#that's frankly a separate question

[aethersea]

it is funny though how kids' shows are so so so careful about death, no one's ever killed except MAYYYYBE the big bad, all those random side characters are fine, here have a quick shot of them before we leave just so you know they really did survive that 50-foot drop into a stormy sea,

and meanwhile kids' books nearly all agree that it's not an adventure until it has a body count.

[itwoodbeprefect]

sometimes a piece of queer media is very obviously cheap and also bad and outdated in ways that aren't even particularly interesting, but it's just so obviously from The Before Times that it's painfully difficult not to be charmed by it anyway

[scholarhect]

frustrated because i want to get educated on feminist theory but idk where to start, especially since there’s so much flawed feminism out there (god, you’re saying i have to read it all and form my own opinion? but that’s so much work! just tell me what One feminist work i should read to know everything) but it’s so important because i’m becoming increasingly convinced that our deemphasis on theory is killing feminism.

we’re losing her. we’re doing vibes-based feminism we’re doing “whatever personal opinions i bring to the table without thinking about them are my political views” feminism we’re doing “it’s easy! if you don’t hate women and want them to die you’re a feminist!” feminism we’re doing VANITY feminism we’re doing “common sense” feminism (just a rephrase of “whatever personal opinions…” feminism) and we’re shocked that we’re losing. a political movement & ideology* that has NO thought behind it, JUST vibes. no pillars, no standards. what even is a feminist? when do you ever hear that articulated? unless, again, you’re hearing “a feminist is somebody who believes women are people :)” that’s exactly the problem i’m talking about.

this is why we’re losing ground to “criticizing beauty standards is antifeminist because it feels good to be pretty” feminism we’re losing ground to “you know what group has had it too good for too long? the transgender woman” feminism we’re losing ground to “feminism is for women AND men and the more we include men the more feminist it is” feminism.

frankly the way the transphobic feminism gains followers is it’s the only fucking side that actually gives somebody ARGUMENTS to latch on to. people are alienated by toothless no thoughts feminism and they’re going to people who are offering them some thoughts, and a bad argument beats the shit out of no argument at all. it’s like if you showed up to court with no lawyer? and you were like “everybody knows i’m right, morally. it’s common sense. the strength of that will protect me :)” you are going to prison. we could be doing transfeminist theory we could be explaining the role of gender in society and how it’s constructed and how women both cis & trans are constructed as women but instead we’re saying “i don’t hate trans women because i’m normal :)” that’s nothing!!! am i making myself clear do you see what i’m talking about!

and then the other two things i complained about, the “feminism is anything that makes me feel good, as a woman” and “feminism is for men, actually” are just because when we have zero standards for feminism it can mean anything at all. we could be talking about these things but we aren’t.

i don’t know how to fix this (i could learn more, but what then? well i guess id post about it for my followers. good enough, i guess. so it’s just that i don’t know how to learn more) but i am getting so frustrated with the way things are now. i know there’s people out there doing real things in the feminist space but i don’t know where to look… lot of trans women on my twitter tl talking about feminism (and yes that’s something, but i am hungry for more than twitter threads <3) and they’re fighting an uphill battle over there. like. god

* i feel like it’d be the good feminist thing to do to come down hard with “feminism is a MOVEMENT” but we do kind of need internal ideology before we can have external movement, probably. seems like people who already have feminist ideas are more likely to engage in feminist actions when the time comes. but idk i’m no political movements expert. this post is just me giving you my two cents on a specific concept

[shadowsong26x]

First of all, I want to say that I agree with the overall point of this--at minimum, handing Ahsoka over to the Senate for a civil/secular/military/whatever word we want to use here...anyway, handing her over for trial was, at minimum, the least of several bad options. I’m pretty sure I came to that conclusion in my very nerdy essay on the subject of this arc and medieval English law.

However.

There are two points here that I disagree with.

First, the question of what the Order would do with Ahsoka after she’s convicted. Because...at this point, unless I’m very much mistaken, the Order is still the legal/official authority on What To Do With Force Adepts. Holding Ahsoka (or any other trained Force-adept) temporarily prior to trial is one thing. A long imprisonment is something else entirely. So...regardless of who tries her, if she is convicted, there are basically two outcomes: capital punishment or involving the Order heavily in containing her long-term (if not just outright placing her in the Order’s custody).

Because...what are the other options? The Citadel, if it is still in Republic hands and intact, is no longer escape-proof. Especially given that Ahsoka was part of the team that orchestrated the last jailbreak.

Mandalore technically has the capability to contain Force-adepts (as we see in S7), but a) they don’t seem to be actually Part of the Republic at this point (it’s Unclear exactly what their status is there); b) the options for negotiating are either Bo-Katan, who (I’m guessing) has tried to set herself up as the legitimate government in exile (which Did Not Work for Several reasons but that is another essay in and of itself; the point is, clearly at this point she hasn’t been accepted in that role) or Maul/whoever his proxy is at the moment, which...like, that’s an Occupation regardless of whatever else the Republic might know about the regime; and c) the situation on Mandalore is chaotic to the point where it’s arguably in the midst of another civil war. So involving them is basically a non-starter at this point.

And...that’s about it, unless I’m missing something else that’s established in canon. To be fair, we don’t know what was done with Barriss (unless I’ve missed something), which quite possibly is a third (fifth?) option, but the options are Slim.

Second, I question the idea that handing Ahsoka over for an outside trial also automatically/necessarily means expelling her before she’s convicted. That’s...not really a vote of confidence, which might sway opinions against her; also, it comes across as her family disowning her--again, while we can at least assume there’s an innocent-until-proven-guilty philosophy at play for the Order, and (presumably) the Republic, at least on paper.

So, to answer that final question...I feel like surrendering her for a (hopefully/presumably) fair trial without actually disowning/expelling her prior to a conviction would be what I would vote for, if I were on the Council and had their level of knowledge.

People don’t think enough about the jedi council’s options in the wrong jedi arc. They can either:

A: Do nothing. Tell the public and the friends and family of the victims, “There is a ton of evidence for this person’s guilt, but she is one of us, we have known her since she as a baby, so we decided she is not guilty, without a trial. Bye.”

B: Hold your own trial. We don’t know exactly what kind of legal system the jedi might have, but there is no way in thousands of years there has never been a jedi accused of a crime. Even if we assume those crimes are handled by the government issuing the accusation, there has to have been a time when that wasn’t an option. For example, the council held a trial to decide the fate of Prosset Dibs, so yeah there must be some type of system in place. But Prosset and Ahsoka are very different because he only attacked another jedi, making it an internal affair. For Ahsoka, think of the implications, either they:

a: Find Ahsoka guilty: What now? Do you imprison her yourself? Do the jedi have cells in the temple for keeping force sensitives? Just keep her in her room with guards on the door? We know the jedi believe in rehabilitation so there would be an attempt to help her away from the dark side (once again, what they did for Prosset). Meanwhile, they have to deal with the public who is probably not happy that she is getting off with what is, in their opinion, a slap on the wrist. Is it the jedi’s job to care what the people want? Maybe, maybe not, but public opinion is at an all-time low because of this fake war set up to make them look bad, and this will have consequences. (Yeah, we know she is not guilty and doesn’t need rehabilitation away form the dark side, but the council doesn’t.)

b: Find her innocent: This will sound like bullshit to the public. “Uh we meditated on it and the force told us she is not guilty.” How mad would you be if this happened? If your friend died in the attack, wouldn’t you be just pissed about this? There is a TON OF EVIDENCE TO HER GUILT and at this point, no counter evidence. (Yeah, Anakin shows up with Barriss eventually, but you cannot make a decision based on something that will happen in the future, something you don’t know about. So, this doesn’t factor into the council’s decision.)

Or finally, the option they chose, the only real option available:

C: You send Ahsoka off to receive a fair trial* where she will have an opportunity to defend herself in court and will have an attorney. In their minds, this trial would likely be even more fair than one they hold because they are emotionally compromised here, because, yes, they do know Ahsoka and consider her family! But they have been burned before (Dooku and Krell) and are at this point willing to accept the possibility of betrayal.

People act like the council sent her to die. They didn’t. All they did was vote on whether or not she, someone accused of a crime with tons of evidence supporting that claim, should go to trial. That’s it. Everything else was Palpatine and Barriss. Besides, this way if she is found innocent the public won’t think it was nepotism.

* We, the audience, know this will not be a fair trial, but the council, and literally everyone else, believes it will be. There is literally not a single indication to imply anything else. You can’t blame characters for not knowing something they logically couldn’t know.

So, to the people who think the council fucked up here, I ask an honest question, if you were on the council, had the full ability to sway the vote, and only knew what the council knew, what would you have done? And if it was anything other than expelling Ahsoka from the order, how would you have handled the fallout? The riots, the protesting, the clones from the guard who get killed in the crossfire of your choice?

The council made the only choice they could have made, and Ahsoka got hurt. That doesn’t make them wrong, and it doesn’t make Ahsoka wrong to feel betrayed either.

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 | Marcus Acacius x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | once your dad's greatest friend, now his greatest enemy. you cannot shake the desire and care you feel for the fallen general, even as he heads toward death.

author's note | LISTEN, none of this is going to be accurate. and frankly idc, i'm horny i needed to write this do not come at me. no source material? idc i'm still writing it. anyways, enjoy the p*rn. (if you're reading this prior to the movie coming out, none of this is canon. this is just an idea that i wanted to write and felt like posting, if you do not like the idea of writing without source material, please do not engage or send me asks to be combative, they will be deleted. i won't be continuing this specific fic and will not be writing for him again until the movie comes out.)

content warning | 18+ smut, this is dbf for the gladiator girlies (gn), sneaking around, descriptions of smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampies, breeding kink, age gap (reader is early 20s, marcus is late 40s/early 50s), alcohol tw, innocence kink

word count —2k

You knew he would be here soon, he must. 

You curled into the dark corners of the arena hall, having been here since dawn with your own father, a high military commander who struck down Marcus as punishment for such things even he wouldn’t tell you about. You knew nothing, heard nothing—you weren’t allowed such privilege. 

It has been days since you last saw him—Marcus. General Acacius to many, another esteemed leader amongst the masses, and a once great friend to your father. Though, that was no longer.

You often called him sir, finding that General Acacius was quite the mouthful. Or often just General, but his endearment toward you was blatant and he insists, almost pleading that you drop the formality when alone. Which was easier, as your fondness of him grew.

It started at a celebration, one of the many grand parties thrown in celebration of fight won or any reason for the men to drink, but Marcus liked to linger. Often tucked away in a corner watching the madness unfold, you were too curious to stay locked up in your room.

The first night he caught your eye, it was a smile around the edge of his silver goblet drowning in red wine, a hand crossed over his chest as he watched you slip away in fear that he may say something to your father.

But, he never did.

For weeks after, it progresses. From a smile, to a lingering gaze, eventually he finds himself inching closer to you, week by week. Until one night he finally finds the courage in himself to be waiting by the corner you often sneak around, watching curiously.

“You are pushing it, dove.” He speaks softly, his eyes downturned to look at you from the step he was on above you, slowly inching down until he was level, “if he catches you—”

“He hasn’t,” You tell him in a clipped, hushed tone, “and you haven’t said anything. You won’t….will you?”

He bypasses the question, “Why do you come here?” Marcus curiously asks, “These men, they are—animals, if they see you dressed like that, they would not hesitate to—”

You had on a pale nightgown, thin and barely enough to cover your modesty but it was enough. The sticky, summer heat prickled your skin, formed a line of sweat across your brow and you huffed out at his words, “My father would murder them. Besides, you are not like them. So, why do you linger here?”

He was much more than a friend, closer and akin to family. 

But, he had his own troubles. Stepson, a wife, he should be away caring for them. Yet, he was there with a disgruntled scowl and eyes only set on you.

“Why not?” He shrugs, “It is…quite entertaining. Isn’t that why you sneak around here to watch?”

You mimic his shrug, shying away slightly as you pull away to leave, but his hand catches your wrist, his cup placed in the gap of pillars separating you both. His facial expressions show an internal battle of thought, like he’s fighting against the bad and hoping the good would win out.

Unfortunately, the bad prevails.

“Let us walk,” He tells you, nodding toward the exit a few feet away, “if you would accompany me?”

You nod eagerly, switching the grip on your wrist to curl around his bicep, muscular and hard from years of fight training. He flexes slightly at the touch, covering his free hand over yours in a comforting gesture. 

He made you feel safe. And that was all that mattered to you.

—

The walk was the first mistake.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself tucked away by a nearby tent, unbuckling and unfastening Marcus out of his gear hastily before he fucked you under your nightgown—gentle but firm. He was the first man, the first ever to have you in such a way. You’d told him so as your hands shook under the weight of his gaze, the taste of bitter wine on his lips. He’d kissed you as he pushed his cock inside of you and didn’t stop until you were tipping over the edge.

Over time, you grow bolder. Sneaking him back into your home was easy, knowing the guards weren’t as watchful in the late, late hours of the night. It was dangerous, reckless, but as you tug him down into the cellar and sink to your knees, it all fades away quickly.

His little dove, he often calls you. Sweet dove, so pure and innocent. His hand caresses your chin as you swallow him down, eyes locked on his half-lidded gaze before he comes down your throat, nose scrunching up slightly and his brow furrowing, biting at the back of his other hand to muffle the groan that escapes him.

It was always like this—hurried and quick fucks that didn’t diminish the feeling, but reminded you how easily you could both be caught. It continues for months…and months, until suddenly he stops coming around.

No parties, no visits—Marcus had become a ghost.

But, enough digging had led you here, tucked away in the shadows again—but watching as he fought for his life. The other man was much older, weaker, and Marcus struck him down within a matter of minutes, blood splattering across his face as he stuck again and again, bashing the poor man’s skull in until it was nothing, teeth gritting as his body surged with adrenaline.

Gladiator fighting wasn’t a new thing—and you knew he wasn’t the only one, but why?

He’s making his way down the arena toward the pillar you are tucked behind unknowingly, alone and battered as the guards run off to dispose of the body. You aren’t sure where Marcus is going now or when you would see him again, but you take the chance when you know no one is watching, grabbing him by the armor plate on his chest and pulling him away and into a dusty closet, knocking into a stack of buckets in the process.

You gasp as his hand wraps around your neck, fist cocked back in preparation of an attack.

But, then his eyes land on you.

“Dove, what are you—”

You shush him quickly, hands molding against his face and the dried blood, his breathing quick and short as you attempt to calm him.

“I had to see you—I thought…I thought you had—”

“I might as well be,” Marcus replies somberly, “we cannot meet like this. We cannot meet at all.”

“It’s fine, It’s fine–” You assure him, reaching forward to press your lips against his.

Marcus pulls away hesitantly, grabbing your face roughly until you look at him, eyes widening.

“They will kill you. I cannot see you again. I should not even be here with you.”

Your eyes well with tears, forcing yourself forward again to capture his lips and this time he allows it, opening his mouth slightly as your tongue dips inside, working silently at the buckles to his chest plate.

“No talking. Let us…enjoy this. If it is the last time.”

You were both well aware—he would fight for his life or die, that was it. And he would fight until that point came. He was no longer a General, completely stripped of his power. But, he was still Marcus. And you would hold onto that for as long as you could.

He’s shaking, the adrenaline raking his body and making him restless as you kissed him, tongue dipping into his mouth again as his hands roamed, squeezed, caressed. 

“I will not break,” You whisper into his mouth, “take what you need, Marcus.”

It was all he needed to hear, turning you around swiftly and forcing your down with a hand against your back, arms pressing into the shelf in front of you as he pushed up the silk, carefully woven and intricate fabric of your dress—so pristine and perfect. He wanted to rip it off you, be he refrains, squeezing at your hips while he kneels behind you.

“Marcus, you need not—”

“Quiet, little dove. Let me have this,” He licks against your cunt hungrily, noisy slurps as he lapped you up, squeezing less than gentle at the inside of your thighs as they shook, his tongue swiping over your clit, a broken moan slipping past your lips, “beautiful—let me hear you.”

“Marcus,” You plea, his fingers joining his tongue as they breached you and drag against the soft, but incredibly sensitive spot inside of you, your hand reaching for his wrist tucked between your legs as you whined out his name once more, twice, until your legs gave out, feelings his strong, broad shoulders flexing as he used his brute strength to keep you upright, licking up the gush of fluids that leak out of you, rising with haste and untucking himself from his garments, wrapping a gentle hand around the back of your neck before he’s pulling you upright harshly.

“Want to leave you something,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, “something to remember me, if I shall never leave here. Something of me for you to carry on. Alright, sweet dove?”

You nod knowingly, as Marcus had always been careful to pull himself out before breaching that point. He was always careful, hesitant—but being on the brink of death, he found himself careless and desperate. He couldn’t let you go.

He slips inside of you with a hand tucked around your throat, pulling your back to his chest as he snapped his hips into you firmly, groaning lewdly into the side of your neck as he bit down, squeezing at your throat with every soft sound you made and you want it just as bad, forcing your hips back into every push of his cock—you were positive this pain would last you into next week, but you needed that reminder. His fingers dip into your skin, hard and uncaring and sure to leave marks, but that was what you wanted.

And his groans quickly turn needy, more high-pitched than you’ve ever heard them

He’s holding back, restraining himself. You turn your head, catching his heated gaze as he pants, your thumb tracing over his lip. His hand drags over your stomach, rests, curious of how beautiful you would look swollen and carrying his child. 

It is a hopeful and distant dream, one that he will never foresee.

“Give it to me, Marcus,” You beg him, “I want it.”

It so easily undoes him, “Take it, my dove,” He growls, coming deep inside of you with a shaky thrust of his hips, squeezing you tight against him, “I think of you, always. You must know—know that.” 

It pulls at your heart, tugs in a way that makes your entire body ache. He pulls out with a low grunt, silently tucking himself away as you adjust your dress.

“And I love you,” You admit, watching as his gaze pulls up quickly, “even if you cannot say it back. I know. I know you do.”

Marcus breathes harshly through his nose, crowding you once more but it is soothed by a gentle kiss, “You need to leave—do not come back here.”

“Marcus,” You counter, sadness lacing your tone.

“If, by some miracle, I make it out of here,” He drags his thumb along your jawline, pausing on his words as he looks you over, memorizes you, “I will find you.”

You nod jerkily, eyes never breaking from his, “Just like you always have.”

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

thanks to @chaotic-mystery & @pr0ximamidnight for being the absolute best friends ever and beta'ing this for me on a moments notice, ily both.

[kooberryfields4ever]

greedy

hello !! if you're seeing this again it's bc i've reuploaded it in order to make it a separate post <33 gonna start posting asks/reqs separately so i can tag the link in replies instead!!! tysm for reading!!!

wc: 5851

content warnings: detailed descriptions of insecurity surrounding weight & body image, internalised fatphobia, jungkook also gets insecure & a little toxic during an argument, jungkook is vulgar!!!!!! porn with a little bit of plot, jungkook is a munch, jungkook spanks yn a couple times, piv sex, descriptions of female anatomy, KOOBERRYFIELDS4EVER DISCOVERS A POSITION THAT IS NOT MISSIONARY!!!!!

MDNI !

He notices it in your face first, the way you’ve started to cover your chin in photos he takes of you, choosing to lean against your palm when you pose or asking him to take them from a higher angle. He chalked it up to new trends catching your fancy, never thought much of it. You look pretty, he’d compliment, and you would accept them with a sweet smile before deleting the majority of the photos he took. He had never even considered the fact that not once had you posted to your Instagram in over a month. He notices it next in your tummy, once on display with crop tops or low-rise jeans, now hidden away by baggy cargo pants, hoodies, and sweaters. He never minded. Yes, he misses being able to reach around your waist and stroke his fingers across your stomach, misses the easy access he had to your body and the intimacy of skin-to-skin contact that you’ve taken away from him. But, like his own, your style is always changing. Baggy clothes are in right now. It’s when you start to physically shy away from his touches, shrug off his hands and redirect his kisses that he senses something is really wrong. Sure, trends change, you’ll find new styles and your wardrobe will be endlessly rearranged. He’s sure you’ll find new poses for him to capture in a few weeks' time. Refusing his touch, though? No, never.

You love physical touch. Had said so yourself when Jungkook and you first started speaking, drilled it into his head that if this relationship was to go anywhere then he would have to get used to being your personal body pillow. He would joke that he hated it, would wrestle your hands away from him just to provoke a reaction from you, would sometimes place a pillow between the two of you in bed just to make you sulk so he could make it all better with a cuddle as an apology. Of course, he never really hated it – you were always warmth. Always comfort, ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice if he ever needed your touch. You’d card your hands through his hair when he was sad, scratch his scalp and kiss his head. He’d always search for you in cold beds and winter nights, and you’d always meet him with soft giggles and tangled limbs.

