#the only difference is skull is not ashamed

[tumblebumblebee-63]

This is how it went, right?

[underskz]

➪ LET'S SEE WHO HURTS THE OTHER MORE

➪ seo changbin x cisfem!reader ✩ w.c 3.2k (➪ cheater!choi yeonjun x same reader) — NSFW ✩ 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: sick of your boyfriend's lies and infidelity, you've finally decided on your parting gift to both him and yourself...in the form of one of his best friends.

note: uhh i rlly can't explain myself on this one,, i've been listening to too many sad songs and my brain said write a cheating revenge plot fic and write it now >:) so here i am uhhh, going for it... sorry yeonjun ! (i'm not rlly that sorry lmao) also has anyone else noticed that i keep writing for 99s idols,,, even tho they’re not my biases… anywayz the title is from war by keshi lol

warnings: CHEATING like all around everyone's a cheater (except changbin but he's willingly sleeping w his bestie's gf so...), and isn't reader entitled to this 100% valid crash out ?? (i'm kidding...or am i???), toxic relationship, toxic behavior, unsafe sex (no condoms), spit (and a dream) as lube, bad language, slight manipulation from reader but changbin lets it happen lmao (might be a lil into it even), yeonjun is the worst in this….but it’s for the plot!!! i swear !!!!, open/ambiguous ending, excessive use of ellipses bc im dramatic :)

“I’m sorry.”

At least Changbin has the decency to look ashamed, the guilt of covering up for his friend’s transgressions clearly having eaten away at him. He keeps his head low, intent on pretending one of the cracks on the kitchen tiles requires all his attention. 

For a moment you consider throwing him out, screaming at him to never come back and to tell Yeonjun to fuck himself into the next century. 

There’s a part of you that wants to blame Changbin, because if he was gonna turn around and confess Yeonjun’s infidelity anyway, why didn’t he stop him? 

Instead you inhale slowly, exhaling as evenly as you possibly can and swallow down the venom building on the tip of your tongue.

“It’s okay, Bin.” And his head finally snaps up, shocked by your lack of surprise and borderline disinterest. Again you swallow back any scathing comments, a certain numbness swirls through your chest as a dull throbbing in the back of your skull threatens a headache.

“W-What?” He dares to meet your eyes for a second before pinning his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

“I know, I mean I’ve known. And I know it wasn’t a one time thing.” You sigh, and a part of you wishes that your boyfriend hadn’t trapped his friends in his lies as well. 

“You knew Yeonjun was…” He clears his throat harshly.

“Cheating? Yeah, and I guess he hasn't really considered stopping, or at least being subtle about it. And after all those fights and promises to change..I don’t even know what I see in him.” It’s the truth, still unsure why you’ve bothered plodding along in this relationship after catching Yeonjun stepping out on you almost four months ago. 

You had found him in the alleyway of a club after he drunkenly called begging for you to come pick him up, only to see him wrapped up in a disgusting lip lock with some other woman with his hands shamelessly wandering. 

He hadn’t even apologized, just mumbled over and over again about how he was so drunk, how he thought it was you. At the time you chose to believe it, at the time you still loved him.

But now it’s different, now you’re left wondering how much more you can take, or why you can’t just end it.

Maybe it’s a fear of loneliness, or the pains of having to untangle your life from his after spending almost four years tying them together. Whatever it is, the strings have finally begun to fray, and the last remnants of that naive thought of him changing disappeared the moment Changbin stepped foot into your apartment with that kicked puppy look to him.

And now here you are, staring at your boyfriend’s proclaimed “ride or die”, in all honesty if you were to expect any of Yeonjun’s friends to fess up to the man’s wrongs for him, Changbin wouldn’t have been your first guess. He might be principled and righteous to a fault, but this is a man who would help Yeonjun hide a body no questions asked; morals be damned. 

You wonder what the tipping point was, wonder what Yeonjun could’ve done this time around that made Changbin force himself to make that choice. 

“How long?” You purse your lips, because even then you had doubted it was the first time, Yeonjun’s lies losing their efficacy somewhere between the third and fourth time you caught him fabricating his whereabouts— and who he was with.

“Um, well.” His eyes begin darting around once more. 

“The least you can do is be honest with me…he hasn’t been.” You cross your arms in a poor attempt of trying to brace yourself for whatever Changbin will say. Though your feelings for Yeonjun are practically nonexistent at this point, it wouldn’t make finding out more about his betrayal hurt any less.

