, she circled you, coming in front of you to look into your eyes.

“Trust me, detka,” she whispered, “I’m a master of the arts. I know what I am doing.”

That she did, with a smirk as she slowly pulled your slip down. You tried to stand confidently under her gaze and touch, but when you felt the silky fabric catch over your breasts and then fall below to reveal them, you gasped desperately for air. Her eyes flickered down, feasting upon the sight of you with utter desire and sensuality. Her mouth was open, lip nearly trembling as she pulled the slip down over your intimate stomach, and then pushed it along with the second skirt off your hips so that you were standing bare and entirely naked in front of her.

“Beautiful,” she breathed with ragged voice. “So… fucking beautiful.”

The vulgar word pierced your spine and made your body heat even more. Your skin was flush and pink under the close, golden hue of the flickering candles, that same unsteady light revealing Wanda’s bulging pupils and darkened irises. She was devouring you with her eyes, and through the lust you saw the creative plates molding perfectly together in her mind.

“Lay down,” she said with faltering voice, clearing her throat as she guided you to the sofa.

No one had ever seen you naked before, and you kept that thought in mind as you carefully climbed onto the sofa, her hand on your lower back leading the way. “On your back,” she demanded, but suddenly she caught you before you laid down, reaching into your hair and undoing it with one pull of a pin. Your hair flooded down your shoulders messily, and you gasped, knowing just how undone you looked. Was she going to paint you like this? In the nude? You knew that was far from what your mother wanted in the portrait, but your mother was even farther away from your thoughts as the Sokovian artist’s hands guided you to lay on the sofa.

“Move on your side slightly,” she instructed, voice taught with many different emotions you couldn’t completely discern. You were halfway on your back and halfway on your side, some of your hair over your chest and some of it cascading down the arm of the sofa above your head.

Finally, she stepped away from you, and you thought you would feel cold without her touch, but her eyes were enough to keep the fire broiling in your stomach alive.

You were sprawled out on the couch like a whore. One leg reaching over the other end of the sofa, the other one halfway off the edge of the cushion. One arm laying on the cushion lifeless, the other one reaching across the top of the sofa. You were wearing nothing but the thick jewels on your upper chest and the earrings hidden behind your hair except for a few twinkles where the light shone through the strands. The golden light of the candles sparkled on the erected rosy peaks of your breasts, flickered off the skin of your stomach.

“Perfect,” Wanda said, grabbing a towel that she had laid on the stool and casting it over her shoulder, her ravenous eyes not leaving yours as she picked up the palette and brush, beginning to scratch across the canvas madly, hardly tearing her eyes from yours.

Your chest rose up and down with the tension in your lungs. Something within you was throbbing at being laid out like this, having this sensual woman tear you apart with her eyes as she painted your likeness on the canvas.

The tension did not die with the silent minutes. It grew and built with every stroke of Wanda’s brush, with her every darting, overfilling look, with your every weak breath and throb of the multiple heartbeats throughout your body. It grew to a head until you felt like you were going to burn right through the cushions of the sofa like a soaring comet.

Every time her hand left the canvas to roll her brush into the pools of paint on the palette, her rings sparkled under the candlelight. There was a gleam on her skin, a craze in her eyes, a moistness to her lips that she repeatedly licked and bit. She was driving you mad without even touching you, and you could tell that you were doing the same to her with the way she painted the canvas so hard that it trembled on the easel.

Finally, without you having to even say anything, she dropped the palette and brush on the stool and dragged the towel away from her shoulder, eyes trained on your body. She had painted so wildly that there were smudges of color on the white sleeves of her blouse and covering her hands. She came to you so quickly that you didn’t even know she was there until she was knelt beside the sofa, placing a hand on your lower stomach.

Her hand sent a streak of color up your skin as she slowly slid it up your abdomen. Red, yellow, green, blue, all streaked together from her hands as she touched the smooth expanse of your skin.

“When I first came in,” she began in a tremulous whisper, “I knew it would be impossible to hold my focus while I painted your portrait.” Her hand swiftly curved around your breast and cupped it, relishing in the supple feeling of your flesh. Your eyes fluttered closed, legs mindlessly moving as she touched you shamelessly, and you let her. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I don’t even have to paint you to make you a walking piece of art.”

You didn’t know what to say as her compliments landed on your skin like warm raindrops and evaporated into your pores, seeping into you and imbuing you with warmth. She bit her lip as she looked down to your breasts which she fondled, rolling her thumb over your hardened nipples. Your skin there was covered in her paint now, colors mixing and melting on the warmth of your skin.

“Is this your creative expressions speaking?” you whispered to her, and she smirked and tilted her head.

“No, it’s just me.” Her eyes flickered to your lips, and without hesitance she leaned forward and kissed you hungrily. You moaned, and with your lips parted she dove her tongue into your mouth. Her other hand found your delicate neck and squeezed it, the cold paint smearing on your skin as her tongue explored your mouth with utter force and desperation, like she needed to know every single corner and texture of your mouth and tongue.

She clambered on top of you, pinning you down on the sofa beneath. Her hands went mad across your body, squeezing and rubbing you everywhere she could, memorizing every single curve and sweet spot that made you arch up against her. Her kisses trailed down your skin, sucking and biting harshly until she made bright red and purple spots that blended in with the paint she had already left there. She made a painted mess of you right there on those cushions, mercilessly sucking on your nipples and pinching them until you were squirming beneath you with desperate need, grabbing at her soft hair and shoulders.

“Wanda,” you moaned as she lowered down your body, leaving wet kisses down your painted stomach until she was at your hips. She growled, glancing up at your bare, marked body before her, lowering herself down between your legs.

“You’re the sort of art that needs to be worshipped,” she grunted as she ran her hand over your thigh, swiveling around it to yank it up over her shoulder. Crouched down, she parted your legs open, moaning at the sight between your legs. She had dwindled you down into a wet mess, and the feeling of her warm breaths fanning against you there did no good for how much you wanted her to touch you.

Most of the paint that was on her hands had been transferred to your body, so she brought her fingers to your slippery folds, groaning at how soft and wet you were. “No one has touched you before?”

“No one,” you whispered, looking down at the lewd sight of this woman between your legs, even her slight touch on your folds making you jolt.

“Let me be the first.”

“Please.”

She wasted no time in lowering her head down and placing her mouth over your slit, running her tongue up your folds and to your clit, circling it with exact pressure. The moan that escaped your mouth was foul, and you bucked your hips towards her face as she started to lap at your clit, pausing every now and then to purse her lips and suckle at it.

“Oh, Wanda!” you exclaimed, forgetting that your mother could be right outside.

Reaching her hand up your belly, she clasped it over your mouth to silence your moans. You held her wrist, nails sinking into her skin as you trembled beneath her.

“You must be quiet, detka. What happens between an artist and her muse, stays there,” she whispered thickly, her mouth glistening with your own juices. She brought her fingers to your clit, pushing into it before lowering them down to your slick entrance. She watched your every expression and movement of your body as she slid two of her fingers inside you slowly, stretching your virgin hole around their length and width.

Your muffled moans were under her hand as she pumped her fingers deep inside you, curling them to graze the inner sweet spots inside you. Your hips jerked as she lowered her mouth again to suckle at your clit while her fingers thrusted into you.

“You’re just as perfect inside as you are on the outside,” she moaned into your clit as she spread her fingers inside you, moving them more to just feel you than to pleasure you, but it certainly pleasured you all the same.

“Fuck, Wanda,” you cursed under her hand, feeling a coil spring tight in your lower belly. She trailed her kisses over that part of your belly, as if she could feel the tension there.

“You’re being such a good muse, such a good girl for me,” she whispered, rubbing your clit with her thumb as she squeezed a third finger inside you. “I’m inclined to take you away with me and make you the muse for all my work. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Living with me, a slave to my touch and my kiss, a wet little hole for me to fuck when I’m creatively and sexually frustrated. Wouldn’t you?”

Her thrusts were hard now, her voice snaky and thick. You whined and moaned pathetically under her hands, bucking your hips wildly off the sofa. You nodded to her question, burning at the way she laughed. “My little whore, letting me fuck her right here on the sofa, all naked and covered in paint.”

Wanda’s words twisted in your ears and wound you up even tighter, your inner walls squeezing around her fingers that pushed through them. She bit the skin of your belly hard, and with a few more pumps of her fingers, she wound you so tight that you snapped, the coil in your stomach breaking and unleashing screams and shivers of climactic pleasure and euphoria that blinded you. She talked you through it, praising you for being such a good muse, kissing your stomach and rocking her fingers more gently inside you.

You finally came down from your orgasmic high, knees trembling around her shoulders as she crawled up you, giving you a multitude of calming kisses all over your face. You sighed and looked at her with a shy smile, still struggling to catch your breath.

Grinning, she stepped back and looked at you. Your face was bright red with pleasure, a gleam shining off your skin, your body looking even more relaxed with the post-fuck glow that she had been craving to carve out of you from the very beginning. Grabbing her palette and brush, she eyed you from behind the easel, smirking under the candlelight that remarked her viridescent eyes.

“Stay just like that.”

[bonny-kookoo]

Yoongi

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 | Christmas

A deal is a deal.

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Yoongi, Human!Reader, Unstable AU, set prior/during the Jungkook storyline, dystopian AU, space/Sci-fi/cyberpunk-esque, strangers to lovers, Angst, Violence, Drama, romance, adult, eventual smut

Wordcount: 900 Words

-> Masterlist

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

Yoongi isn’t one for soft and warm gestures. There’s no point in them.

So why did he wake up way too early to get the stupid little pine tree from the markets, so he can put a very badly wrapped piece of dumb jewelry under that tree? Well, because it might make you happy.

And yoongi likes seeing you happy.

When he wakes you with a hand on your shoulder, you’re disoriented at first- a bit panicked even, unsure if something is wrong since he rarely wakes up before you- but then you see it.

There’s a thin string of neon lights probably meant for a different purpose than decoration wrapped around a very small pine tree- and somewhat next and under it, is a small box. It’s wrapped carefully, paper held together by a simple nylon string.

“..yoongi.” You look towards him, and he panicks a little. This isn’t the kind of look he was hoping for when planning this. God, why are humans so complicated? You look like you’re about to cry even, what did he do wrong?

And then, suddenly, you’re in his arms. Head buried into his shoulder, arms around him, and he can’t even move for a good second or two as he’s bombarded with both your scent and your warmth. Things he’s been thinking about- but that’s what it was. Thoughts.

“thank you.” You mumble into his neck, before you move towards the small plant on the table. “how- did you know about this?” You wonder. “human traditions aren’t really common anymore.”

“No, but information on them is freely available.” He says, trying to control his heart from beating too hard. “you’ve.. been down lately. Your mood has been terrible.” He tries to downplay his actions by attempting to blame it on simple convenience. “I saw it and remembered someone talking about a human holiday that makes people happy.” He shrugs.

“What is it?” You wonder as you pick up the small box wrapped in simple newspaper.

“open it.” He just tells you, unable to hide his amusement when you do so with the outmost care, cherishing his efforts.

‘Do not purr.’ He tells himself. ‘You’re not a goddam pet.’

You look at the chain you take out the velvet bag inside the box, and you’re confused at first. Yoongi notices rather quickly, walking closer to take it from you. “it’s made from Iastine Metal. Lasts longer and.. should be more comfortable than what you wear now.” He says as he points to your identification still around your neck. “it’s.. got your name and ID engraved on here. Can be scanned, too.” He mumbles as he shows you the small Metal tag- looking more decorative than only purposeful. The metal is silver, but with a warm touch, reflecting in multiple hues of purple and red when catching the light.

“it looks.. expensive.” You worry, but he just shrugs, before his hands move to take your collar off at the scan of his own ID chip in his wrist.