So why now, does it seem, that you no longer want him? Why is he met with a cold shoulder when he reaches for you at night? Why is the bathroom door always locked when you shower, when you used to gladly leave it wide open for him? Why do you refuse to eat meals with him, refuse his snacks, refuse to accompany him to the corner store when he wants something quick to eat? He paces the bedroom – ever the overthinker – and questions himself endlessly. The thought of losing you quite frankly makes him sick. He has to sit down, hang his head in his hands. Think. He doesn’t notice the front door opening and shutting, nor the gentle patter of your feet as you make your way through the apartment. Doesn’t hear you greet Bam in the living room with soft coos and gentle pets. He curses inwardly. His mouth is dry. He needs a drink.

When he opens the bedroom door, he’s met with you in a hoodie and leggings. He frowns, can’t help it, his head hurts and the way you immediately curl in on yourself doesn’t help. He sighs, brushing past you with a shake of his head and beelines to the kitchen. He can’t think properly, his mind is absolutely reeling. Feeling unbelievably nauseous, he downs a glass of water in an attempt to stave off the feeling of utter dread in his stomach threatening to release itself from his throat.

“Are you upset with me?” Comes your soft voice from behind him, and his head throbs. Why haven’t you wrapped your arms around his waist, yet? Why are you not massaging his shoulders, kissing his back? He turns to you, places the glass down on the counter beside him, meets your eyes. You look tired, sad even. Jungkook sighs.

“When were you planning on breaking up with me?” He asks abruptly, and you raise your eyebrows in genuine surprise, shaking your head in disbelief.

“What? Where did that even come from?” You fire back, feeling a certain anger rumble in your stomach at the accusation.

“You clearly don’t wanna be with me anymore, so when were you planning on ending it?” He’s surprised at his own combativeness; his hands are shaking when he crosses them against his chest. “Wanted to wait it out a bit? See if the feelings came back?”

“Jungkook, I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” you deadpan, furrowing your eyebrows, “what did I do wrong?”

“There’s someone else, right?” He scoffs, and the look of utter horror on your face makes his stomach drop. What is wrong with him? The neurons in his brain are firing all the wrong ways, making him say all the wrong things and feel all the wrong emotions. He’s not angry, never was, never could be – never at you. He’s scared, terrified even.

“Fuck you.” You spit. Jungkook’s never heard such venom in your voice before. Your lip wobbles, a telltale sign of what’s next and he curses himself when a tear slides down your cheek. You dot it away with the sleeve of your hoodie quickly, trying to save face, but Jungkook’s already crowding your space and wrapping his arms around you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair, rubbing your back and pulling you close to his chest. His heart breaks when you push him away, but he refuses to let you go. “Please, I’m sorry,” he begs, his hand instinctively slipping under your hoodie for the contact he’s been craving so badly, “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” I’m scared, he leaves out. He kisses your head, and you flinch when his fingers run over your waist.

“There’s nobody else, but…” You whisper, gently pushing his hand away from your waist. Jungkook stills, doesn’t mean to move his hand away but does anyway. Takes a step back, in fact. “But, I don’t look good. I’ve been stress eating, and my clothes don’t fit me right, and you barely touch me anymore, and-”

“What?” Is all he can muster, not sure if his face is reading as total disgust, anger, sadness. You’re not sure, either, it seems. You meet his eyes, you look disappointed. “No. Nope.” You gasp when he takes your hand, questioning him when he drags you down the hallway to your shared bedroom. He doesn’t answer when you call his name, doesn’t say a word as he makes you stand in front of your mirrored wardrobe and stands behind you. He’s not even sure himself what he’s doing.

“Jungkook, stop it...” You pout, turning your head to avoid looking at yourself in the mirror. This feels like some kind of sick torture technique, you never thought Jungkook could be this cruel.

“No, stop,” he orders, though quietly, his hand reaching around you to grasp your chin and turn your head back towards the mirror, “you don’t see what I see?”

“You’re not being nice.”

“What do you mean I don’t touch you anymore?” He avoids your accusation, has an end goal in mind now and will see it through or die trying. He keeps one hand on your chin, the other sliding over the fabric of your hoodie. He doesn’t want to push you too far but can’t help himself. He hears you sigh; watches the way your eyes avoid the mirror like the plague, like seeing yourself is that agonising. He sighs too. “You never want me to.” He adds on, hopes it’ll coax an answer from you, that maybe you’ll see his side of things.

“Because I don’t want you to feel how big I’ve gotten,” you say, frustration lacing your tone, finding his eyes in the mirror, “I don’t look as nice anymore.” You frown, unable to stop the tears as they slip down your cheeks. “The last time we had sex you wanted me to keep the covers on.”

He frowns too, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. “You thought I didn’t want to see you? That’s what this is all about?” He releases your chin finally in favour of holding your waist with both of his hands, growing bolder and trailing his touch down to the hem of your hoodie. He sighs when you nod, never known you to be so fragile, so easily convinced. He sees the confliction on your face when his fingers slip under the fabric, wants nothing more than to kiss it away.

“I want you literally all of the time,” he continues, placing a kiss on your neck, grinning when you tilt your head away from him to give better access, “like all of the fucking time. Think about you when I’m at work, when I’m eating, when I’m gaming, I dunno.” He’s fishing for answers, groaning happily against the skin of your neck when, for the first time in weeks, you let him brush his fingers over the much beloved skin of your belly. He doesn’t like your silence, wishes desperately that you would say something, anything, but the look on your face tells him you’re untrusting of his words. Funny. Jungkook truly believes the sun shines out of your ass, but you can’t even believe he finds you beautiful.

“Think about you when I’m in the shower, when I’m brushing my teeth, when I’m doing anything. Wish you’d at least touch me, even if you don’t want me to touch you.” He groans, frustrated at himself for having interpreted all of the signs so wrong. That’s all he seems to be doing today. “You know how much I missed this? Missed running my hands over you, touching your skin, cuddling you? I wake up rock-hard most mornings, and you’re already out of bed, away from me. I never wanna push you too far, and you haven’t been in the mood. Would never push your boundaries.”

“Yeah, except now.” You whisper, and he chuckles. Maybe you’re being serious, he can’t tell, but he likes that you smile too. Likes the sound of your voice.

“Yeah. But it’s okay, right?” He grips your waist, lowering his lips to the sliver of skin he can reach with your hoodie on, the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. “You are the most gorgeous person I know; I thought you knew that. I genuinely couldn’t fathom you believing anything else. I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your skin, kissing back up to your pulse point and nosing your ear, “you’re perfect. Can I take this off? Please?” He practically whimpers, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against your temple. He’s pathetic and hard, he knows you can feel it from behind you. Wants to press himself closer, but doesn’t want to push you.

Your hesitation is obvious, silence thickening the room. He doesn’t watch you now, wants you to see yourself, wants you to make the decision. His hands don’t roam. They sit firmly on your waist, an encouraging weight but nothing more. You think for what feels like forever before turning your face to him, resting your forehead against his own. His eyes open to find yours. They’re sad; his are pleading. He watches you nod so slowly, you’re still unsure but you know he wants this.

He really does. He can feel himself practically drooling when he turns back to the mirror, slipping his hands out from under your hoodie to grasp it. He takes his time, nudges you to look too as he lifts the fabric up over your stomach slowly. His eyes boring into your skin when your navel comes into view, then it’s the skin surrounding your stomach, your soft waist. Your bra finally comes into view, and Jungkook practically growls in your ear, decides to hold a brief intermission so that he can grab one of your tits and run his thumb over where your nipple should be. The fabric is too thick to tell, but you let out a hitched breath anyway and he smiles. He pulls away for only a second to slip the hoodie fully off of your torso, immediately finding your waist and pulling you back into him.

“Look at you, prettiest in the world,” he purrs, can’t help himself when he rolls his hips into the hollow of your back. His hands are gentle when they explore, fingers tiptoeing over your flesh and indenting it softly.

“I look big.” You offer back, part of you desperate to fish for Jungkook’s compliments. He frowns, spanking your hip to scold you before wrapping his arms around you to make a point.

“Wouldn’t be able to do this if you were as massive as you make yourself out to be,” he tuts, kissing the back of your head and resting his lips there, “think you’ll still look tiny sitting on my dick, too. Missed that cute little cunt of yours, pisses me off that you’ve been keeping it from me because of something so fucking trivial.” His voice is husky when he whispers the crude words into your ear, his grip on you becoming rougher but he can’t help it. It’s so infuriating that you would think Jungkook of all people could care about something like that. Makes him feel like a monster, like he’s somehow guilty of upholding this standard for you when realistically, you could look any which way and he would still love you.

He knows he can talk about his own body a bit too much, maybe conversations about his diet and workout routine made you think he was trying to convince you to be the same? Probably doesn’t help that he eats a lot of health foods during busy promotional periods and has a drawer full of supplements to keep his own weight in check. He never meant for any of that to reflect on you, though. You’re perfect in his eyes; with soft skin and ample curves, dimples in your lower back and freckles dotted across your body. He loves finding them, loves drawing the lines to connect them and kissing between the spaces. Loves when he fucks you from behind and his thumbs sit in those dimples like he imprinted them himself, makes him feel like you were truly made for him, like your body is moulded for him to touch, to kiss, to hold, to love.

He’s too busy in his own head to notice when you wrap your arms around your middle to hide yourself from him, how scared you look at the prospect of Jungkook seeing you as if he hasn’t already seen you a million times before. You elbow his hands out of the way and that catches his attention, makes him furrow his brows in annoyance. He slides his hands across your arms and catches your wrists, gripping them tightly before encouraging you to explore yourself the way he was just a second ago.

“I don’t get it.” He groans frustratedly into the back of your head, guiding your hands across your stomach, over your navel and over the skin of your lower abdomen. “Why don’t you see what I see? God, I’d give up everything to let you see yourself in my eyes. You’re like a fucking Messiah, my own little Aphrodite.”

“Aphrodite isn't a Messiah.” You respond quietly with that smartass tone of voice he loves, though slightly muted. He rolls his eyes and chuckles at your quick tongue, always itching to prove him wrong about something.

“Okay, and? The point is that I worship the fucking ground you walk, couldn’t picture a better death than in your arms...” He smirks, playing with the waistband of your leggings. “Maybe between your legs?” He laughs when you slap his forearm, but continues down the vulgar path he’s set himself on. “Would want my last breath to be with my tongue on that pretty pussy of yours, my last meal. You taste so good, always have. I know you love when I eat you out, too. Don’t you miss it?” He encourages, wants to hear you agree, wants to see the brick wall you’ve built up around yourself start to collapse. He’s kicking at the foundation as he speaks, finding the weakest spots and slotting the easiest bricks out at a time like Jenga. “You get so, so wet when I let you sit on my face. Think you know that I’d happily drown if it’s your snatch I’m drowning in. Don’t you want that, baby? Me to fuck you with my tongue?”

He reels when you respond with the softest “mhm” imaginable, gripping your hips like his life depends on it and pulling you back into his erection for some kind of relief. “Yeah?” He croaks, pushing your hair over your shoulder so he can start peppering kisses down your spine from behind. “I’ll do it, but you gotta do me a favour, m’kay?” Phase two of his master plan underway. He stands up straight, rubbing your hip gently and rests his chin on your shoulder to talk to you directly, wants to look you in the eye even if only through the mirror. You’re waiting for him to continue before you agree, leaning your head against his sweetly. “I want you to look at yourself the entire time. Not me, want you to face the mirror and see exactly what I see.”

You swallow nervously, scared to agree because that sounds like your worst nightmare. But Jungkook is so sweet, so kind and encouraging. Your eyes flutter shut when he turns his head into yours, kisses your neck gently, whispers how good he knows you can be for him against your skin. Your weakness has always been Jungkook’s gentleness. He lights fires in your gut and fans the flames with the softness of his voice, plants seeds and waters them with his delicacy. You find yourself agreeing, murmuring an “okay” and allowing Jungkook to guide you over to the bed. He’s preening, celebrating this victory by offering you a kiss on the lips as he encourages you to lie down with your head turned towards the mirror.

It’s different this way. You’re not so disgusted with yourself when you can see Jungkook in the mirror looking at you in awe. Your eyes remain on him, scanning over the broadness of his shoulders. He looks larger when he has clothes on, his t-shirt hiding away the lean frame you were once so used to. You suppose you’re still used to it, but the giddiness that bubbles in your stomach at his touch feels new. Your gaze lowers to his hands, you can see the flex of his shoulders through the fabric, how his fingers pry at the fabric of your leggings before slipping them down your legs and off your body, tossing them onto the floor carelessly. He turns his head to the mirror then, meeting your eyes with a stern face.

“Not me.” He instructs, and you begin to feel shy again. You haven’t sat with the reality of your body for so long. Against the sheets, you look frumpy. There’s a roll in your waist and a curve to your stomach now, it quite frankly makes you feel a bit sick. You’ve never been model thin, you don’t think that’d be possible with Jungkook’s feeding habits, but you’ve never been this big. Realistically, you aren’t even big. You don’t even see a problem with it on others, you know plenty of bigger people who you are even envious of. You just don’t think it looks right on you. Their bellies remain flat where yours curves above your navel, their hips are round where yours dip and flatten. Their skin is smooth and their boobs stay perky, you have cellulite and your nipples are starting to droop.

Your mind blanks when you feel Jungkook’s thumb press into your belly, using his free hand to pull off your panties and toss them onto the pile with your leggings. You don’t know how he does it, how he manages to draw you from the deepest crevices of your insecurities with his touch. You want to look at him so bad, but you don’t want to disappoint him. You want to be good. You keep your eyes on yourself, on the indent of his thumb in your abdomen, on the rise in your hips when he finally lowers his mouth to your pussy and the way your chest shakes with a hitched breath when he nudges your clit with his nose. You pull one leg back to plant your foot in the mattress, letting the other fall sideways to spread yourself open for him. He thanks you with a mumble of praise and wraps his lips around your clitoris to suck on it gently. You moan, it’s been so long since you let him touch you like this and you can feel yourself growing wetter against his tongue. He’s lying flat on his belly while he eats you out, burying his face between your legs and holding your hip. The thumb digging into your tummy is pressed deeper, like he thinks you’re going to push him away. You wouldn’t, couldn’t, so you lift your hips up into his face and whine for more.

As expected, he obliges. Dives in a little deeper and dips his tongue past your entrance, ensuring you don’t slip from his grasp. His other hand meets the fabric of your bra and you can feel the vibrations of his irritated growl in all the crevices of your pussy. It makes you whine, clenching around the muscle of his tongue as you rut into his face for more friction. He pushes at the cups haphazardly, desperate to release your boobs from their confines and play with them. You can’t control the way your eyes flutter shut, biting your lip when Jungkook’s fingers toy deftly with one of your tits, squeezing the flesh and rolling your nipple between his fingertips. You’re certain his eyes are shut too, but a sharp pinch to your breast has you letting out a surprised yelp and sitting up on your elbows to scold him. His eyes meet yours sternly, separating from your lower lips for a moment to tell you off.

“You’re really bad at following instructions.” He mumbles, coming off whinier than intended. You can’t help the giggle that leaves your throat at the sound of his voice; Jungkook has never been too good at being domineering. Never in all the time you’ve known the man has he ever truly intimidated you. He groans, feigning annoyance, but presses a kiss to your pubis before resting his forehead against your tummy. “Can you please just try?” He asks so quietly, and you swallow hard at the almost pathetic tone of voice he’s using to get you to obey. You hadn’t intended to be difficult, but you hadn’t really considered the anguish you would be in just from seeing yourself.

Watching Jungkook instead is like a Hail Mary, a saving grace between glances at your own body that bids your churning stomach time to settle at the sight. He’s so pretty, you’ve always thought this. Even now, resting against your belly with pleading eyes, Jungkook is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen. You turn your head to the mirror again and see the hopefulness in his gaze when he lowers another kiss to your sensitive skin. His hair is a mess of black atop his head and your eyes follow the curve of his neck down to his t-shirt. You grumble quietly, vexed by the fact that he’s too covered for your liking, but continue your observation down his right arm anyway. You follow his tattoos down to his fingers and gasp when he moans into your folds and tightens his grip on your hip. You notice too, then, the way his hands fit so perfectly against you. It makes you smile. For the first time tonight, despite his tongue dipping back into your folds and his lips wrapping around your clit making you pant, you can’t take your eyes off of yourself.

You hook your leg over Jungkook’s shoulder, digging your heel into his lower back and rutting up into his mouth desperately. He chuckles into your heat and hooks his hand around your thigh to delve in deeper. He loves the sounds of your moans, music to his ears like a melody played staccato; your back arches off the bed but you keep your eyes on yourself in the mirror. He seems to be rewarding you now, pleased by your submission, and your mind short-circuits when his fingers join his mouth at your core. Your fingers tangle in his hair, encouraging him closer still – of course he heeds, dipping his middle finger into your hole and curling it. He doesn’t need much coercion to add another, your wetness and willingness is evident from a mile away, but Jungkook still groans in pure awe at the sight of you taking him.

Your moans devolve into a babble of his name as you draw closer to climax, clenching around him and shutting your eyes. He doesn’t punish you this time, accepts that you’ve done well enough for him, and instead watches your face as he sucks on your nub and strokes at your g-spot until you come hard around his fingers. When you finally open your eyes, your chest is heaving and Jungkook is holding up his wet digits like a trophy, bringing them to his lips to lick clean before journeying up your chest with determination.

“You saw, right? What I see?” He whispers, kissing up your happy trail slowly. You nod, but Jungkook isn��t watching – on purpose, you assume, to coax a verbal confirmation from you. His kisses travel further up, but he doesn’t ask again until he reaches your chest and presses a single kiss onto one of your nipples. “Can you tell me?”

“I saw how pretty you looked.” You respond, just to be a little difficult, but the way Jungkook deflates has you backtracking immediately. “We, I saw- I saw how pretty we looked.”

“But what about you?” He’s so genuine in his questioning, not spending as much time on your tits as he personally would’ve liked. He crawls up until he’s hovering directly over you, planting his hands on either side of your head.

“I looked good with you.” Is all you can muster up, but it seems to satisfy Jungkook as he lowers himself to meet your lips. The kiss is so slow, so gentle, and you can taste the subtle savouriness of yourself on his tongue when he guides it past your lips. Your hands wrap around the back of his neck like second nature, and he moves one of his own to your hip as the kiss grows more heated. He grunts into your mouth when he grinds himself against you, and the weight of his erection is dizzying. You swallow the noises he makes, holding him close to you and rutting your own hips into his movements.

“If I don’t fuck you in the next five minutes, I might die,” he murmurs, hand wandering across your hip and up to your waist, “no kidding. I’m too hard.” He adds when he hears you giggle, offering a final peck to his lips before pulling back a little.

“I’m right here, aren’t I?” You whisper sultrily, nuzzling your nose against his. He hums appreciatively, kissing down to your jaw with a grin. “You’re the one with all the clothes on.”

“Not how I want you, need you from behind.” He practically growls, and you swallow hard when he sits up to tug his shirt off and finally reveals what you’ve been craving so ravenously. You don’t hesitate in reaching forward to rub up and down his torso, trailing your fingers over the ridges of his pecs and abs with fascination. He chuckles and grabs your wrists, shaking his head as he stops your exploration. “I like this and all, but I need you on your stomach, like, yesterday.”

“That doesn’t feel fair, you had your fun,” you complain, scooting back on the bed while he sits on his knees above you, “and I don’t even get to touch?”

“Nope. Belly, now.” He commands, though his tone is far from domineering. He sounds desperate, and he looks it too. His body is flushed, his cheeks and shoulders tinted red as he gives your hip a spank and encourages you to turn over. You grumble a small protest but do so nonetheless, peering over your shoulder at him as you raise yourself to your hands and knees and dip your back. He tuts, placing a single hand on your ass and pushing you down until you’re flat against the mattress. He’s quick to shuck off his sweatpants and boxers, then reaches down to finally unclasp your bra. You sit up on your forearms to allow him to usher the straps off of your shoulders, leaving both of you naked on the bed.

“Eyes on the mirror, please.” He smiles down at you, reaching out for your ass cheek to give it a firm jiggle and a slap. You turn your head obediently, trained well by his consistent praise and repetitive instructions, and look at the way he positions himself over you from behind. He moves himself steadily between the small part in your legs, groaning when his tip brushes against your folds, rutting forward and sliding himself against the wetness coating your skin. You part your legs even further and reach back to take a hold of his length for him, preening at the way he drops his head and mewls. You’re desperate too at this point, so it doesn’t take long for you to guide his tip to your entrance and he’s even quicker to shove himself in.

You both moan, breaths shaking as he pushes deeper and deeper until he’s fully sheathed inside your heat. You continue to watch, endlessly awestruck by the sheer size of him compared to you – even despite your weight gain, Jungkook looks massive. When he pulls out, he’s glossy with your arousal, and when he thrusts back in you can almost feel him nudging against your tummy. Especially in this position, Jungkook feels impossibly deep. You groan when he grips your hips and you watch as his thumbs press into the dimples in your spine and he smirks, unknowingly to you because he’s been thinking about exactly this for weeks.