“I think the first time was, ah well, it was…” You watch as he clenches and unclenches his fist, clearly conflicted, the morally righteous side barely able to push past his fierce loyalty to his friend. 

“Changbin, please.” You sigh, teeth digging into your bottom lip while making your eyes wide just so they’ll begin to water. If Changbin needs you to look like the heartbroken girlfriend to find his voice then so be it.

“Last year, when you were back visiting family…Wooyoung had this party and…”

His words seem to fade away, whisking through one ear and out the other. A year, an entire year of him lying to your face. You feel sick, used up and disgusted at the way you’ve been played like a damn fiddle. Like you’ve meant nothing to him and that all those years you spent in love with him— completely wasted.

Your knees start to buckle, a weak and nauseating feeling twisting in your stomach and Changbin in all his gentlemanly glory quickly catches you, dragging you into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I should’ve said something earlier.” His voice cracks, as if he’s the one who’s so despicably wronged you, and you could laugh. It shouldn't be Changbin here with his arms around you, apologizing like his life depends on it. "I-Is there anything I can do?"

It's said so softly you almost don't catch it, and the thought that bursts into your head is so sudden —and rather devious— that it almost doesn't feel like yours. You decide to blame Yeonjun for whatever happens next.

Because there’s a lot that Changbin can do.

"Just...keep holding me." The words come out shakier than you expected, thankful for how tightly he’s holding you, keeping you from falling apart completely. You try to breath slowly, deep inhales and exhales that fill your senses with Changbin’s cologne, the warmth radiating off of him soothing your nerves.

"Yeah, uh, okay...yeah I can do that." He inhales sharply. "Do you wanna sit?"

"Sure." The affirmation coming out as a defeated sigh. And carefully, as if he knows you'll shatter at any moment— he guides you to the couch, letting you sit before settling beside you and slinging an arm around your shoulders.

You let your head fall back, resting upon a firm bicep as you try to make sense of the last few minutes. You consider your options, debating on just how far you’re willing to go in the name of revenge. 

It's not fair to drag Changbin further into this, not when Yeonjun has already done a fine job of testing his friend's moral compass— but at the same time the man has been complicit in these lies for a year, looking you in the eyes and laughing with you as if there was nothing amiss. Maybe Yeonjun wasn't the only one who needed to suffer consequences.

But if anything, in some twisted way, this could be a reward for Changbin’s honesty, a thank you and even a favor done for you as a proper apology.

So you inch closer, moving until you're practically seated in Changbin's lap while you wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face into the crook of his neck, stilling as he stiffens in your hold. 

For a moment you wonder if you moved too fast. But not even a second later he relaxes, tightening the arm that's already around your shoulders and bringing up his other to run his hand comfortingly up and down your back. 

You let yourself melt into him, a tight coil in your chest starting to unravel. It's concerning how safe you feel, seated in the lap of your cheating boyfriend's best friend, maybe your sense of right and wrong and love and affection has been all screwed up courtesy of one Choi Yeonjun.

Yet you’re only allowed to revel in this moment for what feels like only a few minutes, too distracted by the warmth to even think of your next move, of how far you'll go.

Changbin starts to shift under you, his hands retracting and you can't help the needy whine that sounds in your throat. You could care less if it sounds desperate, you're vulnerable after all.

"Bin please, you said you'd hold me."

"I should go." His voice is hoarse, and you pull back just enough to see his eyes darting back between you and the door. "Didn't you say Yeonjun was coming by later?"

"I said he might." And Yeonjun said he would, but you doubted it, these days his promises fell through more often than not. "Who knows anymore, he's probably fucking some other bitch or looking for one." 

He frowns at that, and you're unsure if it's your harshness or disappointment over the fact you're most likely right.

"It's just that, I don't think...we should…I should go." He makes a weak attempt to push you off of him, stopping the moment you grab his wrists.

"But I don't want you to." Immediately releasing your hold on him, his hands hover, unsure of whether or not to drop them or to continue holding you.

"Yeonjun is, he's still my friend..." Changbin says carefully.

"And I'm not?" It's not like the two of you met because of Yeonjun, in fact you met Yeonjun through Changbin and a few other mutual friends back during university. But maybe that's what was making him so unsure, the social repercussions. The risk of everything falling apart as if Yeonjun didn’t create this. "I mean...I guess if you really wanna go Bin, I won't...force you to stay."