“Its an investment.” He tries to justify, before he moves the chain around your neck instead, closing it with an odd snap or crack that startles you a bit. “the connecting piece sparks with a chemical reaction to bind the two ends together on a molecular level.”

“..so I can’t loose it?” You joke, as he looks at your neck, words tumbling out before he can stop them.

“And I won’t loose you.” He says.

It’s quiet after that, and odd tension filling the room, one of his hands still near your neck. “was it.. alright that I hugged you?” You ask quietly.

“I didn’t push you away now, did I?” He responds.

“That’s not a proper answer.”

He stutters a bit at that, deep in thought before he speaks once more, hand leaving your close proximity.

“It was.” He reassures you.

“yoongi?” You ask again, and he sighs in fake annoyance. “now I feel bad. What can I gift you?” You ask him, and he stares you down for a moment, thinking of an answer.

“I just need you to promise me something.” He says, sitting on the edge of the bed with you next to him, patiently awaiting his request. “tell me if it hurts.”

“Huh?” You ask, unsure what he’s talking about.

“I’m still figuring out what.. you are to me. Or rather, what I want you to possibly be to me.” He explains further. “I know humans are emotionally vulnerable. I’m not very soft, I’m not good at navigating someone else’s emotions. So, tell me if what I’m doing hurts you.” He says.

“as long as what you do is done with.. honest intentions, it won’t hurt.” You tell him.

“What if I sleep with you then?” He boldly asks. “just to realize that’s not what I want after all?” He questions, and you shrug.

“Won’t hurt.” You respond. “because I know why you’re doing it. Just..” you drift off.

“just?” He asks.

“just don’t..” you sigh. “don’t say you love me until you’re really sure of it, okay?” You ask, and he nods.

“Deal.”

[the-californicationist]

No comment.

MDNI

"Didn't I tell you to keep those filthy little fingers out of your cunt 'til I came home?"

His hand was gripping your jaw so roughly that it made it hard to speak, but you nodded, looking up into John's eyes with lurid need.

"Yeah?" He spat into your open mouth as he held it in his grip, strings of his saliva coating your nose and lips, dripping and begging to be licked off, "So, why did I find my pretty fuckin' wife with her legs spread open, knuckle deep in this juicy cunt, hm?"

You tried to answer, but he was too quick. He shoved two wide fingers into your mouth, smearing his spit around on your tongue, purposefully pressing your head back so you'd need to swallow against them in order to breathe.

His cock was fighting for release behind his zipper, and you could see its fat outline in the soft fabric, aching to be used against you. Your eyes were fixated on it, hungry for it, and your pussy throbbed for him.

"I'm beginnin' to suspect that you like being a dirty fuckin' slag. Innit that right?"

"Yeah," you said around his hand.

"Yeah? My fuckin' slag, huh? Mine."

"Yeah," you could barely form the word around his huge knuckles, but he seemed to like that.

John Price took his hand away from you and stepped behind you as you sat, kneeling naked on the ground.

"Put those fingers back in your cunt, missus."

You obeyed, suddenly submissive in contrast to your previous, bratty behavior.

You knew what was coming.

You heard the jangle of his belt buckle. You listened as the leather slithered out of each loop, snapping and hissing as it was freed. Then, you felt the cold strap wrap itself around your throat and everything inside of you relaxed. All of your tension and your fervor was cooled by your makeshift collar and you sighed in relief.

He pulled it tight around you, looping a finger between your neck and the strap for safety, willing to get dangerous but only on his terms.

"That's it. You like this, hm? You like it when you're at my goddamn mercy. Show me how wet you are. Now."

He jerked the strap, pulling your body against the belt threateningly.

You shoved your fingers even deeper, collecting your come on your hand and pulling it out of yourself, holding it in the air to show him what he wanted to see.

You couldn't see his expression since he was behind you, but you felt his mouth. He bent over, pulling the belt tighter, and began to suckle from your fingertips, licking between them to eat your clear stickiness off of your skin.

"Turn around," he barked.

You didn't actually have to do anything. He spun you on his own, holding the end of the belt nice and high to keep you under control. Then, with his free hand, he unbuttoned his pants, letting his drooling dick loll out of the opening. It was pink and swollen, engorged from his pleasure and veiny with blue, dark blood.

You leaned forward to lick him, but he caught you, yanking you back like a bad dog.

"What do we say when we want something, pet?"

John looked down at you with a sinister satisfaction, his smile full of decadent lust and longing.

You met his eyes and gave him your best helpless fawn impression,

"Please..."

He tightened the belt until it bit into your skin, pinching you. Then, he was crushing your face into his pants, shoving your nose into his pubic hair like a naughty puppy.

"What was that?"

"Please! Please... I want to suck your cock. Please, please, please."

Now, you were wriggling and crying in earnest, no longer just playing the part of his helpless victim, but fully submitting to him, eager to be used.

The belt loosened, and a twisted part of you already missed the pain of its steel against your neck.

"Good girl. See? I knew you had it in you," he laughed softly, tapping your cheek with his rigid muscle, rubbing his cock across your face irreverently.

"Hope you're hungry, missus."

[chuuyascumsock]

My Pride, My Poor— Dwindling Pride. || Minors DNI

Summary: I’ve never felt so utterly stressed out writing dominant men. Here’s your cake so you can eat it too, you filthy animals.

Tags: Chuuya Nakahara/Reader, Female reader, Top Chuuya, Bondage, Fingering, Orgasm Denial, Brat Taming, Throat Fucking, Hair Pulling, Rough Sex, Lowkey Hand Kink, Ok— Highkey Hand Kink, I Don’t Hold Back With Obscene Descriptions Now Because I Don’t Care Anymore And All My Friends Know I Have A Pegging Kink Already So Fuck It, I’m Pulling Out The Big Guns.

You knew exactly what you were getting into when you made your way into executive Chuuya Nakahara’s office with a bitter expression on your face and a fussy attitude. Taking it even further— you knew exactly how vexed it made him when you threw a stack of files upon his desk with some less-than-savory comments spewing past your vulgar lips. You wanted to take it out on someone and you didn’t care who fell victim to your sour mood. You hardly even remember what you said, so peeved off that you could barely think.

But it must’ve been directed forwards Chuuya with the twisted look of perplexion and irate on his face.

You don’t even spare him a look as you turn abruptly to leave— only to pause when hearing the gritting tone of Chuuya, “Excuse me? Who the fuck do you think you are coming into my office like that?” He seethes, thin brows furrowing into his glabella.

Teeth clack into a clench as you spin on your heel to face him, face scrunched up with frustration. With your mind too jumbled of the earlier events of your teammates detrimental fuck up on the recent mission you just got back from— you keep quiet with a glare. Anthracite eyes glare back at you, a fire beginning to kindle and burn behind his gaze.

If you had been anyone else, surely you wouldn’t have been standing for any longer than three seconds unharmed after disrespecting Chuuya in such a way.

But your relationship with Chuuya was a strange one.

“Have you forgotten your status? Because you have some nerve coming in here, throwing shit on my desk, insulting me under your breath, and then thinking that you can just waltz out like you own the goddamn place.” Chuuya snaps, his left hand gripping his pen that’s now visibly bending from his wrath. His right hand is clenched into a fist by his papers.

Your eyes linger on his gloved hands for a moment before trailing back to his eyes. You also note the way his hat that he normally wears is sitting on a nearby hat-rack. It seems the tension and festering anger were planting small thoughts within your mind. Thoughts that were meant to be kept outside of work when no one else was there to witness a different side of the man in front of you.

You had a new plan than just to piss off anyone who came across your path.

“Whatever.”

All it takes is a clipped— one worded response, and you know his patience that tenses against a string thins to its last thread.

There’s a suffocating pressure that constricts your body before you drop to your knees. You find yourself unable to move as Chuuya stands from his desk chair, legs screeching against the hard floor. “Are we really doing this right now?” He walks around the desk, his shoes clipping the ground brutally as he comes to stand in front of you. “Is this how it’s going to be today?” His chin tilts downwards to look you in the eyes sternly as his arms cross over his chest.

You don’t say anything in return, merely biting the inside of your cheek as you debate whether he was on the same page or genuinely about to kick your shit in. You take the chance and snarkily reply, “Yeah, what are you going to do about it?”

Chuuya swipes his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth in exasperation as he glares in borderline amusement at your attitude and his arms fall to his sides. “Apologize.”

A short laugh slips past your lips before you spit out, “No.”

His glare only hardens and his fingers clench into the palms of his gloves tightly, “Apologize, now.”

“Make me,” You tilt your chin up to stare directly at him with a challenging look.

You note the burning stare that pierces back at you in utter disbelief and silence from your words, his lips parting slightly, “… What did you just say to me?”

Your eyelids lull with mirth, “I said— make me.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before his bray laughter spills throughout his office as if he had been delusionally imagining the whole interaction and your blatant audacity. It wears off quickly into a grinning scowl as you’re manhandled off the floor and thrown to bend over Chuuya’s desk. Various papers, files, and pens fly off and scatter to the ground as you choke out a breathless gasp and attempt to catch your breath. There’s not much room to struggle with the effects of his ability pinning you down in place.

One of Chuuya’s gloved hands splay across your wrists to clasp around them tightly, his leathered fingers biting into your skin. He releases his ability as he leans over you, his front pressing tightly against your back.

“I am going to fucking ruin you,” His voice rasps into a growl.

You hiss through your teeth with each struggled breath before biting into your lower lip as he continues, “I’m sick of your prissy fucking attitude today, if you want to act like a damn brat— I guess I’ll just have to fuck it out of you, huh?” He grits out as his body weighs down further into your backside, giving you the feel of his strained bulge confined in his slacks against your ass.

Your breath hitches before falling into heavier sighs as your heart pounds against your rib cage and your thighs rub together in anticipation.

Chuuya notices and a scoff escapes him, “You can’t be serious.” His lips twitch indecisively as he doesn’t know whether to frown in annoyance or laugh at your absurd reasoning behind your antagonistic actions. “That’s what you wanted? Un-fucking-believable…” He chuckles softly before it gradually grows sinister and then trails off, “You have quite the mouth on you— always rambling those pretty lips away any other time just fine. But you couldn’t use your words to ask me to fuck you? You just had to rile me up— c’mon now, Doll, you’re better than that.”

You breathe in and out through your nose heavily a few times as your voice comes out strained from the pressure in your chest, “You… I… You’re hot when you’re mad.”

Chuuya’s brows arch at your revelation, his eyes scanning over how you try to squirm under his grip. It doesn’t take long for what you said to settle in and an arrogant grin crosses his lips, “Am I now? Huh, I‘ll remember that for next time then… For now…” His grip on your wrists tighten and the other comes down to your stockings, ”Why don’t I remind you of your place that you’ve seemingly forgotten?” His fingers dig into the nylon fabric of your pantyhose under your skirt before the tearing of fabric rips through your ears.

“You dick..! Those were my only pair!” You yelp and wriggle, kicking your feet at his shins.

Chuuya ignores you, continuing to speak over your struggles, “You know, you should be on your knees sucking my dick for forgiveness right about now,” He sighs, “But as usual— you’re spoiled and I can’t help but indulge in your wants for the moment.” A gloved finger moves your underwear to the side before easily sinking into your slick pussy.

A whine escapes your throat, toes stretching your body forward in an attempt to escape the teasing and unfulfilling touch of one finger. His other hand keeps you pinned and from moving anywhere as his finger slides in and out tediously as a means to drag on your frustration and need.

“Maybe it’s my fault for giving you everything you’ve wanted, and even till now,” Chuuya growls the last part to himself as another finger stuffs itself into your sopping cunt. “Y’know— you’re so fuckin’ lucky I can’t help myself when it comes to you, or things would’ve went a lot more differently today.” He huffs, mindlessly dragging and scissoring his leather clad fingers against your soft walls. “I get enough shit from the other bastards who think they have enough balls to even turn their noses up in my direction.”