“I fit perfectly,” he growls, pulling you back onto his cock in order to reach deeper, “pussy was built for me, mm? You see?” You can feel the way his fingers stretch around your lower back to grip at your stomach while his thumbs stay firmly planted in those dimples, and it makes you shudder.

“Y-Yeah!” You moan, all you can do at this point is agree because he is so right. Not just your pussy, despite the fact that he fills you unimaginably well, but everything about the way your bodies interact with each other makes it obvious that you were made to be loved by him. Nobody else’s hands could fit so perfectly around you, could fill in your crevices and divots like plaster and make you feel so whole. You count your lucky stars for having Jungkook in your life to love you the way he does because you’re certain no-one else could. Even now, between sweaty skin and lewd noises, Jungkook stares down at you like he’s seen God; his lip trembles between his teeth and when he spots you looking up at him he grins and pins himself against your back. His hands leave your hips to wrap around your belly from underneath, holding your back tightly against his chest as his thrusts slow to an intimate roll.

“I love you, I love you,” he babbles into the back of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair and whimpering at the underlying notes of sweat, “I love you so much, never hide from me again.”

“Sorry. I love you.” You whisper back, breath hitching as you try to hold back your tears. This is all so intimate, it hurts. Jungkook is moving inside you like he could die tomorrow, making a home in your pussy and carving his initials into your cervix. He kisses the back of your neck breathes heavily against the shell of your ear, one of his hands trailing up to cup your tit and play with it gently.

“Gonna cum.” His hips are already picking up their pace, barely withdrawing himself from your heat in favour of grinding against your inner walls and cervix delicately. You turn your head to him and reach back to stroke his hair as encouragement, your own orgasm nearing as you feel yourself tightening around him. He nods, the silent agreement between you is enough for him to fuck you through both of your climaxes as he spills his cum into your heat and buries himself to the hilt when your walls begin to pulse around him. The noise that leaves his mouth is genuinely pathetic, but neither of you care in your post-orgasm bliss. He keeps his chest pressed tightly against your back, rolling slightly onto his side to spoon you instead of laying directly on top.

You can only handle a few minutes of cuddling like this until it all feels a bit too uncomfortable. Even Jungkook agrees, separating himself from you and leaving the bedroom in search of a wet cloth before returning with a bright smile. He’s silent as he cleans you, gentle when he wipes over your back, and then turns you to face him so he can clean between your legs and rid you of the sweat beading on your chest. He throws the cloth on the floor to meet your piles of clothes and clambers next to you in bed to cuddle you.

“Hi.” You offer him a smile and he returns an even bigger one, kissing your mouth.

“Mm, hi. Missed you.” He mumbles against your lips, gripping your ass cheek and separating from you to nuzzle your neck as he pulls you closer. “Don’t ever do that to me again, that was torture.”

“I’m sorry, I got in my head.”

“Me too. But you see it now, don’t you? How beautiful you are?”

“I do.” You wrap your own arms around him, giggling when he kisses your neck playfully before splaying himself out against your chest, holding you as close as he can.

a/n . . . 🗒️ hello !!!!!! second long post to here… i love asks and i love requests and i love making your ideas come to life in my head 🤍 this was incredibly fun & challenging to write and i’m happy to finally share with you guys !!!! your support means the world to me & i love hearing from you even if it’s criticism so please shoot me whatever you wish !!!

[undiscovered-horizon]

[Mihawk prefers to keep work and his private life separate. On one rare occasion when these two have to comingle, Mihawk is rather upset at the attention you attract.]

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

When Mihawk said "It will be just a moment, my dear", you didn't think the issue would take more than half an hour. Yet here you are, two hours after he had left you in a fussy lounge in the back of Midnight Grove...

...and not a Dracule Mihawk in sight.

You let out an exasperated sigh and take another sip of your mai tai. The band is playing yet another song that sounds vaguely identical to the previous one. Similarly, the mob of other patrons seems to be merging into one, murky background of blurry figures in your eyes. Being used to the peaceful yet refined companionship of Mihawk, the aura of Midnight Grove is beyond unbearable.

Mindlessly playing with a coaster featuring a howling wolf, you don't notice a Marine cadet approaching you.

"I'm afraid I have to arrest you, my lady."

The unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome comment makes you look up from the devilishly fascinating coaster. Your eyes fall on a well-built man with long hair and a smug expression. The glint in his brown eyes makes you tense up in discomfort.

"Excuse me?" you ask him, not understanding the meaning behind his words.

The cadet gives you a bad parody of a flirtatious smile. "You look too beautiful," he purrs out.

You can't help but laugh. Somehow, you're undecided whether his pick-up disgusts or amuses you or maybe both. Perhaps his audacity forced a laugh out of you - the ring on your fourth finger is neither modest nor simple. Considering how the large gem in the golden band shone in the low light of the Midnight Grove, even a blind man could tell from a mile away that you are anything but single.

"Anyone waiting for you at home?" he continues his rather poor attempt at flirting.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you toss the coaster on the table. Feeling both curious and entertained, you decide to play along - for now, at least. "Why are you asking, sailor boy?" you question before taking another sip of your drink. The ice has melted and the diluted drink now tastes mostly of old freezer.

"He must be mighty jealous about you. And considering the gold you're wearing," he makes a point of staring at your cleavage, "a millionaire, too."

"Oh, this?" You look down at the necklace of jewels and pearls. A memory flashes before your eyes, suddenly remembering Mihawk's face, barely visible in candlelight as he clasps the jewellery around your neck, telling you sweet things only men in romance novels tend to say. "Yes, it's a gift from someone. I'm sure you know him," you tell the Marine cadet in a casual tone, already imagining how hilarious his face of terror will be when he realizes whose spouse he's been trying to woo. "Tall, yellow eyes, a rather large sword and...

"Awfully annoyed at your impertinence, boy."

The low, guttural voice laced with withheld anger makes both of you look away. There, standing right behind the cadet, is Mihawk himself. Part of his large physique blocks the scarce lighting, making him look significantly more insidious. In the twilight of the Midnight Grove, with fury burning in his eyes, Mihawk appears closer to a demon than a man.

Although the room is dark, you can clearly see the way the cadet's blood draws from his face and the way his eyes are suddenly bigger than an owl's. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling off his chair. Then, muttering apologies and promises of better behaviour, the young Marine runs off only to disappear in the crowd of Midnight Grove's patrons.

Mihawk's eyes follow the youngling for a moment.

"I should have him strung up and killed," he says more to himself than you.

"Or," you speak up, a playful smile curling your lips, "you could sit down, have a drink with your beautiful wife and gloat about the fact that you're the only man to undress her."

You might just be a witch because the change in his demeanour is instant. There is still something wild in his bright, yellow eyes but it's not bloodthirst or anger anymore. You notice how he glances at the ring and the necklace, admiring his own signs of "ownership". One would think they're big enough to send the message. Alas, some people just refuse to receive it.

"You have me convinced," Mihawk says as he sits down next to you.

[xiaq]

B has a big important presentation at work tomorrow so he scheduled an hour with me this morning to run through it (over zoom, in our separate offices, with me pretending to be his customer). We played our parts impeccably without breaking character until the very end when he asked if there were any final questions and I said, very seriously, “Ah, yes. Are you single?”

He hung up on me while shouting upstairs that a hussy was trying to hit on him.

Which is, frankly, an excellent response that he can feel free to mimic in a real life scenario.

He gets a 10/10 from me.

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (i)

SUMMARY: Despite appearances, you’d learnt Soldier Boy was, actually, capable of being a good man. Somehow, you’d wormed yourself into his good books, and had the rarest privilege of seeing him without the suit, the drugs, the ego, the everything. Just as things were going good, his heart somehow getting even warmer for you, the world separates you in the cruelest way.

PAIRING: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 3573

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Sexism (set in the 1980’s), typical Soldier Boy behaviour, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, questionable morals (peer pressuring drug use), sexual content, eludes to smut, Soldier Boy may be a bit OOC at times, gore.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Becoming a world famous supe was never something you’d ever wanted. Sure, you’d grown up with their photos on your bedroom walls, your father telling you stories of when the first ever supe came to be, insisting he fought alongside the Soldier Boy in the war

The people around you seemed to idolise them. These… mostly regular people in tight suits, pretending to be better than everyone else.

You knew better. You knew enough. Enough to know supes were dirty, and corrupt, and definitely not the heroes they presented themselves to be. That their hands were more blood than they were skin anymore.

And, frankly, you wanted nothing to do with Vought or Payback — or whatever the fuck those shitty, useless superhero teams were called. (Seriously, what did they actually do? Except sit in their pretty tower and take the peoples’ taxes?)

Your father, however, had different ideas.

So, at 18, you woke up in the hospital, after an ugly head collision, with superpowers you’d never had before. A miracle, the doctors called it, a supe whose extraordinary powers had been hidden for her whole life. When you got home, you forced the truth out of your father. Compound V, he called it, a new chemical made by Vought.

No one was born a supe, he admitted, it all came from a liquid in a vial. The truth hurt you, as much as it didn’t really surprise you. Chosen by God, my ass.

This wasn’t supposed to be your life.

But it’s certainly what it turned out to be.

Payback were as shitty, if not more, than you’d originally thought. Each of them had… many flaws. Soldier Boy, obviously, was the worst. If the Devil reincarnated himself, he’d look and act like Soldier Boy.

Simply talking to the man made you want to shoot yourself.

Well… it did at one point.

Two years down the line, things had changed. Soldier Boy was still insufferable, sexist, arrogant, and a major asshole. But… he wasn’t so much a dick directly to you, as he used to be. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was actually somewhat nice to you. As much as his macho heart could manage, anyway.

You noticed it the first time when he saved your life on a mission. He’d grabbed your waist when a grenade clinked at your feet, whirling you around and to the ground, squashing you against his firm chest, using his shield to protect you both from the hot blast. He’d shrugged it off as nothing; as something any leader would do for his team. Then you watched him hit Gunpowder about for not following his order to a T, and realised… maybe he did treat you different.

It was undeniable these days.

You were the only person on Payback that Soldier Boy could remotely tolerate.

“You need’a be more careful.” Despite the hard look on his face, Soldier Boy was staring down at you, as a Vought doctor wrapped clean bandages tightly around your midsection. It was a bullet to the wound; which, with being a supe, wouldn’t be too bad, but you didn’t heal inhumanely fast like he did. “You’re fuckin’ useless when you’re hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for your concern, Soldier Boy.”

His eyes narrowed into a harsh glare. “Ben.” He corrected you, for what was probably the 50th time. Each time he did, he got more annoyed with you. “How many times do I have to say it? Is there a brain in that pretty head’a’yours?“

You grunted, spinning on the bed and hanging your legs off the side of it. “Thanks for the compliment.” Ben rolled his eyes at your sarcasm, not offering a hand as you groaned in discomfort and got to your feet. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be healed up by the time we set off for Nicaragua, if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout.”

Ben just grunted, displeased. “Ain’t happenin’.” He immediately shot that idea down. “We leave for Nicaragua in two weeks. You ain’t comin’. Sit this one out.”

You stared, expecting a joke. Clearly, he wasn’t. “Seriously?” You groaned, unhappy. What was it with this guy? “I’ll be fine. It’s a silly little bullet.”

“I was holdin’ your fuckin’ guts in your body.” He walked away, reminding you of just how bad your injury actually had been. He had, indeed, practically been keeping your guts inside of you as you bled out. “You ain’t going. You’re stayin’ here.” You chased after him, pulling your shirt on as you left the infirmary.

“Ben—“

He whirled around to face you. “I said, you’re fucking staying.” He growled, glaring down at you. God, were you glad you were on his side. This man was terrifying. Six feet of pure muscle, strength and violence. “You’re better off here, using that face of yours to get some PR.”

“And, what? The others will back you up?” You scoffed, grabbing his wrist as he went to walk away again. His expression went cold at your touch, but you didn’t flinch. As much as he tried to scare you, Ben wouldn’t raise a hand at you… probably. You had faith in the man. “They can’t fight for shit, Ben. Gunpowder hasn’t even discovered his own dick yet. You think you’re gonna have your back covered out there?”

He ripped his wrist away harshly. “I don’t need my back covered.”

“Everyone needs their back covered.” You argued. “Even you.”

He chuckled, sarcastic and dry. “You worried ‘bout me, princess?” You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look, as he took a step closer, mouth curled into that ever-infuriating smirk. “I’d perform better if you sent me off with a taste of that—“

“Ben.” You interrupted him, unimpressed. You rolled his eyes at his predictable behaviour. “I’m not gonna fuck morale into you.”

“Shame.” His eyes flicked up and down, tracing the curves of your body. “Bet you’d be a firecracker.” He walked away again, and you threw your hands up, groaning. Ben chuckled as he turned the corner. “Think it over, sweetheart.”

“You’ve got a hand.” You called back to him. “Use it!”

Conversations like that were very common with Ben.

It’d be a normal conversation (as normal as it gets with him) — and then he’d start talking about fucking you against the nearest surface, and all pleasantries went down the drain. Seriously, he thought 80% with his dick, and 20% with his actual brain.

And that was being kind.

But, beneath all of his macho assholery, was his genuine worry. You knew he wasn’t letting you accompany the rest of the team to Nicaragua because of your injury, despite how minor it was, and that he was worried you’d injure yourself further.

You’d never slept with Ben, despite how much he’d tried to charm you into his bed. Your relationship was strange. He flirted, you flirted — there were lingering touches. And, sure, he’d never put his dick in you, but his fingers were a different question. And… oh, boy, could that man use his hands.

It was like being in a relationship, just without the sex. Which was odd, as it was Soldier Boy. But, the way he smiled at you and treated you, it made you feel different to the other women.

He was just… shit it showing it.

Poor bastard wouldn’t know emotion if it slapped him in the face.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

“I am not wearing this.”

Okay… scratch all of that. Maybe Ben was just a dickhead.

He lounged back in his chair, grinning lazily, legs spread like he owned the place. He probably thought he did. “Why not?” He took a sip of his whiskey, ice clinking against the sides, eyes never leaving you from over the rim of the glass.

You held up the fabric. “Seriously?”

It was basically a scrap of fabric, with how much it covered up. You didn’t shy away from showing skin. You quite liked short skirts and pushing the line. Because, as a supe, there was a line. Vought liked it when you showed skin — apparently it made your ratings go up with the male fans, no shocker. But, too much skin on display, the male fans started calling you a whore, and the ratings shot back down.

It was a bit like a balancing game, trying to find the perfect amount of skin to make the boys ogle but also respect you. An impossible feat, truthfully.

And this? This was definitely classed as too much.

“I don’t see the issue.” His smirk said otherwise.

“My tits are not gonna stay in this, Ben!”

His smirk just grew. “Again, I don’t see the issue.”

You groaned and put the dress down. “No. I’ll get my own dress. I am not wearing that.” You tell him, arms folding across your chest. You didn’t miss the way he checked out your tits, and the way the placement of your arms accentuated them.

He rolled his eyes, obviously not happy with your decision. Leaning towards, elbows on his knees, Ben’s eyes took you in. “Why?” His head cocked to the side. “You’d look hot. It’d make your ass look great.”

“That’s not a compliment.” You grumbled, pushing a hand through your hair. Ben made a small grunt of disagreement, but didn’t say anything otherwise. “Listen, there’s a certain line. Alright? If I wear that, every guy out there will be callin’ me a whore. Okay? Imma find something else.”

He hummed and sat back. “I think you should wear that one.” Sighing heavily, you just rolled your eyes at his persistence. “All those assholes will be blowin’ their pants just lookin’ at you, sweetheart.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Ben stared at you, and silently took another sip of his whiskey. He always seemed to think these crude, rather sexist and inappropriate remarks were compliments. Like commenting on your body. Or saying you’d be a freak in bed. Which were obviously not actually compliments.

You rolled your eyes, rubbing your forehead. “I’ll find another dress, Ben.” You told him, definitive. There was no way he was going to convince you to wear that dress.

“What a disappointment.” He grinned, lopsided. “I was lookin’ forward to seein’ you in that dress.”

“Again,” you deadpanned as he checked you out once more, “you have a hand… use it.”

Ben just smirked, and sipped his whiskey again.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You wore the fucking dress.

The asshole always won. Always.

He looked so fucking pleased, as you walked into his after-party, wearing the dress he’d picked out for you. His smugness was clear, brushing through the crowd with ease to come to you.

Ben hummed, eyes dilating as he stared you down. His eyes lingered on your tits, as they always did. “You look…” he hesitated, trying to think of a compliment that wasn’t degrading, and failed, “fuckin’ hot. If you weren’t such a bitch, I’d bend you over right here.”

Your face pulled together in disgust, looking at him with your lips pressed together “… gross.”

He chuckled. “Drink?” He offered. “I got your favourite.”

And there he goes again.

Being nice.

It did your damn head in.

Accepting his offer, you shivered as his large hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. They all seemed to part like the Red Sea as he came through, a fact that amused you greatly.

Seriously. These women looked at him like he was Jesus reincarnated, when he’d totally call them in a whore in bed.

Ben silently reached out for your favourite alcoholic drink, pouring it into a glass. His eyes scanned over the room, smirking at a few of the women ogling, sending them rushing to their friends and squealing. He merely chuckled and handed you the full glass.

“Thanks.” You murmured, taking it from him. Your eyes stared up at him for a moment, curious, before looking away again.

What was it with him? How could be such an egotistical one minute, and then be nice and respectful the next? It was like a guessing game, trying to figure out what mood he was in.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm, but not enough to hurt you. “Come with me.” He guided you through the crowd once again, to the doors in the back. As he pushed through into the room, he flashed you a cocky grin over his shoulder. Dickhead.

This room was far quieter. You noticed, immediately, the only people present were supes and celebrities, not the random civilians that’d been granted a pity invite — or the women Ben thought were hot. This was the main party. There were drugs covering every table, with various big names passed out on the chairs, blazed.

Ben lead you to the corner, where he’d obviously already been busy, if the half-snorted lines of cocaine proved anything.

Silently, he offered you a line, which you gratefully accepted.

You didn’t do drugs before you joined Payback. In fact, you’d avoided them, promising yourself you’d never become that type of person. But it was the norm within Vought. Every supe spent their nights filling their bodies to the brim with various drugs, poisoning themselves. So, you started smoking weed to fit in.

Then Ben found out you only did weed, and decided it wasn’t enough. With enough pressure, he’d gotten you onto any other substance he could convince you to try.

It made you more attractive, in his eyes, as you spiralled into addiction like him.

In fact, it got him rock hard, to snort lines or share a joint with you. It was so fucking hot, watching your eyes glass over as you got higher with every hit, with every line. God, it turned him on so bad.

You snorted your third line of the night, when Ben suddenly pushed you back into your chair. Bewildered, you stared at him, as he snatched up a baggie of the white powder. Your heart leapt to your throat, the moment he moved aside the slit in your dress, revealing the bare skin of your thigh. All breath left your lungs, watching him pour some of the powder onto your thigh.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He was about to do a line off you.

He glanced at you through his lashes, smirking at the shocked and flushed expression you wore. He used his pocket knife to cut the lines, mindful of the sharp blade against your soft skin.

God, this was hot. He found it hot. You found it hot. It’d be a damn miracle if you ended the night with your clothes on at this point.

Your skin tingled as he sniffed up the first line, of his hands roughly gripping the top of your thigh to steady you, his other holding a rolled up $100 bill. He groaned in pleasure, body physically shuddering, head shaking, as the drug made his body run hot.

He did the next line, the grip on your thigh becoming tighter as his pupils began to blow up.

Was it getting hot in here? Or was it just you?

Maybe it was the cocaine in your systems, maybe it was the fact Ben was just… so damn hot, but you couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing his hair and forcing his head up as he snorted the final line off your thigh.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted. Holy shit. This man was sculpted like a fucking God. Your body shivered. “You finally takin’ my offer, sweetheart?” He chuckled, shaking off the immediate effects of the cocaine, raising himself up to your level.

“Fuck me.” You whispered, breathless, practically begging him.

His eyes went dark, almost black, with lust. The smirk on his lips made you squeeze your legs together. “Don’t need to ask me twice.”

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You now understood the hype. You understood why women bent their knees the moment Ben uttered a word to them.

Holy shit, did this man have talent.

Your legs were still twitching, the space in between your legs throbbing and tingling with how many times you’d come on his fingers, his tongue and cock. You’d counted four, before your vision had gone white.

Jesus, he had stamina. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it’d been just over five hours since you’d first fell into Ben’s bed. That super strength was better for more than just fighting, after all. This man should be advertised for his abilities. No shocker he was an American sex symbol.

He’d just fucked your brains out.