And slowly you let your eyes crawl up, peering through your lashes as you worry your bottom lip with your teeth before soothing it with your tongue. With a sharp inhale he follows the movement with his eyes, one of his hands thoughtlessly landing on your thigh. 

"We shouldn't." His fingers tighten for half a second, eyes darkening by a fraction. 

"Shouldn't what? We're not doing anything?" You lean in closer, and closer, until your lips are a measly inch away from each other. "Unless you think we should be?" 

He swears under his breath, your name following closely before he seals his lips against yours. And maybe a touch too desperately you scramble to rearrange yourself in his lap, moving until you're straddling his thick thighs and gripping onto his muscled shoulders.

"This is, it’s wrong?" There’s a strain in his words; but it’s barely a question, and one posed more for himself than you.

"You're comforting me, you're being a good friend and comforting me." You drag your lips across his jaw, trying not to grin as he tightly grips at your hips. "I'm hurting, make me feel better?"

"Are you sure?" You meet his gaze, the intention of not wanting to take advantage of your supposed vulnerable state clear in his eyes, because Changbin is (to some degree) a decent man.

"I need you." You keep your voice low, running your hands down his chest before dragging one up to run your fingers through his hair. "Please?"

You tilt your head, watching as he swallows down whatever reservations he has. He looks over you carefully, leaving you to try to not squirm under an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes.

"Fuck, okay yeah I've got you." His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, a gravelly tone overtaking his words. “I’ll make you feel better, the best.” 

And maybe he’s thought about it before, whether it was before you and Yeonjun started your (now regrettable) relationship, or if this was something he had been holding close, a secret that would’ve torn him and Yeonjun’s friendship apart– maybe it’s why he barely put up a fight. 

His lips are back on yours, still tentative and a little stiff but you didn’t mind, if anything your ministrations are a mirror image. Unlike some people, you’ve been loyal in your relationship and the nerves of kissing someone new after all this time was beginning to ricochet through your body, your heartbeat turning into a frantic staccato.

“Bin.” You rasp, not sure what you’re trying to say or maybe ask.

“I told you, I’ve got you.” He tugs off his hoodie then shirt before pulling off yours, goosebumps chasing after where his hands trail along your exposed skin. He manages to make quick work of your clothes, stopping you from helping in any way and allowing you to admire the way his muscles jump and move as he undresses you.

He keeps you in his lap, now stripped bare while he sits in his gray sweats with a less than conspicuous tent forming in them. You feel your mouth dry with anticipation, with nerves.

“Kiss me.” And he obeys, licking into your mouth eagerly, whatever hesitation held before long gone. It’s easy falling into Changbin’s ministrations, soothing in a way you can’t explain, and most of all, thrilling to be so craved. 

You press yourself against him, unable to stifle the shiver at the sensation of heated skin against heated skin, delighting in the way he kneads his calloused fingers up your thighs. Your mind races with anticipation, trying not to let the fact it’s been weeks, maybe closer to months since you’ve gotten any action.

Before you can even register it, he’s pushing you away, maneuvering you until your back is against his chest and your legs are forced to fall apart as they land on either side of his.

“Better this way.” He grunts, a hand coming up to cup at your breast while the other drags up your inner thigh. 

“Changbin.” You snake a hand back until you're gripping the back of his head, dragging him forward enough to catch his bottom lip with your teeth. “Hurry.”

Mercifully he wastes no time, bringing thick fingers up to your mouth and obediently your lips fall open. Pinning your gaze to his you make a show of flattening your tongue against his digits and dragging the muscle upwards oh so slowly. 

“Fucking, you-”

He interrupts himself, lips diving forward to meet yours, his tongue shoving into your mouth with reckless abandon. He swallows down each and every little moan and whine he draws out of you.

But with far more finesse his fingers press against your entrance, deftly circling and coaxing. At long last, he presses a single digit inside of you, slowly yet insistent; he’s surprisingly attentive, waiting for and listening to each demand of your body as he explores you so languidly.

“Faster, faster.” You’re not above begging, not here and definitely not now, bucking your hips to try and make him hear your pleas.

His other arm snakes around your waist, tightening just enough to keep you flush against him and barely able to move. 

“Let me take care of you.” He chases the words with a peck to your cheek and It’s startlingly nice, the words and affection almost unfamiliar. Maybe your relationship has long since fizzled out, unable to remember the last time someone had been this gentle and mindful during sex.