“M’sorry, Chuu—“ Your voice pitches off into a moan as his digits curl and press into a familiar and sensitive spot.

Chuuya chuckles and goes back to slowly thrusting his fingers in and out, “I don’t care now, I know what you really want— but use your words next time instead of makin’ me think I did somethin’ wrong to deserve your attitude, ‘kay, Doll?”

You nod in return, though it’s subtle with how much you’ve already melted under his touch. Your eyelids flutter and you mumble about how you won’t don’t it again before your body tenses and a short, soft cry slips out from the sudden change in pace of his fingers that piston into you.

“Don’t think that you’re not going to be punished for your little stunt earlier just because you said sorry, though,” He clicks, pulling his fingers all the way out and slapping his wet digits against your clit. “You’re going to have to put that mouth to use for a proper apology.”

Blood rushes to your face and up the nape of your neck as a whimper creeps through, turbulent jolts of excitement flip in your lower stomach at his actions before hearing the subtle noise of his belt clinking. You only grow restless further as he nearly rips the belt from his pants to wrap the leather around your wrists, keeping them bound to your back. Chuuya slips an index finger into the loop of the tied belt, tugging you to stand up before you’re spun around and pushed by the shoulders to fall to your knees.

Your eyes set on his hard cock in front of your face, pre-cum weeping from the tip down his length. He wraps a gloved hand around his girth, stroking himself slowly as a smug grin presents itself on his face. His chin tilts down to look at you, index finger and thumb digging into your cheeks to unhinge your jaw.

“Open wide for me, Doll.”

The taste of his bitter cum has your mouth watering, tip gliding along your tongue until it nudges past your uvula and bullies the back of your throat softly. Your throat convulses around him before you gag, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as you breathe through your nose.

Chuuya groans, his hand moving from your jaw to weave through your hair, tugging the locks to strain against your scalp. He pulls you forward until your nose is buried against the happy trail leading down his lower stomach to his groin. “Fuck, if only you could see yourself choking on my cock right now,” He shakily breathes out as his eyes burn the image into his mind.

You pant heavily through your nose— or at least you try to— finding it hard to breathe with his cock stuffed half-way down your throat.

It isn’t until a few seconds later that he draws his hips back, allowing air to fill your lungs for a moment before bucking into your throat once more as he holds your head in place. Your fingers clench as your wrists jolt against the belt— an involuntary urge to dig your nails into his thighs clawing at you. There’s no build up in speed as he skips right into fucking your throat like a personal fleshlight, every thrust bruising your soft palate. Your whimpers are drowned out by the wet squelching of his girth slipping in and out of the convulsing walls of your throat along with Chuuya’s grunts and half-assed bitten back moans.

“Fuuuck, I could just come down your pretty fuckin’ throat like this,” He gasps before another guttural groan leaves him. Then, he lets out a breathy, rugged laugh as his eyes watch you leeringly, “Christ, Doll, you’re makin’ a mess.” He points out, a mix of his pre-cum and your saliva splatters against your chin messily every time he touches the back of your throat.

It takes a few more thrusts until he forces himself to pull out, leaving you coughing and sputtering violently. You gasp for air greedily through your mouth after he pulls out, tears spilling over from the coughing fit. He lifts your chin with a hand and wipes away his pre-cum mixed with your snot dripping from your nose with a satisfied grin. “God, you’re so good f’me, Doll,” He borderline slurs over his words before pulling you back up to your feet and pushing you back onto his desk.

The hardwood is uncomfortable underneath you as your arms are still tied and pressing into your back, but you’re too light headed and burning with need to notice. Chuuya is quick to shove his way past your thighs and bury himself inside you to the hilt. It takes everything in him not to come with your tight, sopping pussy clenching around him. You swear you can hear him whimper quietly into your chest as he presses his hips flush against yours.

“Please, please fuck me, I need to come s’bad, Chuu,” You plead weakly as tears dry against your cheeks, throat raw and sore from his relentless deep throating just prior moments ago.

He shudders at your broken voice before slowly grinding his hips against you, “Gimme a damn minute,” He growls before panting, “Or I’ll fuckin’ come right now.”

Your head drops back to rest against the desk as you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at his lower back, the heels of your feet spurring him on to move.

His grinding turns into brief and shallow thrusts before he’s snapping his hips into you roughly, his hands finding purchase to grip at the edge of his desk on either side of your head. His forehead presses into your sternum as he desperately drives his cock as far as he can into your welcoming heat, pre-cum and slick frothing at the base of his length with every thrust.

Quickly, he reaches a hand down between your bodies to press and rub against your aching clit. Your lips part as pitchy moans and mewls fall through, the familiar knotting feeling in your lower stomach growing tenfold as your back arches into Chuuya. “M’gonna come, please— I can’t, I’m— fuck,” You ramble incoherently as you rut your hips to meet his thrusts, skin slapping wet aginst one another.

“I know, Doll, I know— Shit, you’re squeezing around my cock so fuckin’ tight,” He grits, eyes clenching shut as his hips begin to stutter and rolls your clit between his thumb and index finger.

A choked whine drags out as your legs tighten around him to bring him as close as possible and your body shudders violently under him as your orgasm comes crashing down on you. Chuuya follows after a few more thrusts with a graveled moan, his cock burying itself as deep as possible as his cum smothers your walls in warmth.

He collapses against you, red in the face and covered in sweat that makes his bangs stick to his forehead and cheeks. You’re not much different aside from the occasional shiver from the aftermath. A few moments go by before you heavily sigh and your breathing steadies along with his.

“God damn…” He murmurs against the skin of your sternum before placing a soft peck over your calming heart. “You’re seriously going to be the death of me, Doll,” He picks his head up and leans over, pressing his lips against yours in a lingering kiss.

“Sorry,” You respond apathetically.

His brows scrunch together and his eyes squint, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“Cause m’not really,” You tiredly grin, earning a quiet scoff from him.

“You’re something else.”

[kazumiku]

Of Pride and Prejudice

p.logue ↬ the grand escape ( 1,147 words )

"i can't leave. not right now, not like this, please—"

begged a desperate tone, a voice that rumbles from your throat. its choked, you're hanging on by a string, snapped by a slap that resonates through the large hall of your home. it was silence for a while, where three figures stood unmoving, the thick tension wrapping around your necks as the clock stopped, if only for a moment.

then it broke. "that is enough," your mother was sick of negotiating, her hand raised after striking your head the other way. the sting settled into your cheek, wallowing you in your own hopelessness as a masculine voice speaks up. "we understand where your worry stems, albeit this is not the suitable time for arguing." he reasons.

it was true. the sand in your hourglass was diminishing rapidly, and with the people raging at the front of your gates, it was only a matter of the clock striking two before they barge in like animals on a raid hunt. there was a bounty over your family, mysteriously so, and your parents will have to keep whatever left is little to save. and that includes you and your siblings.

it was an endless discussion, day and night, an ongoing debate that draws to a stop today. today is the day you and your siblings have to flee, after all, for your own safety if not theirs. your parents lived a long life, they only wish for their children to thrive one way someway, somehow, once the heat dies down. "we promise to look for you once its all settled, honey. you must understand where we're coming from. we worry for the three of you the most."

your mother's words were enough to pry tears at the corners of your lids. leaving them behind was the last thing you wished, and they knew that well. but they love you much too dearly to let the empire tumble down on your shoulders instead. this problem is not yours to shoulder but theirs, and they'll solve it on their own as the current rulers of the state.

if they fail to protect the kingdom, then so be it. their priorities were straight, and there would be no use in trying to prod at their resolve in your favor now. if you were easily settled on a stone-hard conclusion when your heart sets for it, you can only imagine how far more your parents are in that matter.

"everything is packed. aether and lumine are already settled within the carriage. you shall head through the back on your way out." they inform you, your father reaching out to grasp your shoulder. it shattered your heart to teensy shards by how gentle his contact is on your arm, holding you like fragile glass. and you were, at this moment, under their contemplative gazes. "if this does not work out for us, then you shall make this our last command, as the eldest and the inheritor of my crown; look out for each other. stay out of trouble's way. and, especially stay out of the public eye." commanded in your father's deep voice, full of mourn.

"don't worry, for you are not alone. we have assigned you a guard. he'll write us a letter if you ever so wish, but, for now, let's focus on you and your siblings' safety, will that be understood?" your mother explained. and as much as you wish to shake your head in defiance, you bobbed your chin meekly, a wallowing sniffle resonating at the back of your throat as you ducked your head. "in six moons, if we don't reach by that, then you must forgive us. please live your life and keep this for the past."

the floor reflected your doubt clearly, but you're not left with any more choices when you're ushered out the hall hurriedly. you couldn't even hug your parents goodbye, nor give them at least the littlest of waves of farewell when you're pushed into the back by a panicking maid. during the conversation with your parents, you hadn't realized the booming voice that comes from the opposite exit from where you are, the outside of your front gates flooding with protest and people overflowing with rage.

"stay safe," the helper whispered before you could look back, the door slammed in front of your face, leaving you out in the back of the garden. the wind was dormant as you walked through the unmoving grass, the evening was quiet save for the screams of profanities stemming from the front, which were eventually muddled by the distance as you stray further into the grassy pathway, on your way to an obscured exit behind the foliage.

you push the hidden door open and the sight of an outdated carriage meets you. it looks worn, but not too shabby, two horses at the forepart ushered down by the coachman as it noises at your appearance. your arm is suddenly grasped in a firm grip, and your left to almost stumble on your ankles when another palm landed on the small of your back too. "careful. you almost stepped on a puddle, majesty," ah. you recognized that voice. the captain of the royal guards. "your parents assigned me. don't fret."

"ah, no, i was just a little startled. apologies," you breathed, and he nods in acceptance of your excuse, assisting you up into the carriage. aether was already asleep on lumine's shoulder as you settled inside from the opposite side. the assigned guard situates out beside the coachman, and with a flick of the leather halter, the horses pump their hooves on the ground.

the sound of rocks under the running wheels filled your ears as the long road goes, and your heart settles emptily in your chest. your body feels null, naturally. a moment of reprieve, you tried, but there was nothing to be relieved of when you're flooded with worry. lumine from across you could tell as she called for your name quietly. "hey, don't worry. it'll be alright, okay?" her mellow tune lifted your spirits as she outstretched her hand. "come here, let's cuddle. you can fall asleep on my other shoulder too if you feel like it, i'm just going to watch a stream my phone.

"this carriage is so slow, i hope nobody catches us lacking like this. god, the things i'd do to ride on the rb19 instead," she jokes as you take her hands and move seats. "it's too bad you can't sponsor this season," lumine couldn't help but sigh dejectedly, and your thumb strokes her knuckles in comfort. "i'm sorry, i feel bad. i couldn't change their minds. i really, really tried."

"no, no, it's fine. don't say sorry, you didn't do anything wrong. they're only doing this for our safety, and that's what you should think of."

that's right. there's no need to worry.

taglist; @zoropookie @sketcheeee @skyoverkill1 @liuaneee @aruatsu

@luvvxsn @kinvasions @trulyylee @scarawiki @eutopiastar

@yunyunjajangman @auroratumbles @heusalettle @crimxeorcremeexistspeacefully @candyescapism

@justpeachyteastea

m.list ; 01 → tweaking bad

a/n; yippee i finally got this shit out (im so sorry if its disappointing i gave up after losing my drafts twice cry)

[moonmaiden1996]

Pollen's Pull- Chapter 1

Part of my pollen series- Check out my Shanks X Reader for the first in the series. Warning-some chapter are 18+

Law stared down at the faint powder shimmering under the secure glass slide, the clips locking it away from causing further harm. Its crystalline texture refracted the dim laboratory light, each glint a mocking illusion of innocence. It looked harmless—a fine, innocuous dust that might drift unnoticed on a breeze or settle on an idle surface. But Law knew better. Anything born from a Devil Fruit was never harmless.