And now, he was staring at you with admiration, laid on his side, in the same bed he’d just railed you in. “You feelin’ okay?” He murmured, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah.” You rolled over to face him, a jolt of discomfort and pain in your hips and thighs. You might have to hold back on… doing anything for the next few days, however. “You didn’t break anything.” You joked, soft and breathy.

He chuckled quietly, hand sliding around your waist and dragging you closer to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to do that.” He whispered, uncharacteristically soft and gentle.

“To fuck me senseless?”

He smirked. “Mm, I have dreamt of that.” Your eyes narrowed in mild disgust at the image of him having wet dreams about you, swatting his chest. He grinned and caught your hand. “No… I meant how long I’ve waited to have you. You’re fuckin’ perfect. Not just your body. Everything about you is so sexy.”

Your brows furrowed, squeezing his hand, and then worming your fingers out of his. “What do you mean?” You asked softly.

He seemed to struggle for a moment. He wet his tongue with his lips, making your body tingle again. Jesus. “Let’s get dinner.”

What.

“Me and you.” Ben smiled, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch. “Real fancy. I’ll pay.” Was he… asking you on a date right now? The Soldier Boy, asking you on a date? Instead of fucking you and tossing you out?

“You’re serious?” You asked softly, surprised. When he nodded, you grinned, biting your lip to contain it. “Okay, Ben. Let’s get dinner.”

His eyes lit up. Ducking his head down, his lips touched yours, gentle and affectionate. His kiss spoke so many words; his hands gently cradling your body, as he kissed you like you were made of glass. The touch was intimate and loving, widely different to the one he’d used when he’d been on top of you.

No, this was completely different. This was him being vulnerable. This was him showing you just how he felt, without the words.

He smiled against your lips and pulled back, just enough to speak, but his words were still brushing yours. “Yeah?” He whispered, in response to your agreement.

“Yeah.” You stared at him with big eyes.

He grinned, almost boyish in its nature. He stared at you in adoration, seeming to be collecting the words on the tip of his tongue.

You giggled under his stare. You sat up, pulling him with you, grabbing the blanket that he had draped over his headboard. It was fluffy and warm, and smelt like his cologne, and you didn’t hesitate to wrap it around your shoulders, cocooning yourself.

If possible, his gaze softened even more. “You’re adorable.”

Quietly, you laughed. “You sure you wanna do this, Ben?” You stared back at him. Ben was nothing if not a womaniser. Settling down was nothing like him. “Get serious with me, I mean.”

“You’re the only one I’d ever want to.”

Your brows pulled together, confused. “Why?”

Ben soothed a hand through your hair, green eyes drinking in the perfections and imperfections on your face. “You’re the only one I trust.” His voice was gravelly, still heavy with the effects of your recent endeavours. His hand travelled through your hair, and then came down to cup your cheek.

Wrapped up in his fluffy blanket, your head rested on the wooden headboard. “I trust you, too.” You whispered, tilting your head into his palm. His skin was rough, painted with callouses and scars. Every scar on his body had a story. And you’d spend the rest of your life learning every single one.

Despite himself, he smiled at you, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. “I’d kill for you. You know that?” His words made you shiver. Ben killing people wasn’t exactly new… or surprising. But doing it for you? God, it made your stomach heat up — and other parts. “These assholes don’t hold a candle to you, doll. Countess? That whore is— is repulsive compared to you.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Ben.” You scolded quietly, though not with an ounce of anger.

The supe just smirked, chuckling deep in his throat. “You want me to drop that bullshit PR relationship I have with her? I’ll do it. In a fucking heartbeat. I’ll be with you, publicly, if you want me.”

“You’d ruin your reputation for me?” Now that — that meant something. Ben could say anything and everything; he was a master manipulator. He could get anything he wanted with that smile and his suave words. But, if there was one thing he would always prioritise, it was his reputation. He’d do anything to be the alpha male. Anything.

“I’d do anything for you.” He grabbed your hand within his much larger one, guiding it to his chest. He pressed your palm over his heart, allowing you to feel his heartbeat. “I’ll do anything for you, to be with you.” You felt the steady rhythm of his heart. He wasn’t lying. That, or he was a great fucking liar. “I’m never leaving your side. I’m yours.”

Your eyes searched deep within his. “Always?”

Ben smiled. “Always.” He leant forward, gently pressing his lips against yours in a tender kiss.

Three months later, Soldier Boy died in a nuclear meltdown.

A/N: jesus christ this took me so long to write 😭 but i’m so happy with how this first chap turned out. it’s gonna get so much more fun to write we get to the action 👀 pls lmk if there’s any mistakes, as i will go back n fix them !!! hope you enjoyed <3

banners by @cafekitsune

TAGLIST: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity

[withahappyrefrain]

for the lil prompt list: thinking of our beloved Bob and fixing the others clothing when something is a little bit off (particularly when it’s you doing it to him when he’s in uniform for one reason or another) he’d be so endeared by you :(

Stop he would!!! 😭😭😭

You couldn't have been prouder of Bob. After the mission at Top Gun, he and several others in the squad were being rewarded with a medal of honor.

It meant getting to support your boyfriend. As well as (selfishly) seeing him in uniform.

Bob liked to keep his work and personal life strictly separated. Coming home in his flight suit was a rarity. It was why he had yet to introduce you to his coworkers turned friends.

That and because selfishly, he didn't want to share you.

But today, your own desires triumphed over Bob's. Dressed in his Navy whites, chest adorned by the medals he had already received from previous deployments.

He always looked handsome, like a movie star from the Golden Age. But something about his slicked back hair, face stoic as he stood proud and tall, had you unable to focus on anything else besides Bob.

Once the ceremony ended and the honorees were free to mingle with loved ones, you became laser focused on getting to your boyfriend.

Due to the crowd of what had to be his coworkers, Bob wasn't able to see you waving as you walked towards him.

Your voice would just have to do.

"Bobby!"

Bob looked over Jake's shoulder to see you, an absolute vision in your sun dress, waving excitedly at him.

Ignoring the confused remarks from his colleagues, Bob practically pushed Jake aside, all but running over to you.

Seeing him for the first time in eight weeks had your self control thrown out the window. You threw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking over his hat as your lips pressed against his.

The medals were pressing against your skin but quite frankly, you couldn't find it in yourself to care. You were far too busy reveling in his kiss; his soft lips that were becoming reacquainted with yours, his large palms steadying your body since you all but threw yourself onto him, the delightful scent of sage flooding your nostrils once more.

Bob registered the gawking his coworkers were doing, but he didn't care. Eight weeks was a long time, particularly when he wasn't sure if he would come back from this mission.

He could only hope that you didn't feel the small ring-sized box that was in his pocket.

After breaking apart for much needed air, you beamed as you took him in; blue eyes shining brighter than the sun, his hat now sitting at an angle on his head, pink lips formed into a smile that could best be described as lovesick.

God you loved him.

"I'm so proud of you Bobby," you beamed, your fingers gently adjusting his hat, "and I'm glad others are recognizing how incredible you are."

Bob was at a loss for words, enamored by the way you mindlessly fixed his uniform as you sung his praises. It was an action you had always done, something you didn't even think about. In fact, it was that endearing gesture that caused you to meet Bob. And despite dating for such a long time, it made Bob's heart flutter every time.

You showed your love for him so effortlessly, pouring it into every action, no matter how small.

"Bobby?" You giggled, "You good?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, warmth flooding his body, "Just in love with you, that's all."

He made you want to kick your feet like a school girl. Instead, you settled for placing your hands on his upper back and pressing another loving kiss to his lips.

"Why don't we go meet your squad? I can hear their questions," you chuckled, knowing the team was currently arguing over how long you and Bob had been together.

Bob looked over, wincing at the sight of his coworkers arguing over an apparent bet about him. His grip on your waist tightened.

"Maybe not just yet. Don't want your first impression to be Bradley and Hangman arguing."

You simply smiled, fingers toying with one of his many medals, "That's fine."

Leaning in, your breath was hot on his ear, "Gives me more time to admire you in this uniform."

Maybe they would skip the meeting altogether and head straight home.

[angelwonie]

ME AND THE DEVIL || coriolanus snow

PAIRING: coriolanus x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 10.1k

GENRE(S): smut, fluff, slowburn, enemies to lovers, angst (if you squint)

SUMMARY: Coriolanus Snow is a difficult man to please. And yet you have overtaken his mind—you, the only person in the academy who seems to have no interest in him. But he is also a persuasive man, and he usually gets what he wants. There's only one problem: falling in love wasn't a part of the plan.

WARNINGS: SMUT [unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, degradation, praise, overstimulation, manhandling, edging, crying, breeding kink, brat taming?, coryo is mean but down bad], canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and guns, morally gray coriolanus

It started with a change of seats.

In the academy, students were assigned a study partner meant to last throughout the year. The partners were to sit together in the lecture rooms, write each assignment together and support the other in weakness. The goal of this premise was to keep all students attentive and growing—the academy hardly accepted laziness and not at all incompetence. In the top class which consisted of, as the name suggests, the academy’s finest students, the hunger for success stood stronger, and tolerance for failure—lower. Therefore study partners were as close to a lifeline as a student could come.

Coriolanus had no problem with that. Working with others, as vexing as it could be, brought on more pros than cons, especially when he was allowed to take the lead. And if anything went wrong, he was free to blame someone else for the outcome—though Highbottom never really believed him. 

The Problem, which currently he referred to with a capital P in his mind, had begun when Dr. Gaul suddenly announced a change in the seating arrangement. 

It came as a shock to everyone and frankly, turned the whole orderly system on its head. Livia was moved away to sit with Festus; Gaius with a clearly disdainful Arachne; and he—with you, a girl just recently having joined the top class and taken the spot of a guy who had moved down in ranks. 

Originally, you had seated yourself next to Sejanus, in the only empty seat in the room. When Dr. Gaul walked into the room, they all stood. She told them not to bother sitting again and began reading the names of what was to become new partnerships.

Coriolanus could hear Clemensia letting out a groan of frustration upon her name being read out alongside Sejanus’. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile from spreading at the misfortune he had evaded.

But it didn’t last long, this state of contentment, because soon his own name was read aloud—with yours. 

Your face, as he noticed upon looking in your direction, had no distinctive emotion written across it. Your brows were ever so slightly raised, the corners of your mouth straight. You spared a single glance in his direction—glimmering eyes meeting his blue ones—then, without much reaction, strolled towards the seat which Clemensia had yet to vacate. 

“I think you’re in my seat.”

It was the first time he heard your voice. It was far from gentle, but not exactly rough; clear, but not exactly loud. You were standing with your back straight, your bag at your side. 

The sound brought Clemensia’s attention to your figure for a solid second before she turned to Coriolanus, brows furrowed. 

“This is so stupid. Why would she separate us when she knows how well we work together?” 

He didn’t have time to answer before you took a step closer, this time letting your lips spread in a smile. It revealed your teeth, but no cordiality. “You’re still in my seat. You can question the authority of our teachers another time, right?”

Clemensia, a little stunned, stood unmoving until Dr. Gaul shouted at her from the other side of the room. She took her things and with a last look of disbelief cast Coriolanus’ way, moved towards her own designated seat.

You placed your bag by the desk and sat down, legs crossed at the knees. Coriolanus did the same, although his eyes drifted to his right just a little. You looked a bit like a Greek statue, with your posture and expression so much like his own. 

Dr. Gaul clapped her hands anew. “Well, what are you waiting for? Introduce yourselves!”

Coriolanus cleared his throat and you turned to him, a somewhat bored look in your eyes. 

“Coriolanus Snow,” he said, extending a hand. 

You didn’t take his hand. “I know who you are.” 

You didn’t speak to him any more that day. Or the day after that. Or the next.

All he had was your name and the (maybe feigned) looks of boredom you seldom sent him. And a growing annoyance which came about each time he politely told you good morning and you replied in a dull tone. 

Nobody knew much about you, which resulted in what students do best when met with lack of information—they make up their own. Livia Cardew claimed you were from district 1. Clemensia whispered to Coriolanus about how your place in the academy was most certainly bought by your parents. Festus Creed was utterly convinced your arrival was a test to see how long they would last alongside a girl who showed no interest in anyone and yet walked with her head high.

But the only rumor which held any truth to it at all was Arachne’s hesitant scoff about how she knew you before. 

Livia immediately picked up on the statement and leaned forward in her chair. “You did? So she isn’t from district one?” 

“No. But she might as well have been.” Arachne looked to the rest of them for a dramatic effect. “She’s a total bitch, anyway. That’s all there is to say.” 

That ended the discussion. 

One day, perhaps a week after you and Coriolanus had become study partners, you walked into the academy wearing the tiniest skirt he had ever seen. It was the academy’s uniform, only altered to be shorter and tighter, framing your hips perfectly and ending just about halfway of your thigh.

Coriolanus heard Clemensia scoff from where she stood by his side. 

“Attention seeker.”

“Is that even allowed?” Festus asked, though it was unclear whether he meant vandalizing the academy uniform or how otherworldly your legs looked in the skirt. 

Whichever it was, the answer was probably no. 

On a daily basis, you were already pretty. He knew it and he was well aware the other boys also knew it from the way they eyed you like hawks when you weren’t looking. And, let’s be honest, you were never looking at any of them. So there was a whole lot of staring which Coriolanus caught every time, while you remained either oblivious or too stubborn to acknowledge the attention. 

Now, he thought, you must be aware of it—at the very least.

He, personally, was painfully aware of it. Like an embarrassing Victorian man whose mouth waters at the sight of a woman’s ankles, he felt his pants were suddenly too tight. It was in a state of panic that he adjusted himself, clearing his throat. His hand squeezed the desk he was leaning against as he mumbled an incoherent reply that was just enough for Festus and Clemmie to continue their conversation without his input. 

From over Clemensia’s shoulder, he could see Volumnia Gaul and Casca Highbottom strolling into the room. 

“Dr. Gaul’s here,” he said, pointing with his jaw.  

“Oh, right.”

The two of them walked away and Coriolanus closed his eyes, rubbing his nose bridge. 

Once he opened them again, he was met with your frame approaching—and he almost jolted in surprise. Your hair was hanging loosely down your shoulders, pinned back on one side to reveal golden earrings. You took a step in his direction and he wondered what for—the distance between you was close to nothing. 

“Move.”

Taken aback, he fought the urge to look around and see if anyone else had heard. But no, you were too far and class was almost starting; everyone was busy with themselves. 

“Sorry?” he asked with a strained smile.

You sighed, looking vaguely annoyed. “You’re blocking my way.” 

He grit his teeth, moving aside. You sauntered past him and into your seat, which he only now realized he had been standing in front of. Your skirt flowed behind you; when you bent down to place your bag on the ground he almost caught a glimpse of your panties. Almost. But what he saw was enough to fill him with rage that didn’t subside for the rest of the lesson—along with his boner. 

“I personally think she’s nice,” Sejanus offered when Coriolanus mentioned your poor behavior towards him during lunch. Of course, he said nothing of his dick hardening—oversharing wasn’t his forte. 

“Well, you don’t sit with her.”

“I did. And she was nice to me.” 

He sent Sejanus a death glare which worked effectively to shut him up. 

Coriolanus didn’t really care about your demeanor. It didn’t mess with his work—when you had to be cooperative, you were. And outside of class, Clemensia was more than happy to cling to his arm like a koala. The same went for Sejanus. What bothered him was that look—of disdain, boredom—the lazy way in which you displayed your distaste, like he wasn’t even worth an effort to hate. Because you didn’t hate him.

You just… didn’t care. 

You terrified him. You made him see red. You made him react physically, for God’s sake. And he had spoken to you all of twice. How pathetic was that? Enough to stay forever in his thoughts, that much was certain. He was never going to say a word about this to anyone. 

But worst of all was this: you liked Sejanus. 

Whenever he saw you talking to anyone, it was either your friends from your old class or him. Sejanus Plinth, from district two, with nothing but irritating opinions and a fortune to offer. He saw you laugh at his half-developed jokes, look at him in total focus while he spoke. 

One day, about a month after it all, when Highbottom showed no signs of letting them switch seats ever again, he decided to ask you about it. Dr. Gaul was currently strolling about the lecture room, monologuing, which gave him enough time to lean to the side, towards you. 

“Seems like you and Sejanus have gotten quite close,” he said, loud enough for only you to hear. 

If you registered his words, you made no signs of it. His eyes trailed lower, to your tiny, tiny skirt and the plushness of your thighs which he was free to look at but not allowed to touch. He clenched his jaw and tried again. 

“What is it you want? His money?”

At this, your head whipped in his direction. His cool, blue eyes bore into yours and he could see anger, clear like black on a white piece of paper, in your gaze. Your shoulders were tense, lips barely parted. But this only lasted a brief moment—a glitch in your composure—before you straightened your back and grit your teeth into a feigned smile.

“And you? What do you want from him?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Dr. Gaul’s piercing voice. 

“Miss L/N and Mr. Snow! Perhaps the two of you will answer my question since you’re so deep in discussion.” The woman looked at the two of you sternly. “What is the point of the hunger games?” 

You looked at Coriolanus, who seemed perfectly content in his seat. He had no intention of answering. Bastard. You folded your hands into fists and stood up. Everyone was looking, but only Coriolanus’ gaze made your heart thump against your chest. It felt as if you had something to prove. 

“To keep the districts at bay.” With a glance towards Sejanus, you bit the inside of your cheek. “In a highly unethical way, of course. It hardly takes killing twenty-three children to prove a point.” 

“District children. Remember that,” said Dr. Gaul. “You may sit.” 

You obeyed, suppressing a sigh of relief. 

At least it was relief until you felt a hot breath on the side of your neck, paired with Coriolanus whispering, “Liar.” 

You looked at him, seemingly unphased, and let out a soft scoff. “If you didn’t like my answer, you should have said something instead.” 

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it was a lie. Don’t worry, though, I don’t think Sejanus can tell.”

Your jaw tightened indiscernibly. The boy whose curls were falling into his forehead gave a smirk, eyes trailing to where Sejanus was sitting and then back again. You just looked at him, unwavering. 

“You know nothing about me.”

“And you know nothing about me,” he said, lips spreading to reveal his teeth. “Now we’re both liars.” 

***

On the third of the month, the Plinths threw a party.

It was a large gathering, consisting mainly of the academy’s students and their immediate family. The occasion was unclear—unofficially, it was said the Plinths wanted to scout the students to see who was fit to win the Plinth prize. But it was just rumors. Officially, it was a celebration of the academy’s fiftieth anniversary.

After all it had endured—the rebellion, the war, Coriolanus Snow—a party seemed in order.

On the topic of Snow—you were terribly irritated by the way his words were swarming around your head like bees. Somehow, you had managed to remember his voice down to every shiver and for whatever reason, your brain wouldn’t let go of it. Even as your mother, with her eyes fixated on the mirror, smoothed out the length of your silky dress and asked if you liked it. Even as the two of you left the apartment. Even as you exited the car and walked up the steps to the academy’s ballroom. 

“Nervous?” your mother asked. 

“No.” 

She pushed the doors open. 

Coriolanus had showed up to the party in a fitted, dark suit along with his grandma’am right on time. Upon his arrival, he had scouted Sejanus somewhere in a corner with his overbearing parents, while Clemensia stood with Livia and her sister. You were nowhere to be seen as far as his eye could reach. His grandma’am dragged him around the room in search of conversation partners and somehow ended up deepening into a discussion with Mr. Plinth, leaving her grandson to fend for himself with Sejanus by his side. The farce lasted for about half an hour; he felt himself growing weary. 

Then, you came in.

Fashionably late, as always, with your mother at your side, you strolled in like the entire party was thrown in your honor. And truly—he might’ve believed you if you said so, with the way your strapless dress sat around your curves.

In his peripheral vision, he could glimpse Sejanus swallowing hard. Coriolanus fought the urge to outright laugh at the ludicrous hope swimming in the eyes of his ‘friend’. He was reaching too high. Way too high. 

“Y/N! What a relief, you’re here!” 

It was the voice of Strabo Plinth that made you turn your head in the direction of their little clique. A smile spread over your face, but disappeared as soon as your gaze landed on Coriolanus. He watched carefully as you approached with your mother, the pearls on your neck glistening in the overhead light. Sejanus was still staring like a fool; Coriolanus felt his blood turn the slightest bit warmer, the tips of his fingers tingling. 

“Mr. Plinth, Sejanus.” You sent the two of them a sweet smile, then cast a look at Coriolanus with your lips pulled tight. “Coriolanus.” 

He nodded at you. “Sweetheart.” 

You didn’t comment on his choice of word, but he could see your jaw tightening and your chest fluttering, pressing against the restraints of your dress.

Thankfully, it seemed nobody else had heard—Mr. Plinth was too busy gushing over yours and Sejanus’ friendship to notice anything else. Coriolanus’ shoulder bumped into yours and you shuddered. The conversation dragged on until Mr. Plinth was beckoned over by another group of people who looked like politicians, and wandered off with a cranky Sejanus in tow. 