His hand trembled-just every so slightly- a tremble that only his visitor would have noticed as he raised it to his face.The phantom sensation lingered—gritty, alive, burning into his nerves like a scar. It clung to him in a way that defied explanation, the memory of its touch seared into his mind. The storm inside his head churned—a violent collision of disbelief, fury, and something darker he dared not name.

"I don’t believe it," he muttered, his voice raw, breaking under the strain. "It shouldn’t affect me. I’m a Devil Fruit user—I should be immune," he barked, anger lacing his words as they clawed at the edges of reason.

Across the room, Mihawk’s golden eyes gleamed like twin blades, cutting through the charged air with ease. The swordsman exuded calm detachment, his indifference a stark counterpoint to Law’s storm. With a faint shrug, Mihawk adjusted the cuffs of his coat, each movement deliberate and dismissive.

"Believe it or not, Trafalgar, it makes no difference," Mihawk said, his tone cold and edged with impatience. "I’ve delivered my warning. What you do with it is no concern of mine."

Law’s glare intensified, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. "You expect me to accept this? To believe some nonsense about Devil Fruit pollen? If you’ve allowed yourself to be manipulated by one of Doc Q’s twisted experiments, that’s your business. But I won’t be dragged into your delirium."

The tension between them thickened, an unspoken challenge crackling in the space between words. Mihawk’s lip curled into a faint sneer, disdain etched into the lines of his face.

"If that’s your wish," Mihawk replied, his voice deliberate, each word a blade. "But resisting it will be... unpleasant. For someone as headstrong as you, Trafalgar, it will get far worse."

Law’s smirk was sharp and brittle, defiance flickering in his narrowed eyes. "Maybe I should rid you of whatever parasite has latched onto you. It might snap you out of this madness."

The shift was instantaneous. One moment Mihawk was seated across the room; the next, he was a blur of shadow and steel. Yoru’s cold, unyielding edge pressed against Law’s throat, its bite a silent promise.

"This visit was a courtesy," Mihawk hissed, his voice low and venomous, more verdict than threat. "We hunt the true offender, and there is no connection to Blackbeard’s crew. Take that as you will. But threaten her again..." His eyes bore into Law’s, unflinching. "...and not even you will be able to put yourself back together."

For a breathless moment, the silence was a blade of its own. Law’s chest heaved, his pride smoldering alongside his fury. Then, with the grace of a predator, Mihawk sheathed Yoru and turned, his coat billowing behind him as he strode from the room.

Law remained where he was, his body rigid, his composure fractured. The sting of Mihawk’s blade lingered like an accusation, cutting deeper than flesh.

xxxxxxxxxx

The pull began immediately.

At first, it was subtle—a whisper at the edges of his consciousness, a faint tug urging him forward. It was like a stray thought he couldn’t quite shake, a nagging feeling just outside his grasp. But as the days passed, the pull became a demand, relentless and consuming. It twisted its hooks into his very being, threading through every fiber of his body until he was little more than a marionette tugged along by invisible strings. Just like Domflamingo. 

His body rebelled against his attempts to resist. Muscles locked in defiance whenever he tried to move in the wrong direction—away from the pull. It was as though his own will had been commandeered, replaced by something foreign, something alive. Hours dissolved into an agonizing battle with his own flesh, leaving him drained and trembling.

Then the fever came.

It raged through him, a relentless fire consuming him from within. His body burned as if his blood had turned to molten lava. Each breath was a struggle, his lungs seizing with every shallow gasp. His vision blurred, fractured into kaleidoscopic patterns of light and shadow that mocked his pain. Sweat poured from him, soaking his clothes and pooling beneath him as he collapsed onto the cold floor of his lab.

But the fever wasn’t the worst of it.

The dreams were.

They plagued him, vivid and haunting. Every night, he saw —you—but never clearly. Your face was always shrouded, a figure bathed in warmth and light, tantalizingly close yet maddeningly unreachable. He reached for you in desperation, his hands clawing at the air, but you dissolved like smoke between his fingers. The dreams left him raw, his chest aching with a need he didn’t understand, a hunger that devoured him from the inside out.

He hated you for it.

But more than that, he hated himself.

This was no ordinary affliction. It wasn’t a poison he could purge or a wound he could suture. It was an invasion, insidious and all-encompassing, eating away at his sense of self. He felt like a man infected, his soul rotting under the weight of something he couldn’t name.

So, like any good surgeon would when faced with a corrupted limb, he resolved to amputate.

It was the only way.

The pull was leading him to you, drawing him like a moth to a flame. He would let it. He would follow it to its source, find you—whatever you were—and cut you out of his life like a tumor.

But the thought of severing the connection wasn’t entirely free of dread. A part of him—a small, festering part—craved the pull. It was a dark, twisted hunger that whispered to him in the dead of night, promising solace if only he let himself fall deeper to consume you.

He despised it. Yet he couldn’t ignore it. He would end this affliction. He had no choice. He wouldn’t allow himself to be controlled- not anymore.

Author's note- I still haven't gotten to grips with Law yet, I am near the end of the Dressrosa Arc and generally did not think he would win so this is a little bit of an adventure.

Also as Sanji did also win I am writing his arc now. If you have anything suggestions for his reader let me know.

[blackjackkent]

Given that all the cultists keep talking to her in ways that make her head ache, Rakha is almost relieved to look down at the center of the Temple and see that, after so much toil and terror, she has finally found what she is looking for.

Orin stands atop a raised dais at the center of the temple platform. Stretched at her feet, unmoving, is a familiar form - Lae'zel. For a moment, Rakha thinks they are too late, that she is dead, and the beast in her head keens with triumphant glee at the thought...

But then her chest rises and falls, almost imperceptibly.

She lives.

Rakha releases a breath that it feels like she has been holding for days. She had not realized the full extent of the tension that has been holding her upright, driving her forward, until now; it feels as if the strings holding her in place have been cut, and she almost collapses to her knees with the sheer weight of relief.

But she can't. Not yet. It isn't over. And her head aches as Orin lifts her gaze and smiles that dagger's-edge smile at her.

"Shhhh... shhhhh..." the changeling croons softly to Lae'zel's unconscious body. "Your savior approaches... scuttling in without the tyrant's rock..."

Rakha comes to a halt a few feet away. Orin glares at her, snarling like a creature whose nest has been invaded. "You are a mangled blood-brain," she hisses. "Thinking Father could be refused!"

Then her head snaps back, her nostrils flaring, the mocking laughter replaced instantly with rage. "I know what you did!" she cries. "Spilled my grandfather's crimson... He was mine! He showed me the way, how to slice and slit. He guides my daggers still."

She flicks a wrist, and one of those knives is in her hand suddenly, a long and curving, wickedly sharp blade.

Slowly, tenderly, she lowers its edge to sit under Lae'zel's jaw, and her lips curl again with manic hunger. "Did it think it could protect?" she sneers. "Did it think it could save? Only the blades can offer salvation!"

Another moment, and the blade will cut and slice and bleed and it will all be over. Rakha's head aches and aches, stabbing, blinding, and she can barely breathe, so strong does the beast urge suddenly wake and roar inside her skull.

Yes. Bleed her dry, the final cut, and then we shall take your head as you took hers, sister, sister, sister, failed attempt to be what I once was, broken bleeding bleating BITCH--

Something in her so desperately wants to see that blade draw its line in Lae'zel's flesh, to see every throat in this place, friend and foe alike, bleed until there is nothing left and all eyes are empty and staring and beautiful. Something in her is a monster that wakes at the moment of crisis, and sometimes it is so strong that she feels broken and shattered beside it.

But she has learned. She has learned so much.

She has learned from Wyll's hand on her arm, his warmth and his unerring goodness that has drawn her to the light out of the great black pit where he found her. His love, offered to her when she has least felt she deserved it, and which she has tried in a halting, faltering way to give back out of every functioning bit of her heart.

She has learned from Jaheira's steady solidity, the pillar beneath a rotted and rickety platform - the woman who watched over her in the darkness and told her at the darkest moment that she was not lost.

She has learned from Minsc - roaring, raging, just as mad as she, showing her that the broken bits of her do not bar her from being something greater, that justice and violence can live in the same skull.

She has learned from Karlach's kindness. From Gale's knowledge. From Minthara's focused determination. From Astarion's inner battles and Shadowheart's final triumphs. From Halsin's wisdom. From Isobel's forgiveness and Aylin's vengeance.

And she has learned from Lae'zel, the first voice she has memory of hearing. Attack with purpose and savor your kills. She has learned that she has the strength to guide her own hand and to turn on the god that bore her when the need is just.

Her head lifts, her voice a solid, booming roar, knocking the beast backwards within her and echoing to the stone rafters above.

[INTIMIDATION] "Harm her, and I will unleash the agonies of Bhaal upon you!"

Orin's head snaps up and she giggles maniacally, the blade falling away from Lae'zel's neck as she focuses on Rakha directly. "Yes," she squeals. "Yes! Give me agony! Pluck me bone from socket. Stroke me with a jagged edge until my skin shreds wet and red."

(A/N: Big props to Maggie Robertson; this is SO creepy, lol. Eeeeeeek.)

With a sudden smooth motion, she leaps over the altar to stand in front of Rakha, her other victim for the moment forgotten. "You still don't remember, do you, blood-kin?" she purrs gleefully.

Her body shifts, twists - settles into a new form, taller, broader in the shoulders. Rakha's own body, the one she's only bothered to see in a mirror a handful of times. Clear of the lines of the worm or the scars of the road, the face she must have had before her memories were lost.

"How you screamed as my knife split your skull," Orin hisses, now in Rakha's voice, deeper, harsher. Her lips curl in the smirk that Rakha's have only held in her darkest moments. "Your brain juices sticky and sweet."

(A/N: This is kinda fun. :D We don't ever get to hear the player character VA get any big speeches, they only ever get little ambient lines moving around the world. Tempted to do a Durge!Hector run now just to hear what his voice sounds like making a speech. :D )

She draws closer, lifting a hand almost to touch Rakha's cheek - and Rakha sees that she is holding a tadpole carefully in one palm.

"A little hole... big enough for the worm," she sneers. "Your body a blood sack to feed it." Her fist clenches around the tadpole, which erupts in a sudden burst of blood.

(A/N: It is so weird to see Rakha with her eyes intact and her skin un-wormed.)

She leans forward, draws her bloody fingertips against Rakha's jaw. "The favorite of Bhaal turned meat-puppet, strung up by the sinews and plucked by my hands..."

Rakha feels frozen into immobility. She doesn't know what the others are doing behind her - waiting for a sign to strike, perhaps. For a moment she can't think about them. She can only think about the flickering images that begin to rattle through her brain as Orin slowly shifts back into her own form.

Narrator: A straggling memory rises - the day your tyranny should have engulfed this world, it was you who were the first to be enslaved.

Narrator: Orin's smile was the last thing you saw, her bright blade glinting as she chiseled into your skull. Her reckless digging left your mind shattered. She robbed you of your bloody birthright, reduced you to nothing. Nothing but pure hate, and now it burns, yearning for vengeance.

Her head aches and the tadpole writhes and the beast screams and she clenches her fists at her sides, flame flaring around her fingertips. The fury is unsettling and there is no escaping the fact that the beast wants this violence too - but this is a killing with purpose. Jaheira has said it, Wyll has said it. Lae'zel would say it if she was conscious. Orin must die. It is the only way she can face down the taint in her blood and perhaps find the strength to walk away from it.

"Husk," Orin growls. "Maggot. A Bhaalspawn, slip-sliding in filth with these pigs." Her eyes flick to Wyll and Jaheira, to Minsc, to Minthara. Her lip curls disdainfully. "You don't deserve the murder-lord's blessing."

(A/N: We have the option here to tell Orin that she's the product of incest and that Sarevok has lied to her, and she gets BIG mad about it. However... I really don't think that's top of mind for Rakha? She's far more concerned about her own issues tbh. :P )

"Forget Bhaal." Rakha's voice rasps in her throat, tight and hoarse. Focused with every ounce of concentration she can manage. "It's your Netherstone I've come for."

Rage roars across Orin's face. "It opens its lips and spews filthy lies!" she screeches. "No no NO!"

Rakha flinches as the changeling closes with her, spittle spewing from her mouth.

"None can resist Father's blessing!" The Weave is starting to ripple and churn around Orin's body, a strange dark undulation that Rakha has never seen before. It curls around her body like smoke. "He tells me, whisper-quiet. The lies must be cut from your throat!"

She spreads her arms with a maniacal smile. "Come close, my Death's Heads! But keep your blades unblooded! Bhaal demands a duel! He wants to taste my domination. An altar flowing with his own unwilling flesh. Draining, dying, drip, drip, drip--"

There's a low, familiar buzzing hiss from behind her. Sceleritas appears on the stairs, and clicks his tongue in gentle disapproval. "You should have trained harder, Master," he murmurs.

Rakha isn't sure what he means - but it doesn't take her long to find out.

The Weave writing around Orin's body suddenly rises to a fever pitch and then explodes in a burst of orange-white light. When it fades... she has become a monster.

Magical walls shoot up around the dais, cutting Rakha off from her friends. Fear shoots through her, animal terror blocking out everything else.

Orin's slayer form roars and lunges forward, intent on slitting Rakha's throat.

The battle, at long last, is joined.

[ginsengkittensecondary]

I HAVE MOVED TO MY MAIN. PLEASE FOLLOW GINSENGKITTEN FOR UPDATES. STORY WILL CONTINUE THERE. <3

༺Beautiful Dangerous༻

a slashxreader fanfiction

༺☆༻

Chapter Two:

A snake & a lighter

Word count approx: 1700

☆Track list☆

Lullaby - The Cure

Talk Show Host - RadioHead

A Large python is inching its way towards the door of your bedroom. It's dark in your room, it must be night, you think? Moonlight drowns the room and the shadows of the rain sprinkle down your floral wallpaper. It feels familiar. The makeup bottles on your white dresser. Your denim jacket on its regular hook. Your stuffed animals preciously lined against your floor. School photos of you in miscellaneous academics adorned the wall. The snake continues, this dangerous animal making its way into your room. You see yourself asleep in your own bed like watching some sort of demented film. You want to alert yourself of the impending danger. The snake reaches the foot of your bed and you feel your muscles strain. You try to scream to yourself "WAKE UP! WAKE UP ITS GOING TO GET YOU!" but no noise seems to come out. You feel breathless. The snake slowly climbs onto your bed, paving it's large body through your comforter. You watch it approach your helpless body. You watch, terrified as the snake begins to hug around your body. You feel the tension of the snake starting to tighten harder and harder. It's getting difficult to breathe when some sort of...heat fills your chest. you feel your chest raising and deflating with hot electricity. This same feeling you had felt a week ago at the records store. When that..guy..stared into your soul like a lion to a lamb. Suddenly you surrender to it all. You want this. The fear and the heat entangle you as you fade into darkness. Wake up,wake up, wake up.

"Wake Up Y/N!" Daisy's voice echos into your consciousness. You snap awake with a gasp. Daisy is timidly sat at the edge of your bed, a look of concern on her face. "Y/N, I think you were having a nightmare." She says softly. The morning light blisters the bed through the white curtains of the guest bedroom. Your eyes squint as you come to. You feel your heart beat slowing. "You're all sweaty" she laughs slightly as if to mend the awkward awakening with humor. "Oh..." You sit up in a daze, sleepily rubbing your eyes. "What a terrible way to wake up on your birthday!" Daisy laughs louder now, she skips to the window and excitedly strings the curtains open. "My god!" You laugh and practically hiss at the light like a vampire. The light shocks you fully awake probably as Daisy intended. She did not take lightly to birthdays. Your 18th birthday. Wow what a milestone. How weird. I don't feel so different, am I supposed to feel-adultish? You thought to yourself as you accustom yourself to being awake. "My little baby ain't a baby no more!" Daisy cooed in a semi false sad, motherly tone as she embraced you in your sweaty pajamas. Daisy had turned 18 in February and was older by just a little. But she was more experienced in just about everything and sometimes felt like an older sister. You spent your birthday each year at Daisy's as it fell in June, right as you were on your regularly scheduled summer stay. You had started being sent away during the summers as mother and daddy chose to work full time during the summers as it was the busiest season for their line of work. At least that's what they tell you. The true reason was, as their only daughter, they took no chances of you getting into trouble or mischief like the rest of the teenagers in your town would during summer. The number of teen pregnancies that occurred the summer you turned 12 shocked your parents so intensely that they opted to ship you away entirely to the safe haven that is....Hollywood...and up until now it's worked it's job with only few instances of mischief under Daisy's wing. And yet this new feeling of yearning gnawed at you. It began the day you had listened to the Aerosmith album. The inner yearning for something more. Something new.

-

You sit in a trance at the dining table. Your breakfast untouched before you. Your apetite escapes you as you recount the nightmare in your head. Snakes. You've never really feared snakes. You haven't even seen one recently that would provoke such a fright. You recall on the warmth of emotion that overtook you in the dream. Almost a pleasurable sensation? Fear and Pleasure. You felt torn from feeling such intense emotions simultaneously. Confused at where this came from, some unidentifiable sense of impending doom ate away at you. Aunt Shena had prepared a gorgeous spread in honor of your birthday. She was religiously intense but her heart meant good always. She was present when she could be but could often be found hypocritically passed out from her anti anxieties or shopping uncle Robs salary away. Again, she meant well.

"Now girls." Aunt Shena excused herself from the table, dabbing non existent remnants of her uneaten food from the corners of her lipsticked mouth. "While I'd love to stay and join in on the festivities, I've got to get to a very important meeting with the crochet group for a fundraiser. I know you've only just turned 18, Y/N, but I thought it might be nice to go to the beach or a night showing at the movies?" Aunt shena primped her hair in the hallway mirror. "Just don't-" she paused and smiled at us both. "Don't tell your uncle Rob I've let you out so soon unsupervised. He doesn't need to know. There's some allowance upstairs on my dresser." She said hurried. She always made sure she looked so....very nice..for her crochet group. Very nice. It made you wonder at times but not enough to pry. Not your business what goes on at crochet. Plus if it took her off your backs whatever it was was very much so none of your business. For a bible thumping hills wife, Aunt Shena sure seemed to have her own unholier-than-thou activities. Again-not your business.

"And Daisy-" she turned and gave her a pleading look." Please...just take the jeep this time." Daisy and you exchange looks. Did she know about the Pontiac? Nevertheless, for a woman of god she seemed less than uninterested in consequence or punishment of Daisy's wrongdoings. Which seemed to make Daisy want to get into even more mischief. Daisy nodded in agreement, accepting her stern reprimanding from her all attentive mother.

-

The sun scorched across the water. A slight breeze gave occasional relief. You lay on your stomach and mindlessly draw circles in the sand. Just absorbing the ocean ebbing and flowing in blue and white hues. The seagulls crying out. The distant screams of people joyfully splashing in the water. Your mind couldn't help but revisit the dream once more. But every time you did, you couldn't help but revisit the record store in your mind. That guy. He hadn't left your mind since. Had you left his? Was it as electrifying for him as it was for you? No man had ever taken such residence of your mind before, not like this. You try to recall his features from memory. The gruff stature, and wild, beautiful curls that fell perfectly around his face. His face, that smile. That smile that was so sweet it was almost maddening. The way his pouted lips curved into that smirk. The way his hand felt over yours for that brief moment. His grip was strong and his fingers were fashioned with rings. One of them was a snake ring. The ring was a snake. That's where you saw the snake from, could it be? Such an intense dream from a simple ring on a finger? You couldn't help but believe that he had something to do with it. Somehow that interaction inspired that dream. He inspired that dream. What did it mean?

"So like I was saying Y/N" Daisy's voice intruding your thoughts. She flicked her lighter on the edge of her cigarette, lighting it into a steady stream of smoke. She held it to her lips and took a drag. A well seasoned drag at that. She motioned it to you but you politely shake your head no. "You remember that guy I met last week at tower records right?" Daisy continues. 'No' You think to yourself. "Yeah" you lie. To be honest, the entire car ride home that Daisy had spilled juicy details about her newest boyfriend, you had been busy thinking about your own mystery man who had wooed you at the cash register. "Well like I was saying, he and his friends have this band. I can't remember the name. 'Something Roses'. Anyways, they have a concert tonight and he said we'd get in for free. You down for a little birthday fun?" She gently pushes you with herself in a joking manner. A concert? You can't remember the last concert you'd even seen. It might have been the church family Christmas choir concert? That doesn't really count though. Daisy observes you thinking on it and offers a deal sweetener. "It's a rock band" she pushes again. Daisy knew all too well your developing fascination with rock music, and frankly the fading boundaries of which you once held yourself to. Over the years, the constant protection and coddling and bubble wrapping had worn on you. Something had been stirring violently within you over time. Sometimes it was like you felt as though you were born with a ticking time bomb in your heart. And the older you grew, the less time remained on the clock. All the walls, all the quiet submission, all the rules and the rhythms in which you kept your life stringent to, all felt like it could just take a single spark and you would ignite.

You suddenly feel a sense of overwhelming over-your-head bravery. You snatch the cigarette out of Daisy’s grasp and suck in an entirely too large inhale of smoke. You cough it all out immediately and laugh, as does Daisy-out of shock. A hilariously failed attempt to look badass in your moment of newfound bravery, but the smoke felt good as it burned your throat. You finally manage to choke out:

"Okay, let's go."

I HAVE MOVED TO MY MAIN. PLEASE FOLLOW GINSENGKITTEN FOR UPDATES. STORY WILL CONTINUE THERE. <3

[badpanduhmemes]

Absurd Hypothetical Situation (Fanfic)

I started this back in February, as a wishful/ hopeful hypothetical scenario. Since they were bringing a lot of characters back, one that I really wanted to see was Soothsayer. I would have loved Soothsayer having a cameo, of some kind. Any kind. So, I wrote a Soothsayer reunites with dead-Shen fic, because I am a monster. And then due to life, I never finished it. So, I decided to wrap this thing up this weekend.

The bowl cracked with a snap, and smoke was buffeted upward, in a shape unsettlingly familiar, as a cold leaden weight of dread settled heavily in the pit of the Soothsayer’s stomach. Smoke had spread like a fan… her own words from a lifetime before echoing in her head.

‘A peacock is defeated by a warrior of black and white…’ Loud her voice rang in her ears. Reverberated in her mind. Suddenly mocking and cruel, when she knew she’d been sorrowing and resigned when she’d spoken those words to that very peacock for the last time. And unlike last time, something had changed.

Something unnatural. Something horrible. Something that should not have been possible let alone feasible had been done. Something, something, something, and the universe was screaming in her ears that Shen was involved. That this thing, this dreadful and terrible thing, be undone.               

At the very least her macabre sense of curiosity was screaming at her to discover the truth. Quietly panicking in the safety of her own the mind, maternal instinct suddenly woken from its long dead stupor leant strength to her urgency. She was packed and locking up her house in under an hour, driven forward by the push and pull of the universe, leading her to places far away.