Left alone with Coriolanus and his grandmother, you began to plot your and your mother’s escape. 

“Look, mom, there’s Livia. We should go say hi.” 

You had taken less than five steps before Dr. Gaul’s voice reached your ears. 

“Not so fast, miss L/N,” she said, a menacing smile on her face. She waved you and your mother over to where she was standing—right between Snow and his grandmother. “Surely your mother wants to meet the only gentleman whose grades are as good as her daughter’s.” 

Your mother took the bait immediately, forcing you to follow her back to where you wanted so deeply to escape. “Oh, gosh, really? Coriolanus Snow, is it?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed his head, sending your mother one of his disgustingly gorgeous smiles. 

“Now, Coriolanus and Y/N are my best students.” Dr. Gaul, more enthusiastic than you had ever seen her, pulled you and Coriolanus to either side of her, squeezing your shoulders. “And study partners, too. They work so well together. How about the two of you go for a dance?” 

“Oh, I don’t dance—”

“Yes, Y/N,” your mother obliviously interrupted, “don’t let those five-year dancing lessons go to waste.” 

Your face formed into a half-smile, half-frown. “Right.”

Coriolanus sent you a triumphant smile as he stuck out an arm for you to take. You hesitantly snaked yours through it, heart hammering as he led you onto the dance floor.

The song playing was irritatingly slow, and Dr. Gaul’s smile too wide for all this to be a coincidence, but you decided to let it slide—it wasn’t like you really had a choice. Coriolanus positioned you in front of him. From over his shoulder, you could spot Sejanus, to whom you mouthed a silent plea for help, but the boy proved useless when all he did was send you a smile and a shrug. 

Coriolanus placed his hands on your waist appropriately and you hesitantly placed your own atop his broad shoulders. Although you made sure not to touch him more than you had to, the hardness of his muscles was prominent against your fingertips.

The distance between you vexed Coriolanus to no end—especially when he had seen you in a skimpy, tiny black dress all pressed up against Sejanus at Arachne’s birthday party. His fingers harshly tugged at your waist and he smiled in satisfaction at the way your body pliantly molded into him. A gasp threatened to escape you, but you held it back, instead swallowing quietly. 

It turned out both of you were excellent dancers. Coriolanus sensed exactly when you were to make an unexpected move and was always able to maneuver you however he wanted. 

Finally, you decided to speak—a five-minute song danced in silence would last an eternity. “Clemensia’s staring daggers into my back. Am I in danger?” 

The blonde smiled. “Not at all.” 

“How come?”

“I’ll protect you.”

You smiled incredulously, shaking your head. “I hope you have a knife underneath your blazer, then, because she looks dangerous.” 

“I could snap her neck in half with one hand.” 

The way he said it—no hesitation and total seriousness—made you choke on the laughter that was supposed to come out, replacing it with a burning sensation somewhere in the depths of your stomach. His hand, on the small of your back, fiddled gently with the lacing of your dress, then lazily moved back to your waist. 

You cleared your throat. “I heard your father was a great man.” 

“Yes.”

“I’ve also heard he was a terrible person.” You tilted your head to the side, putting on a curious expression. “So, which one is it?”

“Are the two mutually exclusive?” 

At that, you laughed. Real laughter, with your head tipped back—laughter he had never heard before, not even when you were around Sejanus. Something swelled proudly inside his chest. 

“Only you could say something so bizarre. But no, I suppose they’re not.” 

He swayed his hips along with yours, then brought your hand up, signaling he wanted for you to spin. Whilst he swirled you around, you felt the tips of his fingers against your cheekbone, tucking something behind your ear. Once you were in front of him again, you brought your hand to touch the soft surface that felt like a flower. 

“What is that?”

He raised one corner of his mouth. “A rose.” 

“And why, pray tell, are you giving me a rose?”

He swirled you again, this time his fingers grabbing at the flesh between your clavicle and throat, pulling you against him. You felt his very fingertips, cold and soft, against your muscle, his hot breath against your left ear. 

“To mark my territory.” 

With that, he swirled you back and resumed the ordinary dance, with a deadpan expression and shining eyes, emitting an unidentifiable emotion. 

Your cheek trembled, although you tried to hide it by tightening your jaw. “It’s picked from your garden, then, I suppose.” 

“Grandma’am’s.”

“Really?”

Before you could do anything, he leaned forwards so the tip of your nose grazed his pulse. You stood stunned, taking a breath and being met with the strong smell of roses. You caught a glimpse of his collarbones, peeking out from underneath the two buttons he had undone in his shirt. He drew back before you could think to push him away, lips spreading into a smile. 

“Those are also from our garden,” he murmured.

“Coriolanus…”

He liked the way you said his name this time.

Not arrogantly or carelessly, but like it was the most important thing in the world; a bar of gold in your hands. And the shiver in your voice—the thought it must’ve been the most delightful thing he had ever heard. He wanted— no, he deserved to hear it again, but it would have to wait. You were looking up at him the way he yearned you would, like he was impossible to ignore. 

“Hmm?”

You smiled a strained smile, chest heaving. “The song has ended. I believe I should go dance with somebody else.”

Without awaiting a response, you released yourself from his grip and turned your back on him. He stood in somewhat of a silent shock.

And he felt it again, this immense anger because how dare you wrap your arms around Sejanus and convince him to a dance, when he’s standing right here, ready to rip anyone’s throat open to feel your body against him again. 

After your dance with Sejanus, you scurried off to the bathroom, silently inspecting the rose sitting neatly in your hair above your ear. It was a piercing red, matching perfectly with your dress. You sighed into the mirror, rolling your eyes. 

The rest of the evening was spent drinking champagne—too much of it, definitely, but who was counting the glasses which you picked up and later discarded?

Coriolanus, of course, but he was much too embarrassed to say anything and much too agitated and proud to even consider asking Sejanus to look after you. No, he’d rather see you pass out drunk than have Plinth take care of you—he could do that himself. But he didn’t. Not that day, anyway. He left the party somewhat early, assisting his grandma’am down the stairs although she claimed she didn’t need his help.

“What has gotten into you today? You’re too eager to help and you’re looking around like a lost district child.”

“I’m not, grandma’am. Get into the car.” 

But before he could follow in her footsteps, he heard laughter—the same laughter he had heard for the first time just an hour earlier.

He turned automatically, without much thought, and felt rage well up in him as he saw you and Sejanus leaving the hall shoulder-to-shoulder, your respective parents in tow. You were clearly drunk, your steps unsteady. 

Sejanus said something to you, apparently something you found funny, because you slapped his shoulder and laughed again. Unfortunately for you, the heels you were wearing weren’t exactly wasted-proof and gave out from underneath you when you moved your ankle to the side. 

It took the slip of a second for you to tumble down the remaining four steps of the stairs, and another two for Coriolanus to catch you, his arms knitting tightly around your waist. 

“Coriolanus,” you mumbled, at a loss for anything better to say. 

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

You shook your head, but he went out of his way to sit you down on the stairs and inspect your ankle anyway. 

“Stupid girl,” he said, landing a barely discernible slap to the side of your thigh as he stood, having concluded you were alright. “Why drink more than you can handle?” 

“I have a habit of getting in over my head.” 

He looked down at you, the disheveled hair and still present rose which you hadn’t taken out yet, and smiled. Slowly, Sejanus and the rest of them descended down the stairs and Coriolanus turned to get in the car. But first, he sent you a smirk over his shoulder. 

***

Dr. Gaul’s experiments were always interesting.

In the best cases, they were innovative and in the worst—fatal. None of the academy’s top class knew which one this one would turn out to be when they followed Highbottom into the laboratory. 

“What if she kills us?” Livia, who wasn’t particularly fond of you but neither did she feel a particular distaste for you, whispered.

“She won’t,” you whispered back. “We have the president’s son in our class.”

“Right.”

The lot of you walked inside, scattered randomly until Gaul reminded everyone to stick to their partners. You heard Clemensia let out a prolonged sigh upon Coriolanus escaping her grip and approaching you instead. 

He smiled self-importantly. “Y/N.”

“Snow.”��

The smile faded marginally.

Dr. Gaul ushered everyone closer. A servant dragged off the thick, two-meter long piece of fabric covering what at first sight looked like an aquarium, but later revealed to be a cylinder of rainbow-colored snakes. Someone gasped.

You furrowed your brows and took a glance at Coriolanus, who in turn looked back at you. You were quick to avoid his gaze, but not quick enough for him to miss it. 

Dr. Gaul sent you a half-enthusiastic, half-manic smile. “Now, everyone give me something of yours. Come on, I don’t have all day.” 

Coriolanus moved first, which you didn’t mind until he grabbed hold of you and pulled you along. 

“What are you doing?”

“What, are you scared?” 

His eyes twinkled and you tore away from his grip. But it was too late; the two of you were standing right in front of the open snake habitat. You swallowed hard.

He reached into his pocket and fished out a pencil—golden and engraved with his last name—before handing it to Dr. Gaul. You followed suit, albeit hesitantly, and handed her an embroidered handkerchief. 

The rest of the class did the same. Dr. Gaul received all the items, stacked them and instructed everyone to sit. Then she gathered it all into one big pile and threw it into the cage. Immediately, the snakes swarmed around the items, licking and slithering. 

“These snakes,” Dr. Gaul said, “are lethal only when met with a taste they don’t know. Meaning right now, when they’ve touched your things, they are harmless. Come say hi.” 

Nobody, including you, moved a muscle.

Obviously, everyone was busy figuring out why this was even an experiment if they were harmless—from what Dr. Gaul said it sounded more like a visit to the zoo. Next to you, Coriolanus furrowed his brows and stared the cage down with his icy eyes, inspecting. 

“No volunteers?” Dr. Gaul sighed. “How about Y/N and Coriolanus?” 

You froze, looking at Coriolanus with wide eyes. “You first.” 

He tilted his head. “Ask nicely.”

Forcing a smile, you swallowed your pride.

“Please.” 

He stood from the seat and you forced yourself to disregard his grin and the way his uniform strained around his back muscles. 

Just then, as your eyes followed his steps, you saw something by Dr. Gaul’s feet, something shimmering in gold. You squinted at the object. It was barely visible, currently hidden in Coriolanu’s shadow. Coriolanus walked up to the cage and the overhead light fell onto the object, revealing what looked like something engraved. The letter S. The letter N. The letter… 

“Coryo, wait!” You shot up from your seat. Coriolanus looked at you in bewilderment as you grabbed his wrist roughly. “You can’t touch them. Your pen isn’t in there.” 

“What?” His gaze dropped to the golden pen at your feet. 

You looked at his face, as if to make certain he was whole, then at his wrist in between your shaky fingers. How embarrassing, the way your body had grown so hot and how tragic, the way you had made a scene. You wondered what Coriolanus was thinking, with his mouth parted and eyes on you. 

Dr. Gaul clapping her hands together brought you back to reality. “Quite impressive, miss Y/N. I must admit, your reaction time was even faster than predicted.” 

You turned to her in disbelief and maybe a bit of anger. “You did it on purpose? Why?” 

“Why, to see if you were willing to save Mr. Snow here.” 

“That’s absurd, I would have done it for anyone!” Your face grew hot as you ripped your hand away from Coryo’s wrist, as though burned by his skin. “And what if I hadn’t noticed?”

“Then I would have known I made a mistake letting you into the top class. Regard this as a little test, if you will.” She sauntered happily over to you, where she stopped to whisper in your ear: “And for your information, miss Y/N, yesterday these snakes got familiar with mr. Snow through an assignment. I would never put him in danger, so calm your heart.” 

Dr. Gaul proclaimed the class dismissed and left—left you to stand in utter shock for at least ten seconds. Then, before any words could escape Coriolanus’ mouth, you followed in her footsteps, practically running out of the room. 

After this incident, you avoided him.

He noticed immediately, the lack of you in the hallways when he walked through them and the tenseness of your expression in class. Every time you showed up in those tiny skirts and paid him no mind, he resisted the urge to throw you over his shoulder. You had to be put in your place, certainly so—with the way you were messing with his head. A threat, but he chose to look past that, just this once. What he couldn’t look past were your plush thighs, pretty lips and addicting aura. 

Once, after school had finished, he cornered you in an empty classroom in which you were rummaging through your bag, clearly searching for something. 

“Looking for this?”

You jolted back, looking at him over your shoulder and at the kays dangling from his fingers. As your face grew hot, you turned your back to him again, suddenly not so keen on finding the keys. 

“They must have fallen out of my bag,” you mumbled. 

He inched closer, until his chest was against your back and he could drop the keys into your bag. They rattled—the only sound in the room spare for your breathing. 

He craned his neck to mumble against your earlobe, “How come you’re avoiding me, my sweet?”

You turned again.

“I’m not avoiding you.” You huffed at him, raising your head high. “Why would I avoid you? I simply don’t care for your presence.”

The side of his lips twitched. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I have class. I need to go,” you said, before realizing in terror that you’d both just had the last lesson of the day—of which he was fully aware. “I mean…” 

He took a step and you went silent. His hand cupped your jaw harshly, pointer finger and thumb on each respective side of it. He pulled you closer by his grip. 

“I thought I told you not to lie,” he said, squeezing your cheeks. “Did it not register in that pretty head of yours?”

Your lower lip trembled deliciously, eyes tinted with a hint of fear. “Coriolanus…”

“Call me Coryo. Like you did that day with the snakes.” 

There was a change in your expression: widened eyes turning normal again, lips curving into a soft smile as you pried his hand off. He let you, god knows why. Maybe because everything turned uncalculated when he was around you or maybe because he wanted you to listen to what he said. 

But you just said, “I’ll call you that when you earn it.” 

His blood boiled. 

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”

“Sejanus is waiting for me outside, Coriolanus,” you said, putting your hand on his shoulder teasingly. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.” 

He grit his teeth. “Do you think this is a game?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Is it?” 

He held his outburst enough for you to leave—then, he punched the nearest surface and let out a loud groan. A threat, definitely. A dangerous one. But he’d tear it out of you—these sensations similar to his that he knew you felt.

And how could you be of real danger to him when he was just as much of a threat to you? 

***

When Dr. Gaul and Casca Highbottom announced an ‘educational school trip to district eight’, everyone thought they were joking. 

They were, in fact, not. They took the train for almost ten hours—by the end of it, everyone was weary and irritable. Dr. Gaul told everyone to pay special attention and care to their partners and make sure they were safe, and despite the tiring trip, Coriolanus took on his task with the utmost importance. 

“What are you doing?” you asked him as he, for the third time, slung his arm around you to pull you away from passing wagons. 

“Protecting you, like Dr. Gaul told us to.” 

You snorted a laugh. “I’m sure she didn’t mean from horses.”

“Horses can be dangerous.” 

You just rolled your eyes. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders for the rest of the walk. When you arrived at the inn, Coriolanus leaned close to you abruptly and placed a kiss on your cheek. Before you got the chance to even think of protesting, he was gone. 

The next day all of you were to join Highbottom in his speech in front of the district people.

It was a simple stage made of wood—the people stood spread out on a small square in front. There were almost too many to fit. 

You, as students, were not supposed to do anything in particular other than stand there and look pretty. Coriolanus made the effort to assure you you were splendid at it already, his fingers fanning over your waist. It sent shivers down your spine, and he smiled in self-satisfaction. You cursed him for his perceptiveness as the two of you walked onto stage. 

Coriolanus was far from relaxed as his eyes scanned the crowd. You just had to wear that godforsaken skirt in front of a bunch of starved men. If he could, he’d tear all their eyes out. Starting with that brown-haired asshole in the first row. As Higbottom began his speech, Coriolanus walked up to you and stood purposefully a bit in front, as though to cover you. 

“Is it not impractical to wear a skirt today?” he asked, sending you a pointed look.

“It’s quite warm,” you replied, blinking up at him. “Do you not like it? I wore it for you.” 

He clenched his jaw, heart swelling in pride. Of course he liked it—a little too much to be considered appropriate—but not for everyone to see. He leaned down almost indiscernibly, but you felt his hot breath fan your lips. 

“When I’m president, nobody is going to see you in that skirt except for me.”

You grinned. “When you’re president? What exactly is the extent of your ambition, Mr. Snow?” 

“You are.”

His pupils were expanded, fingers snaking to hold you by the waist. If anyone noticed, he didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter anyway. His fingers found their way under your uniform and he observed attentively as your eyes widened, teeth sinking into your lower lip when he caressed your bare side. 

“Okay, everyone, let’s go,” Highbottom said, signaling his speech was finished. 

Coriolanus let go of you. The lot of you moved, surrounded by peacekeepers until you reached the truck ramp. You walked first, carefully placing your steps. 

But you only managed to take three of them before something—someone, to be precise—pulled your leg to the side and you fell.

Your brain barely registered the pain of your bare knee hitting the ramp before you were no longer on the ramp, but the ground. An ache spread along your side. Coriolanus shouted your name as he jumped down from the ramp, despite Highbottom’s screams at him to stay but.

The man who had pulled you down, who Coriolanus recognized as the hungry-eyed man from the first row, pulled out a knife from his pocket. He lounged just as you froze, unmoving spare for the trembling of your lips. Coriolanus grabbed him and pushed him down; but not before he had managed to sink the knife into your calf. He heard you scream. 

“Help her!” he roared at the peacekeepers, who had their weapons raised at the man who was trying to get up from the ground, but weren’t firing. 

Coriolanus, enraged, ripped out the gun from one of the peacekeepers’ hands. He heard some words of protest but ignored them entirely as he pulled the trigger. And again. And again. And again. Until the man was more holes than flesh. 

“Help her, for fuck’s sake!” he roared again; this time they listened and gathered around you. 

He spared only a glance at your bleeding figure, then turned to the rest of District eight’s crowd—the part of it that hadn’t thought to flee the scene—and fired again. He heard Sejanus shouting, he heard Highbottom shouting, he heard Dr. Gaul shouting, and the peacekeepers gathered around him like flies, but he listened to none of them. He fired and fired until the magazine was empty and someone tore the weapon out of his hands. 

“Coriolanus,” you whispered. 

Only now did he fully look at you, at the cut in your leg and at your frightened face. He ran over, relieved nobody tried to stop him, and kneeled next to you along with a clearly useless peacekeeper. There was blood on his white shirt, but not on his fingers when he ran them over your thigh gently. It didn’t look like a deep cut, but it was bleeding a lot. 

“It’s okay, Y/N, you hear me? Listen to me!” He grabbed your tear-stained face with one hand and turned it so you were looking into his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay. Don’t close your eyes.” 

When you didn’t reply, he shook you a little bit. “You’re alright, okay?”

“Okay, Coryo,” you said meekly. 

He nodded and tore a piece off his shirt to wrap it below your knee. He was angry, unbelievably so, and felt if he didn’t look at your face now and then he might kill all of them: the peacekeepers, his fellow students, Highbottom. He bore a hatred for them all. But you were the priority; you needed saving.

He heard you whimper, using one hand to hold at his shoulder. 

“Why did you…”

He cut you off. “Don’t talk. I’m gonna fix this. You’re okay. Keep your eyes open.” 

You obeyed for as long as you could, for as long as it took for the medics to arrive and carry you away; then, you let yourself drift off. 

***

When you first woke up, you were met with Coriolanus’ perceptive eyes staring back at you.

“Coryo?” you asked. 

“How do you feel? Does it hurt?” 

You wanted to answer, but your mouth felt as if it were made of lead. Coriolanus shouted for the nurses to bring you water, yet before he had even turned his head to you again, you were fast asleep. He sighed. 

***

The cut wasn’t deep. 

That’s what the doctors from district eight said, their heads hung low in shame. You were alone upon waking this time, spare for the nurse they had left to take care of you. 

“Coriolanus,” you said. “Where is he?”

“He just left to get some rest, ma’am. We sent him away for an hour fifteen minutes ago. He’d been sitting here all night.” 

“I want to see him.”

“It would be unwise to deny him his sl—”

You stood up and walked out, much to the nurses’ dismay. 

After a ride to the inn in which all of you were staying, you walked into the hallway that you knew belonged to the boys.

You had no idea where Coriolanus’ room was, but thankfully you met Sejanus just as he was leaving his room. 

His eyes lit up as he saw you. “Y/N! You’re okay, thank god. I was so wor—”

“Where is Coryo?” 

He stopped, smile falling the littlest bit. “Last room to the left.” 

You smiled and patted his shoulder. “Thanks.” 

You knocked on the door three times and stood silent, waiting. After half a minute, you heard his voice—husky and deep—telling you to come in. 

He was standing by the window, looking out at the desolate district eight. The back of his new shirt was just barely holding out the strain his muscles created as he crossed his arms. 

You cleared your throat. “Coriolanus.” 