The Old Goat was feeling her age when she arrived. She knew she was almost there, with the universe practically shrieking in her mind, and sparking like firecrackers in her veins. This was the domain of a powerful sorceress. She should have known. She wasn’t entirely surprised, so maybe on some level she had suspected as much. But why? Why necromancy? Why Shen?

A myriad of horrifying possibilities flitted across her mind, each more alarming than the last. But she hastily stamped down her emotions, shaking her head to clear her mind. She was a little old lady, in a dangerous place, and she was having enough trouble keeping her wits about her without entertaining a hundred different nightmares.

She would have her answers when she made it there. Watching a streetside brawl turn deadly, between two enraged oxen was enough to make her tack the word ‘if’ onto the end of that thought.

The universe was getting louder, and the mind she had worked so hard to train against the unyielding burdens of fate, destiny, future, and history, was not able to blot out the phantasmal shreds of vision rising and falling in her periphery. What had been, what was, and what might never be played themselves out in shadows on the wall, making her exceedingly jumpy as she crept small and frail, through empty corridors, oppressive with the weight of power.

Real power, great and terrible resided in the palace she’d snuck into, but it had not been alerted to her presence, instead preoccupied with its own machinations.

The visions abruptly ceased. The universe fell silent with the tension of a pulled string on the verge of snapping, and power stirred. Some great leviathan, stirring from slumber, uncoiling itself, as it stretched out its will, and in the gloom echoing against the cold stone walls and hard stone floors, was the sound of footsteps.

Her measly disguise was suddenly wrenched from her and she founder herself being stared at and analyzed by the fiery eyes of a chameleon. Power recognized power, and while this sorceress was beyond her in terms of strength, she could clearly see the goat for what she was a kindred spirit of sorts, and the faint curl of her scaled lip which might have been disgust or a general from of unease was unclear.

The universe was still silent, but there was a looming sense of paradigms being shifted, and destiny and history colliding.

This chameleon’s power was great. But it was an aberration, her activities and abhorrence.

“And just what is a little old lady such as yourself doing uninvited in my house?”

Soothsayer stroked her beard. “I got lost looking for a friend.”

The chameleon’s eyes swiveled, or more accurately one of them did, while the other looked her up and down. The frown on the lizard’s lip deepened, sensing some sort of ruse. And then the reptile smiled, far too sweetly to be genuinely, and with enough visible teeth to be unsettling.

“Perhaps we can find your friend together.”

Soothsayer stared into the chameleon’s eyes, sensing the trap for what it was, but unsure how to proceed. This had been a stupid plan, but she’d needed to come here, to this awful city, and this awful palace, to see with her eyes if her visions were true.

“I…”

Somewhere, from some long shadowy hall metal scraped stone with a haunting phantasmal chime. The goat’s heart sputtered as her lungs froze, and her grip on her cane slackened, before she could gather herself.

It had been summer’s day, and the gates of the Tower of Sacred Flame had been forced open and that same sound had filled the air in time with every step… as Shen had emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse….

 …. As Shen emerged from the shadows of a hallway….

Head held high, lordly and regal even in death, his brow furrowed at the sight of her. His eyes darting between her, and the The Chameleon, and back to her. There was a curve to his beak, a glint in his eyes, and he seemed to very deliberately turn his head away.

He was back from the dead.

Her heart broke for him, and she was furious on his behalf.

Back from the dead, and the old goat practically see the restless shifting of his wing feathers hidden in his sleeves as his mind raced. Her visions had once again proven true!

The little goat’s fingers tightened around her cane. Her eyes narrowed, as she dragged her gaze back to the Chameleon. The sorceress was smiling, having seen everything she needed to see, and putting it all together. She stepped to the side offering Soothsayer a fuller view of her ‘friend’ still smiling as she enjoyed watching the old goat’s horror and dismay seeing Shen again.

Soothsayer, glared at the Chameleon. “You have no right denying the dead their rest.”

She had never wanted to swing her cane at somebody more in her entire life. Her heart was racing in fury as the Chameleon’s toothy smile broadened.

“There are lots of powerful people in the spirit realm, and seeing that they’re not making use of that power, I see no reason why I can’t borrow it. Right? Lord Shen?”

The peacock’s eyes narrowed. He had been watching the pair of them again since the Soothsayer started talking.

He hated being back. Hated the all too familiar weight of the living world pushing against him from all sides, suffocating him. He was trapped. Entrammeled, and he’d gone well out of his way to be as belligerent as possible since returning, but now…. The horrid little sorceress stood between him and the Soothsayer, and he hated the current situation more than he’d hated anything since returning.

He leaned down closer to The Chameleon’s eye level capturing her full attention. “One of these days, Lizard.” He ground the word into a hateful hiss, before raising his head and adopting an air of pleasantness. “You’ll find out, when I happily escort you there.”

The Chameleon’s eyes hardened ever so slightly, even her smile never completely faltered.

“Speaking of which… this little old goat seems to have trespassed and gotten lost.” The Chameleon pointed with the staff in the goat’s direction watching Shen’s face for any sign of worry or fear. “Perhaps you’ll do her the honor of escorting her there, in the meantime.”

It wasn’t a question, and silence settled between the three of them, as Shen’s narrowed hateful eyes swung toward the Soothsayer. He was absolutely livid, and while she didn’t believe any of his ire was truly directed at her, it still turned her blood cold to see him so… murderous.

“Shen….” It was a faint little rasp of a whisper. Nothing else could come out of her throat. But it seemed to insight something within him, as he stalked closer, train slowly rising behind him.

“Why did you come here?” It was a pained little hiss trembling with anger and fear, as he put himself squarely between his old nanny and the evil little lizard watching from the background.

“Why?”

He was shaking, trembling, and Soothsayer made to reach out, is if she were going to place a hoof on his wing, but at the last second her arm froze.

“Why?”

She didn’t lower her hoof or pull away. She just couldn’t move.

“Why?!”

He stopped just out of reach, and words rose to her tongue only to wither and die. She could not bring herself to speak to him. She didn’t know what to say-or there was too much to say.

She had stood on the dock after his battle with the Warrior of Black and White. She had smiled then convinced that he may have found peace in the end. Or convinced that with time he would after his death, but to see him again brough back by cruel magic and made a slave of-it was beyond horrific, and her throat tightened around a painful lump.

The peacock exhaled and slumped, red eyes glowering at the floor between them.

“You always were a stubborn old goat.” He wanted to say she was constantly sticking her nose in his business, but he wasn’t ungrateful enough to imply something so cruel, nor was he particularly keen on revealing the nature of their relationship to the watching lizard smirking in the corner.

He gently pushed her outstretched hood down. His last words to her had been that he had no use for her. Something somewhere inside twisted, leaving him breathless, but he pushed the emotion away, cozening up instead the anger that still followed him as a constant companion after his death.

Anger he understood. Anger burned, but it was a raw hot thing, he was used to. He’d sent her away, because it had been dangerous to keep her around- a danger to his plans-to himself, and that had been all he’d been willing to admit to himself at the time. But here and now, he couldn’t deny to himself it had been partially done to keep her safe. She was in danger now. Because of him. Because of some stupid lizard playing god, and there was no panda around to save the day. To save her. He didn’t know how, but the Chameleon was going to pay. She was going to pay for all of it.

He sensed the motion behind him, and whirled. Metal collided with jade, and Shen’s train snapped open.

“Too slow.” The Chameleon’s voice was cold. Her patience had run out, and Shen sneered. He’d been difficult and unruly; unwilling to bow his head and obey from the moment she’d summoned him. She had half a mind to send him back for his constant attempted transgressions, but his brilliant mind was for too useful. She had an army. She had sorcery. She had his kung fu and all the abilities she’d stolen from every other master she’d brought back, but the one thing she didn’t have, that could expedite her plans, were Shen’s weapons.

He could invent something new and exciting for her, and sending him back prematurely would be a waste.

“Too slow?” Shen’s voice was icy, and his eyes had shrunk to pinpricks of incandescent fury. “You’re too sloppy.”

If she decided to use the staff against him, there’d be nothing he could do. Her eyes flashed teal, and for a moment he tensed expecting to feel her skittering around inside his mind, like the world’s most aggressively annoying acupuncture. But her will never overcame his. Instead, he heard footsteps.

He glowered into the corridor he’d come from earlier, while the Chameleon laughed, backing away from him.

“You want continue your foolish crusade of defiance? By all means, be the rebellious little princeling you always were.” The Chameleon leaned against the jade staff. “See how much it costs you.”

From the corridor appeared, Tai Lung. The peacock’s only response was to shift. The Soothsayer was still out of view and if she was smart, she’d start running.

“I have no use for you.” It was all he could say to her, and he had to hope fear hadn’t rooted her to the spot. He wasn’t confident about his odds.

The Chameleon’s eyes flashed. Tai Lung’s eyes flashed teal, and with a low growl, the snow leopard crouched.

Before anyone could move, there was a cacophony of loud noises. A series of ‘ouches’ ‘youches’ ‘yees’ and finally a very loud ‘oof’ followed by something crashing. All eyes were on the noise. Soothsayer, very discreetly began backing up. Shen’s eyes flicked to hers, and he gave her the tiniest of nods.

“Shen…” her voice was still so faint, so clotted with emotion. For the first time in a long time, her façade of cool aloofness had been completely shattered, and he very discreetly reached through his train feathers, to touch her arm as she’d attempted to do to him earlier.

“Goodbye, Nan- Goodbye.”

He withdrew. His wing feathers left a warm unfamiliar weight on her arm. He was once again a stern cold warrior, fully intent on the noises, coming from a side corridor. The voice huffing and puffing, followed by some other voice were both growing louder.

Shen, head raised, very deliberately relaxing, as The Panda appeared.

Po’s green eyes surveyed the dark intersection of passageways and the people he’d just stumbled on. The elderly goat that had saved him from the river, looking heartbroken, and gob smacked at the same time. Lord Shen was standing before her protectively-which seemed odd until he remembered the Soothsayer had mentioned being the tower with him when he was young. Tai Lung of all people ready to attack the peacock, and in the middle of it all stood The Chameleon, quietly watching her hard won control over the afternoon spiraling further into infuriating disarray.

A young fox appeared by the panda’s side. “You really need to sort out your failed relationship with staircases.” Was all she said as she dropped into a fighting stance.

It was probably the weirdest reunion Po had ever experienced, and yet it hardly seemed like the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him. Although he was struggling in that moment to think of what might have been weirder.

“Well, if it isn’t the so-called Dragon Warrior.” Tai Lung rose.

“Greetings Panda, we meet agai-” Shen broke the silence, and Po still winded from evidently falling a considerable distance, gave him a small lackadaisical wave.

“Hey, how’re you doing?”               

It wasn’t clear who it was Po was addressing. Maybe Shen. Maybe Tai Lung. Maybe all of them. Anything that might have been said further, was drowned out by Shen suddenly laughing, just before his eyes flashed teal.

[ginsengkitten]

༺Beautiful Dangerous༻

a slashxreader fanfiction

༺☆༻

Chapter Two:

A snake & a lighter

Word count approx: 1700

☆Track list☆

Lullaby - The Cure

Talk Show Host - RadioHead

A Large python is inching its way towards the door of your bedroom. It's dark in your room, it must be night, you think? Moonlight drowns the room and the shadows of the rain sprinkle down your floral wallpaper. It feels familiar. The makeup bottles on your white dresser. Your denim jacket on its regular hook. Your stuffed animals preciously lined against your floor. School photos of you in miscellaneous academics adorned the wall. The snake continues, this dangerous animal making its way into your room. You see yourself asleep in your own bed like watching some sort of demented film. You want to alert yourself of the impending danger. The snake reaches the foot of your bed and you feel your muscles strain. You try to scream to yourself "WAKE UP! WAKE UP ITS GOING TO GET YOU!" but no noise seems to come out. You feel breathless. The snake slowly climbs onto your bed, paving it's large body through your comforter. You watch it approach your helpless body. You watch, terrified as the snake begins to hug around your body. You feel the tension of the snake starting to tighten harder and harder. It's getting difficult to breathe when some sort of...heat fills your chest. you feel your chest raising and deflating with hot electricity. This same feeling you had felt a week ago at the records store. When that..guy..stared into your soul like a lion to a lamb. Suddenly you surrender to it all. You want this. The fear and the heat entangle you as you fade into darkness. Wake up,wake up, wake up.

"Wake Up Y/N!" Daisy's voice echos into your consciousness. You snap awake with a gasp. Daisy is timidly sat at the edge of your bed, a look of concern on her face. "Y/N, I think you were having a nightmare." She says softly. The morning light blisters the bed through the white curtains of the guest bedroom. Your eyes squint as you come to. You feel your heart beat slowing. "You're all sweaty" she laughs slightly as if to mend the awkward awakening with humor. "Oh..." You sit up in a daze, sleepily rubbing your eyes. "What a terrible way to wake up on your birthday!" Daisy laughs louder now, she skips to the window and excitedly strings the curtains open. "My god!" You laugh and practically hiss at the light like a vampire. The light shocks you fully awake probably as Daisy intended. She did not take lightly to birthdays. Your 18th birthday. Wow what a milestone. How weird. I don't feel so different, am I supposed to feel-adultish? You thought to yourself as you accustom yourself to being awake. "My little baby ain't a baby no more!" Daisy cooed in a semi false sad, motherly tone as she embraced you in your sweaty pajamas. Daisy had turned 18 in February and was older by just a little. But she was more experienced in just about everything and sometimes felt like an older sister. You spent your birthday each year at Daisy's as it fell in June, right as you were on your regularly scheduled summer stay. You had started being sent away during the summers as mother and daddy chose to work full time during the summers as it was the busiest season for their line of work. At least that's what they tell you. The true reason was, as their only daughter, they took no chances of you getting into trouble or mischief like the rest of the teenagers in your town would during summer. The number of teen pregnancies that occurred the summer you turned 12 shocked your parents so intensely that they opted to ship you away entirely to the safe haven that is....Hollywood...and up until now it's worked it's job with only few instances of mischief under Daisy's wing. And yet this new feeling of yearning gnawed at you. It began the day you had listened to the Aerosmith album. The inner yearning for something more. Something new.

-

You sit in a trance at the dining table. Your breakfast untouched before you. Your apetite escapes you as you recount the nightmare in your head. Snakes. You've never really feared snakes. You haven't even seen one recently that would provoke such a fright. You recall on the warmth of emotion that overtook you in the dream. Almost a pleasurable sensation? Fear and Pleasure. You felt torn from feeling such intense emotions simultaneously. Confused at where this came from, some unidentifiable sense of impending doom ate away at you. Aunt Shena had prepared a gorgeous spread in honor of your birthday. She was religiously intense but her heart meant good always. She was present when she could be but could often be found hypocritically passed out from her anti anxieties or shopping uncle Robs salary away. Again, she meant well.

"Now girls." Aunt Shena excused herself from the table, dabbing non existent remnants of her uneaten food from the corners of her lipsticked mouth. "While I'd love to stay and join in on the festivities, I've got to get to a very important meeting with the crochet group for a fundraiser. I know you've only just turned 18, Y/N, but I thought it might be nice to go to the beach or a night showing at the movies?" Aunt shena primped her hair in the hallway mirror. "Just don't-" she paused and smiled at us both. "Don't tell your uncle Rob I've let you out so soon unsupervised. He doesn't need to know. There's some allowance upstairs on my dresser." She said hurried. She always made sure she looked so....very nice..for her crochet group. Very nice. It made you wonder at times but not enough to pry. Not your business what goes on at crochet. Plus if it took her off your backs whatever it was was very much so none of your business. For a bible thumping hills wife, Aunt Shena sure seemed to have her own unholier-than-thou activities. Again-not your business.

"And Daisy-" she turned and gave her a pleading look." Please...just take the jeep this time." Daisy and you exchange looks. Did she know about the Pontiac? Nevertheless, for a woman of god she seemed less than uninterested in consequence or punishment of Daisy's wrongdoings. Which seemed to make Daisy want to get into even more mischief. Daisy nodded in agreement, accepting her stern reprimanding from her all attentive mother.

-

The sun scorched across the water. A slight breeze gave occasional relief. You lay on your stomach and mindlessly draw circles in the sand. Just absorbing the ocean ebbing and flowing in blue and white hues. The seagulls crying out. The distant screams of people joyfully splashing in the water. Your mind couldn't help but revisit the dream once more. But every time you did, you couldn't help but revisit the record store in your mind. That guy. He hadn't left your mind since. Had you left his? Was it as electrifying for him as it was for you? No man had ever taken such residence of your mind before, not like this. You try to recall his features from memory. The gruff stature, and wild, beautiful curls that fell perfectly around his face. His face, that smile. That smile that was so sweet it was almost maddening. The way his pouted lips curved into that smirk. The way his hand felt over yours for that brief moment. His grip was strong and his fingers were fashioned with rings. One of them was a snake ring. The ring was a snake. That's where you saw the snake from, could it be? Such an intense dream from a simple ring on a finger? You couldn't help but believe that he had something to do with it. Somehow that interaction inspired that dream. He inspired that dream. What did it mean?

"So like I was saying Y/N" Daisy's voice intruding your thoughts. She flicked her lighter on the edge of her cigarette, lighting it into a steady stream of smoke. She held it to her lips and took a drag. A well seasoned drag at that. She motioned it to you but you politely shake your head no. "You remember that guy I met last week at tower records right?" Daisy continues. 'No' You think to yourself. "Yeah" you lie. To be honest, the entire car ride home that Daisy had spilled juicy details about her newest boyfriend, you had been busy thinking about your own mystery man who had wooed you at the cash register. "Well like I was saying, he and his friends have this band. I can't remember the name. 'Something Roses'. Anyways, they have a concert tonight and he said we'd get in for free. You down for a little birthday fun?" She gently pushes you with herself in a joking manner. A concert? You can't remember the last concert you'd even seen. It might have been the church family Christmas choir concert? That doesn't really count though. Daisy observes you thinking on it and offers a deal sweetener. "It's a rock band" she pushes again. Daisy knew all too well your developing fascination with rock music, and frankly the fading boundaries of which you once held yourself to. Over the years, the constant protection and coddling and bubble wrapping had worn on you. Something had been stirring violently within you over time. Sometimes it was like you felt as though you were born with a ticking time bomb in your heart. And the older you grew, the less time remained on the clock. All the walls, all the quiet submission, all the rules and the rhythms in which you kept your life stringent to, all felt like it could just take a single spark and you would ignite.

You suddenly feel a sense of overwhelming over-your-head bravery. You snatch the cigarette out of Daisy’s grasp and suck in an entirely too large inhale of smoke. You cough it all out immediately and laugh, as does Daisy-out of shock. A hilariously failed attempt to look badass in your moment of newfound bravery, but the smoke felt good as it burned your throat. You finally manage to choke out:

"Okay, let's go."

[feralghxuls]

Mushy May Day 1 - Bathtime

Rating: General audience

Pairing: Swiss/Rain

Tags: hurt/comfort, early relationship, mind chatter/telepathic communication

Word count: 937

mushy may prompt list put together by @forlorn-crows !!

Swiss watches the taut line of Rain's shoulders from across the rehearsal room, the tension clear in the controlled way he moves as he puts his bass away. Rehearsal had been a disaster. Flubbed solos, missed cues, broken strings galore. Copia had dismissed them a minute ago and now stands at the front of the room, his back to them and the bridge of his nose resting in pinched fingers, frustration radiating from him. He'd snapped at them, something he rarely does, had yelled at them for several minutes, begging them to focus, brutally reminding them that they leave for tour in less than two weeks. That right now, he'd be embarrassed to share a stage with them. Swiss had watched Rain stiffen, had watched the tension creep through his entire body, knuckles going white where his fingers wrapped around the neck of his bass. The next playthrough of the song they kept fucking up had been flawless, but the energy behind it had been akin to a funeral dirge. 

And now there's a thick fog of guilt and irritation settled in the room. Swiss packs his own things away with half an eye on Rain, unease curling in his belly like a pit of snakes. He knows how he gets, the stress and the guilt overwhelming him. It's bad enough without Copia shouting at them. Swiss shoots a withering glare at his back, and it makes him feel a little better. When he glances back to Rain, though, he's gone.

Read the rest on Ao3 or under the cut!

Panic slices through Swiss and he abandons his instruments, bolting across the room and out the door just in time to see Rain disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall. He books it after him, knowing Rain doesn't need him but wanting to be there for him anyway. He follows Rain to his room, where he goes straight for the bathroom, flipping the cold water on and stepping into the tub to melt into the bottom of it without even taking his clothes off. Swiss shuts the door behind them and quietly settles down on the floor beside the tub, trying not to breathe too deeply because Rain's scent is so bitter and sour it's making him a little queasy. He's left one arm draped over the side, trembling, and Swiss reaches up to take his hand, threading their fingers together and holding on tight.

Forty-five minutes. Rain has been submerged in the bathtub for forty-five minutes and counting, showing no sign of surfacing. Swiss has shifted from cross-legged on the cool tile floor beside the tub to sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, back to the porcelain. He holds Rain's hand against his chest, his arm draped over his shoulder. He's still trembling, has been the whole time, and every so often Swiss gives his hand a squeeze, a reminder that he's here. It takes a few seconds but he gets a squeeze back every time. 

It's an hour and a half before Rain finally breaks the surface, the softest sound of rippling water catching Swiss's attention. He twists to see him rising until the top half of his face is exposed to the air, the water line just below his nose. Swiss straightens up a little, giving him a soft smile. His chest is tight, though, wrought with worry. He doesn't usually spend quite this long under, but it doesn't matter if it's five minutes or fifty, it still stresses Swiss out. Even though he's a water ghoul. Even though he has gills. 

Rain's thumb brushing across the back of his hand catches Swiss's attention, bringing him back to the present. The movement is small and shaky, but it's significant. It means Rain is starting to come back, that the all-encompassing distress is starting to release its hold on him. Swiss brings the back of Rain's hand to his lips, kissing it softly, leaving it against his mouth and letting his eyes fall closed with the relief that washes over him. 

Swiss? Rain murmurs, his voice quiet in Swiss's head, far away. He opens his eyes to look at him, finding Rain watching him, expression still tense. Thank you. 

I didn't want you to be alone, Swiss says, his chest tightening and tears pricking at his eyes, overcome with the intensity of his empathy for Rain, the relief that he's starting to be okay again. 

It stresses you out, Rain says, blinking slowly at him. He's still shaking a little, but it seems to just be residual at this point. You don't have to.

Yeah, it does, but I care about you and I know you do this because you're stressed, which is an understatement, I know, and the amount it stresses me out is nothing compared to what's happening to you. He's babbling, he knows, but he doesn't care. He squeezes Rain's hand tight. Trying to say it without saying it because right now is not the time to be confessing that he's in love with Rain. That he has been since the moment he first laid eyes on him, dripping creek water all over the floor. 

It means a lot to me, Rain murmurs, tugging his hand away from Swiss's lips, stretching his fingers out until he lets go of his hand so he can cup Swiss's cheek. Swiss doesn't take his hand away from Rain's, clinging to it as he pulls Swiss towards him, rising further out of the water until he can rest his forehead against Swiss's. Rain tugs him down into a kiss, and it's cold and wet and Swiss doesn't care.