Clearly not expecting it to be you, Coriolanus turned on his heel, sporting a smile as he saw your face. You had changed clothes—another tiny skirt and shirt adorned your body. You were walking without difficulty, just like the doctors had foreseen, perhaps even more confidently, with your head high.

He expected you throw yourself into his arms, or maybe pull his hair and kiss him, but he absolutely didn’t expect you to cross your arms over your chest and ask him: 

“Have you lost your mind?” 

“Sorry?” he asked, frowning. 

You took a step back, biting the inside of your cheek. “What have you done? What have you done, Coriolanus?” 

He looked into your eyes in search of disgust, terrified, but found only worry. You were worried for him. Not them, not that man, not your reputation and the rumors—you were worried for him.

His gaze flicked down to your bare legs, no scar left from the incident, and then up to where your stop was squeezing your tits together. Did you come in here to scold or seduce him? He really could not tell. 

He took a step in your direction, reveling in the way your resolve was starting to fade, lower lip trembling. “I was protecting you.”

“You didn’t have to kill him! You didn’t have to kill them all like animals!” 

At this, something switched. He snorted, almost mockingly. Against your will, you felt your panties getting sticky when he walked closer and closer, until he had you backed against the wall. One of his hands rested next to your head while the other he ran over your cheek, stopping to cup your jaw. 

“You don’t think he would have aimed higher if he’d gotten the chance? You don’t think you’d be dead if it weren’t for me?” His hot breath landed on your lips and you swallowed. He dragged his finger along your lower lip and you opened your mouth obediently, making his lips curve into a smile. “Now be a good girl and say thank you.” 

Your legs rubbed against one another subtly. “Thank you, Coryo.” 

“For what?” He slapped the inside of your thigh, making you jolt. 

“For protecting me.” 

His fingers crawled up your thigh to soothe the place he had slapped, rubbing small circles against your sensitive skin. It was embarrassing, how damp your panties were and how you had to press your lips together in order to avoid letting a whimper slip. The poor lighting cast shadows on his face, blonde curls falling just above his eyes.

He was devouring you even though he’d barely touched you. 

“You’re trembling,” he said, eyes twinkling. 

“It’s the cut.”

He tsked, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “Liars don’t get rewards, sweetheart. I thought I’d made that clear.” 

He saw your nipples straining against the thin fabric of your shirt and tightened his jaw. You were here to seduce him, definitely. His desperate little girl. Funny how you had such a dirty mouth until his hands were on you—then, you seemed to go entirely limp and thoughtless. One of his hands snaked to the back of your head, the other stayed touching your thigh—too far away from the place you wanted it to be. 

“Kiss me,” you pleaded, standing on your tiptoes to reach him, but he just pulled you down by your hair. 

“No. Not until you beg me for it.”

You scoffed shakily, reclaiming the very remnants of your dignity. “I won’t beg you for a kiss.” 

He pressed his chest against your sensitive tits, pulling at your hair so your noses were touching. 

“Don’t I deserve it after everything I’ve done for you?”

“I didn’t ask you to do it.”

“But you liked it,” he remarked, sliding his warm hand up your shirt, until he could fiddle with the hem of your panties. His fingers tapped against your clothed pussy only once, making you jolt, before returning to the spot between your hip and leg. “You liked having someone kill for you. Just as you like when I touch you and when I care for your attention.”

“I don’t—” 

“I think you’ve had a little too much being a brat, though. Now it’s my turn.” He slapped your pussy through the fabric and this time, you didn’t manage to hold back a whimper. “Beg. Me.” 

“Please,” you whispered, face hot. 

“What was that?” He pretended not to hear, leaning down even more. You wanted to punch him for his self-importance, for his cruelty, but it was what you craved, too—you’d take everything he gave you, although you’d never say it out loud. 

“Please kiss me.” 

His hands left you entirely before they cupped either of your cheeks. Your heart hammered in excitement watching Coryo’s eyes feeding on the sight of you. He lowered his head slowly, connecting your lips so softly you almost didn’t feel it. You tried to grab his collar and bring him closer, but then he just pulled away and sent you a pointed look which made you retract your hands. 

Then, he kissed you again—this time pressing harder against you, making your eyes flutter shut. His fingers held you softly, as though you could break any moment, but his lips enveloped yours like he had been waiting for the opportunity for years. 

You opened your mouth immediately as he licked at your lower lip and he hummed in appreciation. His fingers tilted your head as he slipped his tongue inside. He was hot against your own tongue, swirling and exploring, not letting you breathe out anything except small, timid whimpers. He smelled like roses, tasted like them too.

Your hands wandered to his broad shoulders, then down his clothed chest, his solid muscles against your fingertips. They flexed underneath your touch, a throaty groan of Coryo’s disappearing in your conjoined mouths. Your mouth watered at merely the thought of seeing them bare, seeing him. 

Coriolanus pulled away only when he had to take a breath—angry at this humane obstacle in his way but soothed upon seeing your swollen, parted lips.

“You’re nothing without me,” he rasped out, trapping your jaw between his thumb and pointer. “Say it back.”

You looked at him through hazy eyes. “I’m nothing without you.”

He pushed you against the wall, lips against your jawline. He sucked a mark into your neck and you mewled out his name, tangling your fingers in his hair. His tongue ran over your throat, then swirled around your collarbones as he pressed wet kisses to them and your stomach. 

Once he reached the waistband of your skirt, he dropped to his knees, looking up. You felt something turn in your stomach; the heat between your legs intensified tenfold.

His fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs languidly. Once gone from your body, he picked them up and dangled them in front of your face. You tried snatching them from him, but he just stuffed them into the pocket of his pants. 

“For later,” he said, smiling. “To remind me what a desperate little girl you are.” 

“I’m not—”

He cut you off by bunching your skirt up around your hips. The cold air made you shiver lightly, but his eyes set on the most intimate part of you like he was about to eat you didn’t really help, either.

Before you could look away from embarrassment, he dragged his nose through your slick folds. You let out a choked gasp as he came in contact with your clit. His hands slid up to your upper thighs, squeezing and prying them apart so you weren’t in the way for him to take his time. And he did take his time—painfully so. 

After almost five minutes of aimless fingers trailing over your cunt but never touching for too long and never on your clit, you let out a loud whine, legs fighting against his grip to close. To no avail, of course—Coryo was much stronger than you and very intent on keeping you in place. 

“Be patient,” he murmured into your heat. His eyes flicked up as a warning and you instantly stilled. 

His tongue finally touched you in the form of small kitten licks on your clit that made your breath ragged and fists tighten. He saw you tightening around nothing, heard you whining pathetically for more and mercifully let his tongue enter your warmth. You clenched around him immediately. 

He pulled his mouth off of you momentarily to look up at your pretty face twisted in clear rapture. 

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” 

When you didn’t answer, he brought down his hand to swat at your clit disapprovingly. You squirmed at the contact, slick practically dripping out of your cunt. His eyes met yours and you quivered, suddenly afraid he’d stop. 

“Yes,” you whimpered. “So much.” 

As a reward, he pushed two fingers into your pussy, watching as you gasped for air, furrowing your brows. He scissored them a little bit, then dipped his thumb into the arousal coating your cunt and let it rub small circles into your already puffy clit.

Your legs felt weak already and he must have sensed this, because he grabbed your thigh and positioned it on his shoulder. This way, he could curl his fingers enough to hit the spot which made you whimper so loudly it was shameful. 

Soon, his thumb was replaced with his mouth that sucked your tiny clit into his mouth.

He heard you moan his name and felt his pants tighten significantly. Part of him hoped everyone could hear the noises you were making, while another part of him felt the urge to murder anyone who dared even overhear these sounds that were innately his possession.

From his position, he could see your tits brushing against your thin shirt and cursed himself for not being in a spot that would allow him to play with them. He’d have to settle for playing with your cute little cunt. 

Your legs started shaking when he added another finger to pump in and out of your dripping hole. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, hips bucking into his face. “Feels so good, Coryo, thank you.” 

A guttural moan of his vibrated through your body and you cried out his name. A warm coil began tightening in your lower stomach. It was clear you were close—from the way your whimpers had grown unabashed and squeaky, the way you clenched around his long fingers, the way your hips stuttered against his tongue. 

“Oh my god, Coryo, I’m so close— Can I come?” 

So polite, he thought. Shame you only acted like this when his tongue was flicking at your clit. 

His eyes glimmered as he looked up at you. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Please, please, let me come, please, Coryo.” You let out a broken moan as his teeth grazed your clit. “Please.” 

Your legs spasmed around his head as you felt it close, so close, and your eyes fell shut in pleasure.

But then it was ripped from you, this bliss, as Coriolanus pulled out his fingers and retracted his tongue, leaving you empty and stunned. You stared at him, lips parted, and at the self-satisfied smile adorning his features. 

“What, you really thought I’d let you come when you’ve been acting like a brat?” He licked his fingers and something throbbed between your legs. “Stupid girl.” 

He stood up, turning his back on you. You couldn’t see it, of course, but he was silently counting the seconds it took for you to protest against the treatment. Finally, you retrieved your consciousness in full and pushed yourself off the wall. 

“Wait, Coryo,” you pleaded, grabbing his arm. “Please. I’m sorry.”

He turned, raising his brows. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna be a good girl now, I promise.” Your lower lip quivered; he saw the promise of tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m gonna make it up to you, okay?”

At this, you sank to your knees—a sight which made his adam’s apple bob. But he was getting impatient; his cock was aching painfully and when you looked at him with eyes widened and teary like this, he was willing to give you anything in the world. 

“Get up,” he demanded. 

You did as told, thighs trembling slightly, and his hands cupped your cheeks. Coriolanus led you to the bed in the middle of the room, hovering above you with his forearms on either side of your face. His hardened cock rubbed uncomfortably against the fabric of his pants. He laid it against your plush thigh for relief, but all he got was a slutty mewl from you and more precum leaking from his tip. 

“Sejanus is next door, you know. You don’t mind?”

“No.” You shook your head eagerly. “I don’t care. Just want your cock.”

The side of his mouth lifted as his hands slipped under your shirt. You gasped as his fingers found your nipples and pinched them, tantalizing your poor clit to start throbbing harder. He pulled the skimpy shirt over your head and threw it away somewhere, letting out an audible groan at the sight of you. Next to go was your skirt. 

He stayed staring at you for some time before he suddenly landed a slap to your cunt, making you jolt with a whimper. Then, he leaned to press open mouthed kisses against your throat, sucking the skin that covered your pulse into his mouth. 

His lips grazed your jaw. “You want him to hear, then? Is that it?”

“N-no,” you whispered shakily, feeling the tips of his fingers teasing your perky nipples. “No, Coryo, just want you.” 

“Say it again.” 

“I want you, Coryo, only you. I’m yours.” 

Coriolanus let your fingers slip under his shirt, letting out a shaky breath as you traced his abdominal muscles. He helped you pull it over his head, then he pulled down his pants and briefs as well. You watched hazily at his cock free from its restraints, certain if he’d tease you anymore you would start drooling for real. 

Thankfully, he wasn’t in the mood for teasing—he slapped his dick against your clit once, twice, watching you squirm, then positioned himself at your entrance.

Your foreheads touched as he pushed inside agonizingly slowly.

“I’m yours, too,” he whispered against your mouth. 

He was decently thick and longer than average—even lying still in your cunt, he reached places your fingers couldn’t dream of. Your eyes had a hard time staying open in facing the fullness which came with having him inside, but he was having none of it. 

“Look at me when I fuck you,” he said.

“But you’re not even fucking me.” 

You felt his cock pulse inside you before his hands roughly grabbed your thighs and pushed them up against your chest. This newfound angle was overwhelming in itself—when he additionally began thrusting his cock in and out of your cunt, you saw stars. You let out small noises, but he paid them no mind, leaning forward to have a good look at your face.

“Who knew the academy’s best student was such a fucking slut?” he tilted his head, ignoring your nails clawing at his biceps. “Guess words aren’t enough, hmm? I need to fuck that arrogance out of my sweet girl?” 

You didn’t reply; he didn’t expect you to. His cock found that spot that made your toes curl faster than you could have expected. When he hit it for the first time, you let out a whimper close to a shriek in volume. Instead of slowing down, he just went harder, his hips slapping against yours in the otherwise silent room. He thought Sejanus probably was able to hear it all. 

It was easy for him to slip his thumb between your parted lips; even easier to coax you with a gentle slap to your slack jaw to suck on it. Your mouth wrapped around it and he groaned, pushing your thighs further against your tits. He saw your eyes glossing over, felt your poorly suppressed moans against his finger.

And god, you were so compliant to his touch, so perfect. 

“Spread your legs,” Coryo said, moving his hands away.

You obeyed to your best ability, practically letting your thighs fall limply at your sides. He spread them further and sank deep into your dripping pussy. Your slick had made a mess of the sheets below, creating a small puddle in the white material.

His fingers grabbed both of your wrists and placed them on your lower stomach. One of his hands kept them in place while the other played with your sensitive nipples, twisting them until a couple tears escaped your eyes. 

“Don’t move your hands.” 

When you nodded weakly, both his hands grabbed your waist, guiding you back and forth to meet his relentless thrusts. He could see the vague outline of his cock in your stomach, your tits bouncing deliciously before him with each abusing rut into your cunt. 

“Good girl,” he mumbled, lightly tapping at your clit. 

Your walls sucked him in like it was all you were made for, fluttering around his cock and leaving a creamy ring at the base of it.  He wanted to fill you up—not only with his cock, but with his cum, wanted to watch it leak out onto this bed, wanted to hear you beg him to stop. Him, only him. He wanted you forever. 

Coryo leaned down to connect his lips to yours, teeth napping at your lower lip. You were whimpering, mewling his name, and he tightened his grip on your waist. He pushed you further down on his cock, again and again. 

“How does being the first lady of Panem sound, huh?” 

You just nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks in reaction to his cock bullying the gummy spot in your cunt.

“Yeah? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked, rubbing tight circles into your clit. “I’d give you everything you want. You hear me, sweetheart? Everything.” 

His hips rutted into you so roughly your vision was hazy, but clear enough to grab at his sturdy shoulders. You had disobeyed what he said, but it seemed he was unaware, chasing his own high.

His cock was thrusting into the right spot repeatedly, fingers maneuvering your clit so that you almost screamed, slick practically gushing out of your hole.  

“Fuck,” you whined out, feeling your pussy pulsating. “Coryo, I’m—”

“Yeah, I know. Come for me, sweetheart.” 

You let go and so did he—seed spilling into your cunt as you clenched around him. You sobbed his name and in an attempt to soothe you, he planted kisses along your collarbones. He let you ride out your orgasm against his hand before he pulled out.

Vaguely, you could see his cum spilling out of you and onto the sheets. 

Before you could even make an attempt at calming down your heart rate, he stuck two of his fingers into you again. 

“Too much,” you whimpered, but he paid you no mind, stuffing his cum back into your swollen cunt. Too tired to move, you let him do it, only mewling his name softly from time to time.

Once he was done, he licked his fingers clean and smiled alluringly. You scooted closer to kiss him—he tasted of you and him combined. His hands cupped your face as you both lay down, facing one another. 

“You’re nothing without me, either,” you said, running your finger down his exposed chest. “Mr. President.”

His grin widened. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

TAGLIST: @peterpan-neverfails @urfavevirgoo @sayyysss @hwajin @hoshiseon @atrwriting

also big thank you to kathy, kiza and lex for being my enablers! ilyy

[dreaisgrayte]

Off the Record | Muzan Kibutsuji x fem!reader

warnings: NSFW, MDNI, food play (with wine), fingering, squirting (first-time ayyyye), oral sex fem! receiving, raw sex, rough sex, reader gets that good stuff, cum on chest

word count: 2.4k

a/n: guys I may have an addiction to the Demon Slayer cast... will I seek help for it...? Absolutely not.

His eyes gleam with the soft glow of the light over your head. Behind him are massive windows that show the cityscape of modern-day Tokyo, the twinkling neon lights like stars you could touch. You’d always dreamed of coming into this building, but never had you thought you’d be sitting here – across from the biggest name in Japan and quite frankly, the world. 

It made your whole body buzz with child-like excitement. As an interviewer, you had to scrape by on nothing until the right opportunities presented themselves. When your boss specifically asked for you to hold the in-house interview, you knew this was your big break.

“So, Mr.Kibutsuji, the paparazzi have difficulty finding you.” He smirks, leaning back against the large couch he sat on across from you – only a table separating you from the mysterious man. 

He peers off to the side, studying a magnificent piece of artwork on his wall. “It’s because I don’t want them to.” He blinks the crimson of his eyes back on your sweet face. His answer is matter-of-fact and if he went on like this, the interview would surely be a bust. 

You laugh politely, looking down at your approved list of questions. The thumping in your chest tells you that this isn’t a good idea, but you set it firmly down on the table in front of you, grinning up at the worldwide star. “Is that so? Mind if I ask you some questions off the record?” You scoot to the edge of your seat, watching as the ravenette perks up at your question. 

It intrigued him. He asked for an inexperienced rookie to simply ask him the questions on the sheet and not pry into his carefully secluded life. Yet, here you were, the questionnaire already on the table with a perky smile on your lips. Muzan feels the corner of his mouth quirk into a grin. He blows out a breath, gesturing in a circular motion freely with one of his hands still strung across the back of the couch. “You’re going to no matter what, so why not give you what you want?” He hums, distracted by the way your knees part ever so slightly to position yourself more comfortably on his furniture. A jolt of electricity pulses through him, shocking him into meeting your intense gaze. 

Muzan Kibutsuji had spent a millennium disregarding the way women made him feel. Never had one interested him enough to break focus on his goals. Sex was something to break the silence of failure, not anything to spend his time on. But you… you were a carefully crafted complexity of sexual frustration. 

He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, suddenly parched for a taste of anything. The ringing of your laughter snaps him out of his daze momentarily. “Yes well, I’m known to be pushy when I want something.” 

Me too, Muzan thought. You open your mouth as if you’re about to start, but then you pause, screwing your lips shut. “Before we start, do you mind if we get something to drink? I’m dry as a mouse over here.” You mess with your fingers nervously wondering if that was the correct thing to ask. 

Muzan lifts a brow. “I was unaware mice got dry.” Nevertheless, he lifts himself off the couch. “But that is acceptable. If you’ll follow me to the kitchen?” He walks around the side of the table, offering you a hand. You gulp, tentatively putting your hand in his. 

He guides you to the kitchen island, pulling out a seat for you. You thank him with a nod of your head, gratefully climbing onto the stool. Setting down the tape recorder on the counter, you glance around the silver and white area. The kitchen is just as dim as the living room, the lack of light only making the slight brush of Muzan’s arm against your back send shivers down your spine. “I’ve always wanted to come into this building,” you blurt before cursing lightly under your breath. “Well, er, I mean to say… thank you. I’m grateful for this experience.” You ramble to cover up the embarrassing fact that you basically just admitted you’re poor. Muzan chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling around your head as he sets two wine glasses on the marble countertop. 

“Château Lafite 1869?” He lifts an expensive-looking bottle in the air. You catch a glimpse of the label, a detailed depiction of some sort of mansion with trees around it. He pours the red liquid into the cups, the noise filling the silence. When he’s done he picks both glasses up by the stem of their neck, setting one down in front of you. The aroma is divine. “My turn for a question.” Muzan leans against the lip of the island, staring into the pool of wine in his glass. He swirls it around, glancing up at you. “Just how thankful are you?” He questions.

You smile, bringing the glass to your lips and letting a bit of the wine fill your mouth. Muzan watches you with swept attention. The flavor is complex but you catch a hint of spiciness hit the back of your throat. You set the wine glass down, trying to think of a response. “You’ve done it all wrong,” Muzan’s brows are furrowed as he stalks toward you. He grabs hold of the glass, dipping his finger into it. Your eyes widen when he drags the pad of his finger along your lips. Subconsciously you part your lips, breathing shakily as you daringly dart your tongue out. 

His eyes light up like an inferno, capturing your chin his nostrils flare. “So thankful I’d do anything.” You sputter out against the hard grasp he has on your chin. He rolls his lips under his teeth, huffing out a laugh. 

His free hand grabs your ass, spinning you around on the stool so you’re straddling him. “Is that so darlin’?” He flings your head to the side, the motion making you fall against the back of the counter. “You figure you don’t have what it takes to succeed so you’ll suck my cock, is that it?” He mummers, dragging the back of his hand down your exposed neck. 

Your body heats as you narrow your eyes. “No, that not-” You shut your mouth when his gaze locks onto yours. 

His hands find their way to your thighs, pressing them apart and savoring how your skirt rids up the plush skin. “Oh come on, you even wore a skirt. You knew what you were doing. Off the record? Please, that’s so they won’t hear you screaming my name back at the office,” He squeezes the skin of your thigh, causing you to hiss out in pain. “But I can fix that.” He smirks, running his fingers over the bruised skin. 