[writing-oof]

what am i if not a dog - El (9)

(or: the E.G.G.s have superpowers. this, surprisingly, is only the beginning of El's problems.) (or: or: El Quackity gets rehabilitated like a rabid dog, Quackity yoinks his evil little brother, and A1 is safe and sound at the end of things)

TW: dehumanization, headache, loneliness, trauma

El wakes up with a headache.

It's not really an abnormal experience, feeling as his brain is tugged in a hundred different directions, a thousand tiny strings stretching and coiling around the base of his skull. Still, just because something's normal doesn't mean that he has to like it. Especially when it makes the edges of his vision hazy and his hands a hair shakier than usual.

He groans, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to remember why he thought sleeping in a tree was a good idea.

Something about Philza and birds' nests, he thinks, but his insides are twisted up enough that he might have just been drunk.

Not very drunk, he figures, sniffing the damp sleeve of his shirt only to find a very pleasant mixture of water and monster guts assailing his nose.

He tries to ground himself and ignore the headache as he makes his way out of the tree and towards Roier's home, ducking into the underbrush when he catches the sound of islanders headed his way. He waits until they've passed, and then a beat longer, before hurrying back along.

His head throbs just a bit more. It stings a bit, to be hiding again.

He thought things were going well.

After Fit let him crash inside his base, Ramón poking at him to keep him awake as he shook under a dozen different blankets, things had finally started to shape up for El. For the first time in probably ever, the islanders looked at him without the usual open hostility and hatred he'd grown accustomed to.

And then, probably predictably, things had gotten bad again.

Whatever happened isn't his fault, he's pretty sure, but crashing into Roier and sending both of them sprawling right outside his home probably is.

"Fuck!" Roier says, his usual cheer replaced with something sharp as he scrambles up, "Be careful, man!"

"Sorry," El says, and for the first time in weeks he flinches when Roier's hand settles in front of his face, frozen for half a beat before he clasps their hands and lets the islander pull him up.

"What were you even doing here?" Roier asks with a grin, but it feels sharp and wrong and--fuck, Roier was supposed to be the one normal Islander-- "Were you coming to spy on my house?"

He wiggles his eyebrows, but El feels a line of tension in all of it like maybe he was actually worried about El coming to spy.

"No way, man!" El says, trying to bring the conversation back to normal, even if it means being a bit more excited than usual, "I found a dungeon no one's touched yet. You in?"

"I can't," Roier says, shrugging apologetically, and El rolls his eyes.

"Come on, man," he protests, knocking their shoulders together playfully, "You love dungeons!"

"Yeah, yeah," Roier agrees, picking up his fallen sword and handing El his own axe that had fallen out of its sheath and onto the ground.

"Come on," El needles, and Roier shrugs again.

"I really can't."

El rolls his eyes. "I bet you're just avoiding me, huh?" he says, knocking into Roier again. Roier, who'd been trying to sheath his own sword again, fumbles as it clatters to the ground again.

El can feel the moment things snap. It's like the air itself gets electrified--has been getting electrified--and Roier spins on his heel, his expression twisted.

"Would you stop it, man!?" Roier demands, "I said I can't! Just go find someone else to bother! Or go back and report to your Federation bosses!"

"I--" El feels the words die in his throat. He feels Roier's eyes digging under his skin, frustrated and annoyed, and knows he can't fix this.

El doesn't even know what he did, not really, since his words made it clear that Roier was bothered by more than dropping his sword.

Something sinks deep in El's gut.

Roier lets out a cross between a sigh and a huff, dragging his hands down his face.

"I'm sorry, man," he says, but it sounds uncomfortably flat, "I'm crazy busy right now, you know? Maybe later?"

El just nods, trying to keep whatever's growing in his chest off of his face. Roier sighs again.

"See you later, man," He says with a little wave, and just like that El's alone again. His hands are cold again at his sides. Maybe that's just how things are meant to be.

(Maybe that's what he deserves.)

---

El should have known not to take Roier's advice.

He stumbles down the trail, still not far enough from his superiors' offices to get away with collapsing onto the floor like a tantruming toddler, and he keeps his eyes focused on the path in front of him.

His legs feel like dead weight, suddenly heavy and exhausted. His ears ring, a shaking shriek between his skull, and the space between his temple and his eye throbs. It's going to bruise, he's sure.

That's what he gets for following Roier's ideas and reporting in to his bosses. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but he didn't have anything new for them at all. Worse, he'd tried to stick around and ask questions after they'd dismissed him.

El's lucky a freshly revived headache--his new constant--is all he'd gotten.

Still, it isn't fair.

He gives his whole life to the Federation and they still skirt around him like he's a particularly live wire, a stack of TNT ready to go off at a moment's spark.

El's doing everything for them, but it's barely anything at all.

And no one will tell him anything. He can hear the operatives get quiet the second they spot him peering around the corner, voices hushed and files shoved into drawers like he's spying on the Federation for the islanders, and not the other way around. The sanitation workers won't even meet his gaze anymore, turning away like he isn't even there. Every sense of camaraderie he had with anyone is gone, replaced with a stiff and unrelenting tension.

The helpless frustration tugs at his brain like a really persistent alligator, stretching his thoughts in a billion different directions. It's painful, almost as painful as a boot to the face. His skull throbs and his whole body feels hot with frustration. His eyes well up with embarrassed tears.

El grits out a cross between a scream and a groan between his teeth, clenching his jaw and his fists tightly as he walks.

Why is it all going wrong now?

Just when things started to be almost okay for him?

El wipes at his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt; it's fine. He moves forward, aimless but steeled, trying to redirect his thoughts away from the static that consumes them.

'I'll just go to the dungeon myself,' he thinks, kicking at the ground while he walks. 'Who needs Roier anyways?'

El pauses, processes what he just thought, and then immediately scowls. The guy's so annoying El can't even escape him in his brain. He would never say it to him, but if the islander were some sort of disease, El would definitely have it.

It's like he's an infection, always festering on the forefront of El's mind.

And, now he can't stop thinking about the dismissal, the way Roier used to be with him painfully different from the way he is now. The distance between them stings something fierce, and he grits his teeth harder as the static in his head grows louder, more present, almost like it's zeroing-in.

Then, because he isn't dealing with enough right now, voices come into focus.

"Ḿ̸̻͂̅̔̍a̵̢̻͍͊n̵͉͕̮͈͎̑,̸̡̤̻̦̫͊́ ̷̻̆̕w̸͚̪̓͝h̷̺̪͔͊͊a̷̗͕̝̭͘t̵̲̭̗̠̫̍̎̉͋ do you think?" Roier asks and El jumps, his heart in his throat.

It only takes a second for him to decide to duck behind a bush, pressing a hand over his face in an effort to keep himself quiet. He's already in hot water with the islanders, they already think he's spying on them. He does not need to make that worse for himself.

"I̶͓̼̋͊̚̕͠ͅ ̷̣͇͈͓̗̎̈͛̄̕m̸̢̖̗̋̄̂̈̕è̸͍̺̯̟͈̃͊͘ā̴̻͋ņ̷͐́̒ͅ,̶̧͕͘ who knows," someone--Foolish, maybe--says with a laugh.

El tries to breathe, his headache pounding in full force and only getting worse as his heart pounds inside his chest. His breath comes faster with every second, his lungs aching, and his hands are starting to cramp from the force he's been clenching them.

A pained noise covered in static rings out and it takes him more than a moment to realize it came from him.

"W̴͓̉͌̆̉h̵̯̐̕o̷̰̥̍̇'̷͙̯̦͕̀̾͗͗́͜ș̷͛̔͊̍̂͌ there?" Roier asks, his voice tense and suspicious.

El stills. He can feel the blood draining from his face.

He is so, so fucked.

---

Part 9 of ? First Previous Next

[straighttothefics]

The candle crackled between Steve and Eddie. The smoke flew up and twined together with the passing joint gently offered from fingers to fingers.

They were facing the sky, heads titled up to the stars and feet propped onto the rusted drum barrel. Eddie somehow always found these tiny pockets of peace around Hawkins, usually out in the open, with conveniently placed seats, whether they were dusty, halfway rotted picnic tables, fungi-ridden benches, or the hood of an empty car vessel.

Steve shifted on top of the orange rusted and slightly-too-small steel chair and moved his elbow over on their drum barrel table, leaning just a touch closer to Eddie, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. The music playing softly from the radio only allowed Steve to feel more of the... Eddie next to him.

"This song's pretty good." Eddie commented, nodding along to some underground tune on the radio.

"Mmhm." Steve hummed and pulled on the joint, only just tuned back in when he heard Eddie's voice. The haziness of their shared organic cigarette floated Steve's brain. Eyes squared on the stars, Steve passed the joint back to Eddie, whose fingertips brushed his own. Steve looked over and saw Eddie's eyes snapped back up from where they touched.

Then Eddie smiled, tongue out, kept his eyes on Steve's, and took a hit. Steve was afraid to let out his breath, afraid of dissipating this electricity zapping between them under the smoke, afraid of breaking this string of tension, and his whole body was crying for relief.

Just as he granted it to Steve, Eddie also took it away when his eyes returned to the stars, lips quirked up still, Cheshire-like, satisfied. Steve froze for one second more, then he reached over to punch Eddie's arm and sat back into his seat, a smile on his face as well.

"What?" Eddie said and laughed as he rubbed his arm, joint clipped between his pointer and middle finger.

"You gave me a look." Steve said and took the offered joint. He said nothing about the still-damp filter tip that touched his lips and he definitely didn't forget to pull after placing it there.

"What look?"

"You know." Steve gave Eddie the look.

Eddie's lips exploded into a huge smile and Steve thought the giggle that came after was slightly manic, but also cute. Eddie glanced up at him and Steve decided the giggle was definitely cute, and it made him smile back, feeling dopey and floaty and slow.

"You're so fucking high," Eddie laughed and took the joint from Steve, "I need to be where you're at."

The candle crackled and mingled with the music. It smelled like spring and dirt and burnt grass. Somewhere away from them, near the edges of the forest, a symphony of crickets sounded its song, seemingly in tune with the music frequency.

"I know I told you this already, during the whole Vecna thing," Eddie started and exhaled, "but it's hard to sink in that I'm smoking weed with Steve Harrington."

Steve huffed out a laugh, "I suppose... it is a bit shocking. For me, too."

"Dude, we're bonding. That's kinda... wow." Eddie full-on laughed.

"Yeah, it's really wow." Steve returned the sentiment.

Their joint was approaching the makeshift paper filter and they had a little game to finish it off. Eddie took a quick hit and passed it to Steve, who took a smaller pull and passed it back. They took turns taking micro-hits until the cherry burned Steve's fingertips. He put out the joint and was going to stick his fingers into his mouth, but Eddie was quicker and he led Steve's fingers over to his earlobe.

Eddie's earlobe was soft and chilly in a cozy way, like Steve'd want to feel that chill under a warm blanket on a rainy night. He rubbed the smooth plane of skin, surprisingly empty of piercings, considering who Eddie was.

"It's weird seeing you without piercings." Steve told Eddie.

"I've... never had piercings?"

"Yeah, I don't know," Steve furrowed his brows and chewed on his lip, "you'd look good with it."

"Thanks, Harrington." Eddie said and gave him the smile again. Steve pulled his hand away from Eddie's ears and stood up to stretch.

They were lit by moonlight and candle, and outside of their 2 feet radius circle, it was pitch dark, lest for the outline of Steve's car parked nearby.

Steve loved this time of night, embracing the cool air that allowed him to warm his hands in his pockets of his favorite coat, being able to witness something as bright and full and ethereal as the moon could make him fall in love with Hawkins, and lately, these nights meant bonding and smoking with Eddie.

The candle crackled between them and Steve looked up at the stars, feeling their shared gazes twining with each other among the diamond-dotted sky.