You pant heavily as you watch him devour you with his gaze. “We,” You gasp as he somehow rips your shirt to shreds. You regard the fabric of the once nice shirt that covered your torso now falling to the floor – parts of it still clinging to your body. 

The man in front of you runs a hand through his hair, grinning at the sight before him. “That’s more like it,” He hums, plucking the clasp on your back apart, letting your bra slide down your shoulders. “By all means, if you were about to mention the interview, continue asking me questions.” He pushes further between your thighs, flicking your nipple. You groan, the sensitive bud growing stiff. Muzan scoffs. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to.” 

He gathers liquid on two of his fingers, shoving them into your mouth. You squeak at the rough plunge, but your tongue sucks around the earthy tones of the wine. “Hmm, I think I’d rather like the look of you on my counter. Up you go.” You’re being lifted suddenly onto the island. Your skirt is around your hips, the cold of the counter on your ass making you squirm around. “Spread your legs.” He instructs, inspecting how you shyly part your legs, revealing your naked pussy. He scoffs again, tilting his head with a smug expression. 

You turn your cheek against the counter, flushing with embarrassment. “Don’t laugh,” You whine, pouting as the heat of his hand traverses up your leg. 

Muzan’s fingers graze the area of your inner thigh with lecherous intent. “Don’t be embarrassed, I don’t blame you for wanting to fuck me.” Your eyes flutter shut as he draws circles around your mound, playing with your emotions like they were an appetizer. “Besides, I’m going to fuck you real good,” His fingers slide into your pussy, exploring the new area. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut at the sensation. “Hmph, already so wet. You sure did come hot and slick.” He muses, using his thumb to press into your swollen clit. 

A hand clamps over your mouth as you writhe against his ministrations. “Fuck, sir-” Muzan shoves his fingers deeper, aggressively reaching for your throat. His massive hand wraps around the span of your throat, squeezing your windpipes. 

“Call me that again,” He commands, the fire in his eyes now dark and blown out. You huff out tiny breaths, nodding your head. He removes his hand slowly dragging it down your navel, before gripping the side of your thigh. His fingers curl deeper inside of you and your eyes widen. 

A panted moan falls from your lips as he continues. “Just like that, yes, please sir,” He smirks, pushing down on your clit. A yelp echoes around the kitchen at the sudden pressure. 

Muzan lavishes in the way your throat has a red ring around it, marks from him spotting your body in a gorgeous display of possession. “Such a good girl for me,” He growls, slipping his fingers into his mouth to taste your arousal. You watch him with the swell of desire wrapping its claws into your core. “What a wonderful pairing with the Rothschild.” He mutters, grabbing one of the glasses and swigging the liquid into his mouth. 

A devious grin paints his face as he lowers the glass, meeting your gaze. He tips the glass against your stomach, letting the dark red wine trickle tributaries down your greedy cunt. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up.” Muzan’s mouth is hungrily lapping at your folds, delighted noises streaming from him as he savors the taste. “Intoxicating,” He huffs, swirling his tongue around your clit before sucking hard on the sensitive area. 

Your throat is sore from the way whimpering moans string together shakily. Your stomach is pulsing with a sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. If he didn’t stop, you felt like you might explode. “M-Muzan,” You begin, huffing out his name. He hums against your folds but doesn’t stop. “Ah, ah,” You start to shake against him, the ravenette pumping his fingers inside of you while licking your clit savagely. “F-ck, m’gonna, hngh haaa ahhh,” 

Muzan’s mouth curls deliciously as your back arches off the counter. Then, with a few bucks of your hips, wetness sprays from your pussy. You shiver as the squirting continues, your body twitching with untouched pleasure. Breathing seems impossible as Muzan licks his lips. “What a wonderful show, but unfortunately we’re still not done.” He pulls you down the counter, lining the apex of your thighs against the bulge in his pants. 

Your eyes widen, he can’t be serious. You were barely conscious after whatever just happened. Did he expect you to go all night? What was this man made of? He frees his cock, the tip slapping against your sensitive cunt. You squeeze your eyes shut. How is it that big? It didn’t feel that big when it was pressed against your thigh. Holy shit. Was he going to put that thing in you? “You’re gonna take all of it,” he begins, pushing the head against your slick. You blink open your eyes, pushing yourself up on your elbows to observe his length disappear inside. A strained hiss slips past your lips, Muzan rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck, your pussy should do all our interviews from now on, damn,” He groans, digging the nails of his fingers into your flesh. “You’re gobbling me up,” He meets your gaze, a growing rhythm snapping his cock into you. You throw your head back, moaning his name like it was a prayer. He felt like he’d been doing this a lot longer than any person you’d ever been with. 

Muzan pushes his thick length further, humming in satisfaction as your walls flutter around him. You couldn’t think, all rational thought was flung out of his huge windows the moment he pulled out that bottle of wine. “Ngh, f’so good, mmmngah,” 

He finds it delightful the way your pussy grabs his cock like it wants more. You had a magnificently fucked out face, your eyes rolled back in your head as your mouth hung open. With each compression of your chest, a hoarse whine pushes back out. Frankly, it was music to his ears. So he grabs the recorder you’d set down earlier, pressing the little red button. He grins as the timer starts ticking again. “Such a good slut for me,” He muses, slapping his balls against your ass as he pounds your pretty pussy. “Your cunt is lovin’ this,” He thrusts deeper and deeper until all you can manage is mewling little noises. 

As you grow closer to your second climax, you rest your back on the counter, enjoying the way the cool stone feels against your sweaty back. “Come on darlin’, is that all you got? This why you wanted me off the record? To fuck you silent?” He chuckles, glancing at the recorder next to your trembling thighs. “What a sneaky vixen, is this how you treat all your clients mmm? Offering your pretty pussy with fluttering doe eyes?” He groans, nearing his own wash of pleasure. “Well, on the record, you belong to me now. Got it? You’re my whore whenever I want.” 

His thrusts grow rapid, burrowing his cock inside of you like his life depended on it. With this life of failure, he’d finally found something worth trying to succeed for. Muzan could feel the old vigor seeping into his veins. He pulls out, pumping his cock until a strangled moan escapes his lips, cum landing on your breasts. He’s a panting mess as he takes in what he’s done to you. A puddle of Rothschild and your arousal soaks the wood of the floor. He picks up the tape recorder, bringing it to his lips. “You hear that, Hashira scum? I made your bitch scream my name.” 

[itsclydebitches]

Beard's speech hit me the hardest this episode and you know what really stood out? That he looked up Ted, of all people. Ted was just a college buddy who, based on how things are described here, sounded pretty casual as far as friendships go. Beard says they "spent a lot of time together," but not that they clicked, perhaps further evidenced by them going their "separate ways" after school instead of staying in touch. The implication is that the intense bond they now share formed out of both Beard's loyalty after Ted forgives him and that time spent living together. Which would mean that Ted was not Beard's BFF when he needed someone post-parole. Not even close.

It says a lot about Ted (stuff we already knew, frankly) that he'd take in a casual training buddy from his college days, seemingly no questions asked.

However, it says more about Beard's situation and isolation back then that the only person he felt he could reach out to was the nice football pal he never even got to play with; a mere acquaintance from his past who, depending on the timeline, might not have heard a word from him in years. That is a LOT of missing relationships in Beard's life for him to jump from "Family doesn't want me" to "Better call up that random guy I used to train with. He's the only one who might even consider helping me." (And, frankly, that re-contextualizes his obsession with Jane "Pain," but that's a post for another day.)

Like holy hell. I know the whole show is about bringing people out of that isolation and helping them form strong communal bonds, but Beard's backstory is like a concentrated dose of The Lasso Way in a single, thirty-second speech. I felt like I got walloped with an emotional sledgehammer. No wonder he's wanted to headbutt Nate on Ted's behalf.

And, of course, no wonder he'd instead honor Ted by giving a gentle forehead touch instead.

[russo-woso]

We’ll always be there for you || Lionesses/Arsenal/Alessia Russo

Request | Masterlist

Warning pregnancy, morning sickness, horrible cravings, labour and delivery

Summary Pregnancy is hard for anyone, but it’s even harder when you’re young and it’s unexpected. Luckily, you have some of the best teammates who’s always there to help you.

“Fuck.” You whispered, your eyes glossy with tears as you looked down at the stick in your hands.

Pregnant 2-3 weeks

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know whether to scream, or to cry.

Your emotions were already high, having broke up with your ex boyfriend two weeks ago, but having his baby? That was whole other type of emotion.

You’d always known you wanted children, you wanted to be a mother, but later in life, once you’d retired from football.

Currently, you were playing for Arsenal and England, frequently having a spot in the starting line up or if not, definitely coming on later in the game.

Barely just turning twenty, that was an amazing achievement and were expected to be one of the best by the time you were 25.

That’s gone out the window now.

Thoughts flowed through your mind as you continued to stare at the stick.

You were supposed to be playing France on Friday, you couldn’t play whilst you were pregnant.

“Y/N, is that you? Are you okay?” You heard Alessia ask, gently knocking on the door.

You were so wrapped up in your own bubble that you hadn’t realised you’d been crying and sniffling, Alessia clearly hearing your muffled cries and sniffs.

Not coming up with an excuse as to why you were crying, you thought you’d just tell her the truth.

You trusted Alessia like a big sister so you knew she would never judge.

You leaned forward to open the door, Alessia slowly coming in.

You watched as her eyes travelled down to your vulnerable body curled up on the floor of a cubicle in St George’s park.

Her eyes widening as they landed on the stick in your hand.

“Are you…?” Alessia questioned softly, crouching down to sit on the floor next to you.

You nodded, before breaking down.

Alessia held your shaking body as you sobbed.

“I’m here. I’m going to be here with you whatever you decide to do.” Alessia whispered, rubbing your back. “No matter what.”

—

You spoke to your ex over the phone and had told him about the pregnancy, but there was no surprise when he put the phone down as soon as the words left your mouth.

There was a sense of happiness when he did it because quite frankly, he was a dick and you didn’t want a kind of man like him in your babies life.

You’d also told your parents. That conversation went okay.

Your mum and dad lived over in America, moving there when your older brother decided to. After all, he was their favourite child, it was obvious he was, so they were always going to follow him.

They said they would help no matter what and that they were excited to meet their grandbaby.

As for the England and Arsenal team, that went better than you expected.

You were scared some of your teammates would judge you.

Judge you for being careless. Judge you for being a young mum. Judge you for your decisions.

You stood in the Arsenal changing rooms after a training session, you having to go off and have a separate session.

You’d already told the Arsenal staff, obviously having to notify them of why you causing participate in normal training and games.

“Why didn’t you join us today, kid?” Katie asked, ruffling your hair as she walked past to get to her cubby.

You didn’t know whether to say the truth or not.

Alessia was the only one out of all of them who knew.

You’d spoken to less just a few days prior about telling the team and it had been decided you’d do it soon since you were approaching 12 weeks.

“Umm, tweak in my knee. Just precautionary.” You replied, quickly, truing to make it believable.

“Oh, kiddo, how long did they say you’d be out for?” Steph questioned

“A few weeks.” You said, casually, trying to take the attention off of you.

You looked at Alessia who sent you a saddened look.

The room went silent for a few minutes as you slowly built up the courage to announce it to them.

“Actually…” you began, looking around the room as all your teammates looked at you. Locking eyes with Alessia, she nodded encouragingly. With one final breath, the words fell out your mouth. “I’m pregnant.”

The room fell deathly silent again, to the point where you’d hear a pin drop.

You wanted the world to swallow you up.

You looked at your teammates blank faces, no expressions on them at all.

But then they all turned to smiles.

“Congratulations, kiddo.” Beth exclaimed, tackling you into a hug.

“Thanks, beffy.” You smiled softly as you hugged her back, a sigh of gratefulness leaving your mouth at your teammates reactions.

“My turn for a hug now.” Leah said, pushing Beth out the way. “Congratulations, star. You’re going to be an amazing mama.” Leah told you, using your nickname she’d given you from when you first joined arsenal. “I’m gonna have to come up with a nickname for your baby now.”

“Pain in the ass, that would be a good one. Waking me up every morning to be sick.” You explained, resting a hand on your slightly curved stomach.

“We have another partner in crime!” Kyra cheered, nearly jumping into your side.

“Careful of the baby! She’s carrying arsenals next best player.” Leah scolded Kyra

“I’m fine, le.” You said before turning to Kyra. “Think of all the pranks we can pull with the baby.”

“It’s going to be so fun.”

Everyone came and hugged you, congratulating you on the news.

The England girls reacted all the same.

You’d messaged the group chat with all the lionesses in and explained that you’d be out for a year because you were pregnant.

That afternoon, your phone was blowing up with messages from your teammates congratulating you.

You cried at their reactions, really happy that you could welcome your baby into a world where they’d be loved so dearly.

—

The next few weeks went by quickly.

You were ten weeks pregnant when Alessia suggested you moved in with her.

If you were to describe Alessia, you’d describe her as an overprotective older sister.

So when you let it slip that you had been sick all night and morning, she insisted that you moved in with her.

She couldn’t stand the thought of you being that vulnerable on your own.

You told her that it wouldn’t just be you moving in, it would also be the baby, but she didn’t care.

She wanted what was best for you and the baby and that meant not being on your own when you’re that vulnerable.

You were grateful that she had offered to move in with her because the day after moving in, you had the worst wave of morning sickness.

Alessia was up immediately, rubbing your back and holding your hair up.

“This is fucking ridiculous. I thought morning sickness was supposed to last a few weeks.” You mumbled, leaning against the wall as you finished the first round of throwing up.

“I know, hon, but you’ll have your baby at the end of it.” Alessia pointed out and you nodded, going to respond but instead having to throw your head in the toilet. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

—

“And if you look just over here, there’s your baby.” The nurse said, pointing to the screen.

“That’s your baby, Y/N.” Alessia whispered, her eyes stuck on the screen.

Since your parents were in America and you had no other family living in England, you’d asked Alessia to go with.

She said yes immediately, pulling you in for a hug at how honoured she was.

“And if you listen, that’s your babies heartbeat.”

A soft rhythm of a heart beating filled the room as stared in awe at the screen.

Alessia squeezed your hand, and you looked up at her with a smile on your face.

You watched as she blinked back tears.

“Why you crying, lessi?”

“I’m just proud of you, kiddo.”

“Your baby looks perfectly healthy. They’re the perfect size for 12 weeks.” The nurse said, as you nodded along, but you couldn’t really hear anything else because you were so focused on the heartbeat. “As you can see here, there’s their arms and their legs. Their head is resting just on the left side of your womb there. And their nose is just there.” The nurse pointed to them all on the screen.

You watched the screen closely as you watched your baby move.

“They’re saying hello.” The nurse joked as you let out a small laugh.

The nurse continued to go through things with you, before printing off some pictures and booking in your next scan.

“You best send a picture to everyone, they’ve all been messaging me asking if everything okay.” Less said as you got in the car.

You took a picture of the scan pictures, sending it to the Arsenal and England group chats.

You sent them a follow up message explaining how everything’s perfect.

Everyone messaged back saying how happy and proud they were.

—

You’d finally reached 20 weeks, the half way mark.

Your bump had grown a lot and so had your need for sleep.

Your baby has started kicking a lot.

Two weeks ago, you felt the first kick, and then they never stopped.

All day, every day. But it was even worse at night time.

Barely getting three hours sleep at night, you struggled to keep your eyes open.

You were exhausted and you were only half way through the pregnancy.

Today though, you were pushing your exhaustion to the side because today was your gender reveal party.

You weren’t having anything big. Just a few teammates and a cake with either pink or blue in it.

Unbeknownst to you, it had been arranged that loads of your international teammates were travelling from all over the county to come.

Tooney was obviously coming, in fact she’d spent the night as well.

Viv had organised everything for the party, including the cake, because she was one of the only ones you trusted not to tell anyone.

She’d dropped the cake round earlier and had helped Ella and less decorate the house before everyone came.

You’d been stuck inside your room all morning, Alessia and Tooney wanting the decorations to be a surprise for you.

So when you were finally allowed to leave, it felt like you were leaving jail.

You were all ready, your hair and makeup done.

You wore a white dress that showed off your baby bump.

Walking into the living room, you were met with a room full of your teammates.

“Surprise!” They exclaimed, your eyes widening in shock.

“Y/N, you’re glowing.” Chloe said, getting up to hug you.

“Thanks, Chlo.” You replied, shrugging it off, not believing her.

“She’s not kidding, kiddo. You look great.” Mary told you

“It’s all makeup, I look exhausted without it.” You sighed, plonking yourself down next to Leah on the sofa.

“How’s bubba doing?” Leah asked, rubbing her hand over your bump.

“Kicking a lot. Feel.” You moved her hand to the right side of your bump, exactly where the baby was kicking.

“They’re kicking hard. Gonna be a defender just like their auntie le.” Leah told you and you scoffed in response.

“No, they’re going to be a midfielder like their mama.” You said, rubbing your bump.

The room fell into a light chatter, everyone talking to one another.

Eventually, it was time to cut the cake.

Everyone crowded round the table where you stood waiting.

“Before I cut the cake, I just want to say thank you to all of you who have turned up today. It means a lot to me, knowing how much you love the baby. So thank you.” Everyone cheered before encouraging you to cut the cake.

They counted down from three and on zero, you cut the cake.

Slowly, you pulled out the slice, revealing a baby pink colour inside.

A girl

Everyone cheered at the sight, the England girls happy that another lioness was joining the squad.

You cut the rest of the cake, sharing it round to everyone.

Everyone sat in the living room, full from their cake, as they spoke some more.

They all stopped their conversations one by one when they heard small snored filling the room.

They turned to you, delicately holding your bump as you sat leaned up against Alessia, fast asleep.

Everyone got their phones out, taking a picture, awing at the sight in front of them.

“Bless here. She needed this sleep, didn’t she?” Millie questioned as Alessia nodded.

When you awoke, everyone had gone and it was back to being just you and Alessia.

“Did I fall asleep?” You mumbled into Alessia side, rubbing your eyes.

“You did, hon, but it’s okay everyone knew you were tired.”

“Did I at least get round to cutting the cake? God, don’t tell me I fell asleep before cutting the cake.” You panicked as Alessia laughed slightly.

“You cut the cake.” Alessia confirmed. “A baby girl. You’re a having a little girl, Y/N.”

“Good, I don’t think I could’ve coped with a boy.” You joked, your eyes still full with exhaustion.

“Go back to sleep if you want to, hon. We don’t need to go anywhere.”

—

“How you feeling?” Alessia asked, rubbing your shoulders as you sat bouncing up and down on a yoga ball.

“They’re getting worse.” You respond, holding your now nine month bump.

You’d started getting contraction yesterday afternoon and they’d continued all throughout the night.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, grabbing your bump as a contraction hit.

Alessia rubbed your back comfortingly, helping you get through your contraction.

“Missy needs to come out soon, auntie lessi wants to meet her.” Alessia said, using the nickname you’d created for your baby girl.

“I know, I can’t wait to meet her either. It also means I don’t have to be pregnant anymore.” You said, sighing.

“I know, hon.”

“Less go get ready, you’ve got training in an hour.” You pointed out to her

“Y/N, you really think I’m leaving you whilst you’re in labour? There’s no way I’m leaving your side.” Alessia told you

“Less, you’re going to training. My contractions aren’t that bad for you not to go to training. You’ve got a match Saturday that you have to train for. Please go.” You begged, feeling guilty for being the reason why she wasn’t going to training.

“Fine, but if anything happens, you ring me straight away.” Alessia said and you nodded.

“I will, I promise. Can you help me up? little miss is kicking me right in the bladder.”

Alessia helped you up before you waddled to the bathroom.

Just as you were reaching for the door handle, you heard a pop before a gush of water.

“Less? Forget about you going to training. My waters just broke.” You told her, looking down at the puddle by your feet.

“Your waters broke? Fuck, what do we do? You go wait in the car, or go change it’s up to you. I’ll grab the—” Less rambled, clearly panicking.

“Woah, lessi, calm down. You go take a seat. I’ll go upstairs and change and then we’ll head to the hospital. Oh and also, take a chill pill, yeah?”

—

“So close, hon. She’s nearly here.” Alessia encouraged you, wiping your sweat drench hair out your face.

After nine hours of gruelling active labour, the time had come to finally push.

Alessia had stayed by your side the entire time and most of your teammates were already waiting in the waiting room.

“I can’t do it, less.” You said, breathlessly, throwing your head back after pushing for ten seconds.

“You can, Y/N. Your baby girls gonna be here soon. I know you can do it.” Less told you

“She better be worth it after this.” You remarked, squeezing Alessia’s hand as you felt another contraction come which meant one thing, it was time to push again.

“She will, hon, I promise.”

“Her heads out now, one more big push and she’ll be here.” The midwife announced after another torturous push.

“Never have children, less.”

“Okay, hon.” Alessia said, letting out a laugh. “One more push. That’s it.”

The next moments went by in a flash.

All the pain disappeared as you pushed for the final time.

A cry filled the room as your daughter was passed onto your chest.

“Hi, baby.” You smiled, tears and sweat rolling down your face, as you looked at your baby.

Alessia watched, tears flowing from her eyes.

“Who’s cutting the cord?” The midwife asked, holding up a pair of scissors.

“You cut it, lessi. You’ve been with me the whole pregnancy.” You told her, taking your eyes off your baby girl to look at her.

More tears welled in her eyes as she cut the cord.

The nurses took your daughter away to be cleaned and checked over.

She was perfect, ten toes and ten fingers, and weighed in at just under seven pounds.

When she was handed back to you, she was wrapped in a blanket with a small hat upon her head, covering her small tuffs of brown hair.

“She beautiful, hon.” Less whispered, looking at the baby on your chest.

“She is.” You agreed, stroking your finger up and down her cheek. “I have a baby, less.”

“You do indeed, hon.” Less laughed before a small silence filled the room.

“You want to know her name?” You questioned, Alessia nodding straight away, desperate to know.

“Her name is Missy Alessia Y/L/N.” You revealed, looking up to see Alessia’s reaction.

Alessia just burst out crying, leaning down to hug you.

“Thank you so much.” Alessia said in between sobs.

“Thank you, lessi. You know, when I first saw that I was pregnant, my first thought was to put the baby up for adoption. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a baby or I wasn’t ready for one, it was that I didn’t have anyone to help me. But then you saw me, and in that moment, When you said you’d be with me the whole way, I knew that I wanted to keep the baby. We have you to thank.” I explain to her, getting emotional. “Here, hold her.”

“Hi, missy.” Alessia cooed, staring in awe at the baby in her arms.

—

The rest of the girls came in shortly after, looking in awe at Missy snuggled up in Alessia’s arms.

“Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?” Leah asked, gently hugging you.

“Exhausted, but it’s so worth it.”

“I bet.” Leah kissed the top of your head before walking round to see missy.

“She looks just like you, kid.” Beth said, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Lessi said that too.”

“Are we late? Has she been born yet? Oh my god, them hallways are long. I feel I’ve just ran ten miles.” Tooney shouts, bathing into the room.

Cries fill the room, everyone turning to see missy.

“Tooney!” Less lectured her, passing the crying baby to you.

“It’s okay, mamas got you.” You whispered, missy immediately calming down from your voice and touch.

The girls watched, most of them getting emotional at you and missy.

“Tooney, you can’t just—” Mary started shouting but everyone shut her up by shushing her.

“We’ve just got missy to sleep.” Leah told her. “What is her name? We can’t just keep calling her missy forever.”

“Of course you can. Her name is missy after all. Missy Alessia Y/L/N.”

“See, I’m the favourite auntie. She’s named after me.” Alessia told Ella, a playful smirk on Alessia’s face.

“Welcome to your crazy family, missy. Where all your aunties are all weirdos, except for me.” Millie whispered, stroking her cheeks.

“Welcome to your family, kid.” You repeated to Missy, pressing your lips delicately to her head.

—

• Y/N_Y/L/N04 posted •

Liked by alessia, leahwilliamsonn, and 72,753 others

My little love 🤍

Comments disabled

[jelloapocalypse]

Hi! I guess it’s ask time? Just wanted to say I think you’re one of the funniest people on YouTube; I have a playlist called ‘Emergency Funny’ and like half of it is just your videos.

I’m wondering, when you’re cold-reading a line, like in those streams of voice acting a video game while playing it, what are the small details, if any, that you look to to figure out how to read the line? I’m continually amazed how you manage to have near perfect delivery while never having read the line before. Sorry if this is worded confusingly I legit don’t know how to phrase it

This was sent months ago, but it's actually a very good question and talking about this might help people who like to voice games on stream get better at doing that.

For context, this is about our "fully-voiced" game playthroughs where we cold read an entire video game out loud.

One small thing I try to do that helps is pressing the "advance dialogue button" when the person speaking is about 65-70% of the way through their line. That way, if the next line is from the same character the actor has a chance to read it smoothly as though the lines were not separated at all.

If it turns out to be a different actor's line, this gives the new actor more time to skim the words as well as extra time for them to realize they're about to be speaking so they don't get caught off guard.

Doing this is actually kind of hard because every actor we work with reads at a different pace and the person actually playing the game has to keep that in mind. Oz, Vixen, Arim, and I can sight read most lines almost instantly. I've seen Oz and Vixen in particular read entire text boxes that were only onscreen for a couple frames. But, obviously, not everyone is that fast, so everyone gets different "advance the dialogue" speeds.

Ideally, if a game is well-written and the characters you're playing have a strong voice, you'll slowly fade into the character as you read them. You begin to feel the things they're saying rather than just reading words on a page. Once you hit that flow state, it becomes easier to process what they might logically say next. If you notice one of us make 2-3 errors in the span of just a few lines, it means we're probably not in that flow state.

Some games are also much easier to scan than others, usually because of their character poses.

A game like In Stars and Time has such incredible character portraits that you can usually tell the tone of the accompanying line within a few frames of a portrait change.

Loop (above) is an extremely suspicious and weird character, but voicing them was so much fun because I could always rely on the portraits and the font changes in the text to give me direction on how to play them accurately, even though I didn't actually know what their deal was until about halfway through our playthrough.

Coffee Talk also has very strong portraits that react in real time to the lines of dialogue. The framing can push characters smaller or larger in focus depending on how upset or meek they are, so it's very easy to react on sight and adjust accordingly.

Every time a game developer takes the time to painstakingly add portraits that match every single line, every time they add SFX to accentuate certain words, every time a font wiggles to tell you someone is speaking in a sing-songy way, that's all direction that the game's creators are giving you.

Another thing that helps is just media literacy. I think everyone on the channel is pretty good at that because, speaking frankly, I don't like hanging out with people who have bad media literacy, lmao.

The more media you consume, the easier it becomes to know how a story is going to go. Even a really well-written mystery usually has only 3-5 real options for an ending, and while you're reading games aloud it's a good practice to consider all of them equally so your reads make sense no matter what. You'll notice it's pretty rare something takes us entirely by surprise in a read-through.

Also, of note, it's much easier to notice specific foreshadowing and word choice in dialogue when you're reading it aloud as opposed to silently skimming.

A solid example is our fully-voiced playthrough of Trails From Zero, which actually happened on SurpriseRoundRPG a few years back and not my own Twitch or YouTube.

Minor spoilers, but the character above, Ernest, has some antagonistic interactions with your main party over the course of this game. He wants Ellie, the white-haired party member, to quit the police force (that's your group) and go back to working with him in the Mayor's office.

When Arim played this game solo he didn't really think much of this guy. However, when he played the game for us and we read it out loud, having lines like the one pictured above spoken aloud makes it kind of impossible not to notice that this man is a freak. Mo, his VA, ended up playing him as a manosphere incel weirdo because that's the vibe he was putting out, and, lo and behold, that's pretty much exactly the character he turned out to be.

There's a running theme on our channel where commenters are often surprised to see the game "play into our bits" and how we "accidentally predict things".

What's really happening is the reverse.

It's very, very rare that we decide to make up a bit from absolutely nothing. It's not a hard and fast rule, but I find we only make jokes and play up aspects of characters based on things that are already there. Hence that one time in Miles is a Robot when I said something awful and sexual as Ray Shields, Oz groaned, and I said "Hey man, I'll give him a different joke when the game gives me somethin' else to work with!" I didn't choose to make Ray awful and sexual all the time. That's just how he is, so that's the well we pulled bits from.

Because we only extrapolate from existing content and our "silly" versions of the characters onscreen are just exaggerated versions of what's really there, whenever the game gives us more info about them, the new stuff tends to be very in-line with the bits we've already been doing. It's not us being psychic. It's us being consistent!

It also helps that almost all the regulars on my channel have done professional voice work and have been doing some version of this for literally 10+ years. Practice makes perfect!

[cybernaght]

The fandom echo chamber: fanon, microanalysis and conspiracy brain 

As someone who has been in fandom spaces, on and off, for 20 years, I find some fascinating trends popping up in the last decade that I thought to be fandom-specific but clearly aren’t. So, I would like to do a little examination of where those things come from, how they are engaged with, and what it says about the way we consume media. This is a think piece, of sorts, with my brain being the main source. As such, we will spend some time down the memory lane of a fandom-focused millennial.

This is largely brought about by Good Omens. But it’s also not really about Good Omens at all.

Part one. Fanon.

The way we see characters in any story is always skewed by our very selves. This is a neutral statement, and it does not have a value judgement. It’s simply unavoidable. We recognise aspects of them, love aspects of them, and choose aspects of them to highlight based entirely on our own vision of the universe. 

Recognition comes into this. There is a reason so many protagonists of romance novels have a “blank slate” problem. Even when they do not, we love characters who are like us or versions of us that we would like to be. And when we say “we”, I also mean, “me”. 

(I remember very clearly this realisation hit me after a whole season of Doctor Who with writing which I hated utterly when I questioned why I still clung so incredibly hard to Clara Oswald as my favourite companion. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh. Well. That would do it, wouldn’t it?)

Then, there is projection, and, again, this is a neutral statement. Projection exists, and it is completely normal and, dare I say it, valid way of engaging with — well, anything. Is the character queer? Trans? Neurodivergent? Are they in love? Do they like chocolate? Are they a cat person? Well, yes, if this is what the text says, but if the text does not say anything… You tell me. Please, do tell me. Because, in that moment of projection, they are yours. 

And then, there is fandom osmosis, and that is the most fascinating one of them all, the one that is not very easy to note while you are inside the echo chamber. It’s the way we collectively, consciously or not, make decisions on who or what the characters are, what their relationships are, and what happens to them.  

(Back when I was writing egregiously long Guardian recaps on this blog I actually asked if Shen Wei’s power being learning actually was stated anywhere in the canon of the show. Because I had no idea. I have read and reread dozen of fanfics where that is the case, and at some point through enough repetition, it became reality.)

We are all kind of making our own reality here, aren’t we? 

Back when things were happening in a much less centralised manner - in closed livejournal groups, and forums of all shapes and sizes - I don’t remember there being quite as much universally agreed upon fanon. Frankly, I don’t remember much of universally agreed upon anything. But now, everything is in one place: we have this, and we have AO3, and it’s wonderful, it really is so much easier to navigate, but it’s also one gigantic reality-shifting echo chamber, with blogs, reblogs, trends, and rituals. 

Accessibility plays its part, too. If you were, say, in Life on Mars (UK) fandom between seasons, and you wanted to post your speculation fic, you had to have had an account, and then find and gain access to one of the bigger groups (lifein1973 was my poison, but ymmv), and then, if you feel brave you may post it, but also, you may want to do so from your alt account if you wanted to keep yours separate, and then you would have to go through the whole process again. And I’m not saying that fan creations then were somehow inherently better for it than fan creations now (although Life on Mars Hiatus Era is perhaps a bad example - because some of the Speculation Fic there was breathtaking), but there is something to say about the ease of access that made the fandoms go through a big bang of sorts.

(I mean, come on, I can just come here and post this - and I am certain people will read it, and this blog is a pandemic cope baby about Chinese television for goodness sake.)

The canon transformations that happen in the fandom echo chamber truly are fascinating to witness as someone who is more or less a fandom butterfly. I get into something, float around for a bit, then get into something else and move on. I might come back eventually when the need arises, but I don’t sustain a hiatus mind-state. This means that when I float away and return, I find some very intriguing stuff.

Let’s actually look at Good Omens here. Season two aired, and I found it spectacular in its cosy and anguished way; deliberately and intelligently fanfic-y in its plot building; simple but subversive, and so very tender. (I will have to circle back to this eventually, because, truly, I love how deliberately it takes the tropes and shatters them - it’s glorious). And, to me - a person who read the book, watched the first season, hung around AO3 for a few weeks and moved on - absolutely on-point in terms of characterisation. 

So imagine my surprise when the fandom disagreed so vehemently that there are actual multi-tiered theories on how characters were not in possession of their senses. Nothing there, in my mind, ever contradicted any of the stated text, as it stood. This remained a strange little mystery until I did what I always do when I flutter close to an ongoing fandom.

I loaded AO3 and sorted the existing fic by popularity. And there it was, all there: the actual earth-shattering mutual devotion of the angel and the demon; willingness to Fall; openness and long heart-aching confession speeches. There was all of the fanon surrounding Aziraphale and Crowley, which, to me, read as out of character, and to one for whom they became the reality over the last four years, read as truth. 

Again, only neutral statements here. This is not a bad thing, and neither this is a good thing, this is just something that happens, after a while, especially when there are years for the fandom-born ideas to bounce around and stew. I can’t help but think that so much of what we see as real in spaces such as this one is a chimaera of the actual source and all the collective fan additions which had time and space to grow, change, develop, and inspire, reverberating over and over again, until the echoes fill the entirety of the space. 

Eventually, this chimaera becomes a reality. 

Part two. Microanalysis 

Here are my two suppositions on the matter:

1. Some writers really love breadcrumb storytelling. 

Russel T Davies, for instance, on his run of Doctor Who (and, if you are reading it much later - I do mean the original one), loved that technique for his seasonal arcs. What is a Bad Wolf? Who is Harold Saxon? Well, you can watch very very carefully, make a theory, and see it proven right or wrong by the end of the season. 

Naturally, mystery box writers are all about breadcrumb storytelling: your Losts and your Westworlds are all about giving you snippets to get your brain firing, almost challenging you to figure things out just ahead of the reveal. 

2. We, as humans, love breadcrumbs.

And why wouldn’t we? Breadcrumbs are delicious. They are, however, a seasoning, or a coating. They are not the meal. 

Too much metaphor?

Let’s unpack it and start from the beginning.

Pattern recognition colours every aspect of our lives, and it colours the way we view art to a great extent. I think we truly underestimate how much it’s influenced by our lived experiences.

If you are, broadly speaking, living somewhere in Western/North-Western Europe in the 14th century, and you see a painting in which there is a very very large figure surrounded by some smaller figures and holding really tiny figures, you may know absolutely nothing about who those figures are, but you know that the big figure is the Important One, and the small ones are Less Important Ones, and the tiny ones are In Their Care. You know where your reverence would lie, looking at this picture. And, I imagine, as someone living in the 14th century, you may be inspired to a sense of awe looking at this composition, because in the world you live in, this is how art works. 

If you, on the other hand, watch a piece of recorded media and see the eyes of two characters meet as the violins swell, you know what you are being told at that moment. You don’t have to have a film degree to feel a sort of way when you see a green-tinged pallet used, when cross-cuts use juxtaposing images, or notice where your focus is pulled in any given shot. This stuff - this recognition of patterns - has been trained into us by the simple fact that we live in this time, on this planet, and we have been doing so long enough to have engaged recorded media for a period of time. 

As humans, we notice things. Our brains flare up when they see something they recognise, and then we seek to find other similar details and form a bigger picture. This often happens unconsciously, but sometimes it does not. Sometimes we do it on purpose: finding breadcrumbs in stories is a little bit like solving a mystery. It allows us to stretch that brain muscle that puts two and two together. It makes us feel clever. 

So yes, we love breadcrumbs, and, frankly, quite a lot of storytelling takes advantage of this. It’s very useful for foreshadowing, creating thematic coherence, or introducing narrative parallels and complexity. It’s useful for nudging the viewer into one or the other emotional direction, or to cue them into what will happen in the next moment, or what exactly is the one important detail they should pay attention to.

Because this is something media does intentionally, and something we pick up both consciously and not, it is very hard to know when to stop. We don't really ever know when all of the breadcrumbs have been collected. It becomes very easy to get carried away. There is a very specific kind of pleasure in digging into content frame by frame, soundbite by soundbite, chasing that pleasure of finding. 

But it is almost never breadcrumbs all the way down. They are techniques to help us focus on the main event: the story. I truly believe those who make media want it to reach the widest possible audience, and that includes all of us who like to watch every single thing ever created with our Media Analysis Goggles on and those who are just here to enjoy the twists and turns of the story at the pace offered to them. And I think, sometimes in our chase to collect and understand every little clue we forget that media is not made to just cater for us.

One can call it missing a forest for the trees. But I would hate to mix my metaphors, so let’s call it missing a schnitzel for the breadcrumbs. 

Part three. The Conspiracy Brain. 

If you are there with me, in the midst of the excited frenzy, chasing after all those delicious breadcrumbs, then patterns can grow, merge together, and become all-encompassing theories. Let’s call them conspiracy theories, even though this is not what they truly are.

So, why do we believe in conspiracy theories?

One, Because We Have Been Lied To. 

All conspiracies start with distrust.

If you are in fandom spaces - especially if you are in fandom spaces which revolve around a queer fictional couple - especially-especially if you have been in such spaces for a period of time, you have most certainly been lied to at one point or another. 

We don’t even have to talk about Sherlock - and let’s not do that - but do you remember Merlin? Because I remember Merlin. Specifically, I remember the publicity surrounding the first season, with its weaponised usage of “bromance” and assertions that this whole thing is a love story of sorts, and then the daunting realisation that this was all a stunt, deliberately orchestrated to gather viewership. 

And, because we were lied to in such a deliberate manner for such an extensive period of time, I genuinely believe that it forever altered our pattern recognition habits, because what was this if not encouragement to read into things? Now we are trained to read between the lines or see little cries for help where they might not be. Because we were told, over and over again, that we should.

(Yes, I think we are all existing in these spaces coloured by the trauma of queer-bating. I am, however, looking forward to a world where I can unlearn all of that.)

Two, Cognitive Dissonance.

The chain reaction works a bit like this: the world is wrong - it can’t possibly be wrong by coincidence - this must be on purpose - someone is responsible for it.

Being Lied To is a preamble, but cognitive dissonance is where it all originates. In so many cross-fandom theories I have noticed a four-step process:

A) this is not good

B) this author could not have made a mistake 

C) this must be done on purpose

D) here is why 

(Funny thing is, I have been on the receiving end of the small conspiracy spiral, and it is a very interesting experience. Not relevant to this conversation is the fact that a lot of my job revolves around storytelling. What is relevant is that my hobbies also revolve around storytelling. And one of them is DnD. Now, imagine my genuine shock when one of the players I am currently writing a campaign for noticed a small detail that did not make a logical sense within the complexity of the world, and latched on to it as something clearly indicating some kind of a secret subplot. Their thinking process also went a bit like this: this detail is not a good piece of writing — this DM knows how to tell stories well — this is obviously there on purpose. It was not there on purpose. I created a clumsy shorthand. I erred, in that pesky manner humans tend to. And, seeing this entire thought process recited to me directly in the moment, I felt somewhere between flattered and mortified.)

This whole line of thinking, I think, exists on a knife’s edge between veneration and brutal criticism, relentlessly dissecting everything “wrong”, with a reverent “but this is deliberate” attached to it like a vice, because it is preferable to a simple conclusion that the author let you down, in one way or another. 

Three, Intentionality 

I believe that there is no right or wrong way of engaging with stories, regardless of their medium, and assuming no one gets hurt in the process. While in a strictly academic way, there is a “correct” way of reading (and reading into) media, we here are largely not academics but consumers; consumption is subjective.

However, this all changes when intentionality is ascribed. 

The one I find particularly fascinating is the intentionality of “making it bad on purpose” because, as open-minded as I intend to always be, this just does not happen.

It certainly does not happen in long-form media. Even in the bread-crumb mystery box-type long-form media. 

When television programs underdeliver, they also underperform, and then they get cancelled.

If all the elements of Westworld Season 4 that did not sit together in a completely satisfactory way were written deliberately as some sort of deconstruction for the final season to explore, then it failed because that final season will now never come.

(There will likely never be a Secret Fourth Episode.)

And look, I am not here to refute your theories. Creativity is fun, and theorising is fantastic. 

But, perhaps, when the line of thought ventures into the “bad on purpose” territory, it could be recognised for what it is: disappointment and optimism, attempting to coexist in a single space. And I relate to that, I do, and I am sorry that there is even a need for this line of thinking. It’s always so incredibly disappointing that a creator you believed to be devoid of flaws makes something that does not hit in the way you hoped it would. It’s pretty heartbreaking. 

Unfortunately, people make mistakes. We are all fallible that way. 

Four, Wildfire.

Then, when the crumbs are found, a theory is crafted, and intentionality is ascribed, all that needs to happen is for it to catch on. And hey, what better place for it than this massive hollow funnel that we exist in, where thoughts, ideas and interpretations reverberate so much they become inextricable from the source material in collective consciousness. 

Conspiracy theories create alternate realities, very much like we all do here. 

So where are we now?

I am not here to tell you what is right and what is wrong; what is true, and what is not. We are all entitled to engage with anything we wish, in whichever way we wish to do it. This is not it, at all. 

All I am saying is… listen.

Do you hear that echo? 

I do.