If you didn’t know better you’d think Changbin might be in love with you.

The thought melts away the moment he pushes two of his fingers into you, gasping at the sudden stretch but thankful for him picking up the pace.

You feel like putty in his hands, enjoying the tension in your shoulders being replaced by that telltale tension deep in your belly. Each drag of his fingers has you melting further into him, letting yourself be consumed as you sigh his name. 

Annoyingly he retracts his fingers, placating the whine in your throat with a quick kiss to your pulsepoint. He helps you shift in his lap, until you’re facing each other once more and you’re left trying not to melt under his fiery gaze.

Your eyes flutter down his chest, until you’re looking directly at the now blatant tent in his sweats. You bite back a groan.

“Oh.” You move to straddle him properly, adjusting so there’s just enough room between your bodies that you can hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and with a little assistance you manage to free his cock from the cotton confines.

You hook your nails into the meat of his shoulder, grinning when he winces as your other hand comes down to press his cock against your dripping cunt. 

“Shit, hold on, condom?” He looks a little sad to ask, likely annoyed by the extra step.

“No, m’clean I got tested…haven’t even, oh!” He nips at your throat. “…Haven’t let him touch me, you?”

“I’m good.” And you trust him, despite it all you don’t mind trusting Changbin. Besides, there’s plenty of things you’re regretting right now, what’s another for down the road? Though you highly doubt you’ll regret anything and everything Changbin could do to you.

“C’mon then pretty, ride me.” He brings his hands under the backs of your thighs, offering support but making no move to help you any further.

You tease your hole against the head of his cock, tongue caught between your teeth as you slowly begin to sink down. A stifling heat starts to curl through you, searing through your limbs and cutting across your face and building a sweat across your brow.

“Fuck! You’re so fuckin’ big, ah!” And maybe while Yeonjun beats Changbin out in length, he can’t begin to compare in girth.

The moment you’re fully seated on his cock you take a second to come to terms with the fact you're being split in two, the thickness unprecedented and dizzying and it takes every fiber of your being to not cum immediately. You squeeze your eyes shut, the hand settled on his shoulder tightening until your knuckles go white. 

Changbin takes this as an invitation to pepper kisses along your chest, letting his teeth graze along your shoulder and tongue dance across your throat. You find yourself relaxing under his attention, embarrassingly soothed in a few measly seconds by his lips against your skin. 

“Sexy.” He has the audacity to wink at you, and a weak chuckle escapes you as you wiggle your hips just enough to force a choked moan out of the both of you.

But it’s enough to have you brace yourself, not wanting to waste anymore time, hands coming down to grip at his solid forearms to bring yourself up an inch and sink back down. It sends a shock up your spine and you repeat the motion, again and again. 

You gather your energy, testing your leg strength today and properly starting to bounce on his cock, letting wanton moans and desperate whines fall freely from your lips.

“S’good, so damn good for me.” He grinds out. “You like fucking me more? Huh?”

You're hypnotized by the look in his eyes, always fascinated by the way that Changbin has always been candid with his emotions, how easy he can be to read when he puts down his shields. And now you have a front row view to a smoldering lust burning bright in those brown eyes, leaving you to wonder if it’s always been there. 

“Yes, yes, yes.” You tug at his arms, silently begging for more, until his hands move to grip at your waist. “It’s better, better with y-you, Bin.”

“He’s so damn stupid, you’re so fuckin’ perfect, baby.” Ruthlessly he quickens the pace, forcing you towards the edge. Your vision starts to go a little fuzzy, that unmistakable tightness coiling in your belly becoming almost unbearable. 

“O-Oh fuck, Changbin!” Pleasure tears through you, a few borderline painful steps past mindblowing and you wonder if you passed out for a second. 

Faintly you hear the telltale click of the front door opening. 

[cloudnineminusnine]

How would the Destined One and Wukong (separate) react to you asking to sit on their face?😏😏🙂‍↕️

P.s- Love your blog here on Tumblr, I do sincerely hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, only answer if you wish of course💖

oh, it's fine anon! it doesn't make me uncomfortable, not at all. i apologize in advance for any spell mistakes as i'm still learning to write in english.

without further ado, here you go! (and nanashiii thank you once again, partner in crime 😶‍🌫️)

!NSFW CONTENT AHEAD SO MINORS GET OUT!

in both situations you're in the middle of things with them. afab reader!

♡ sun wukong got your sweaty body caged by his hairy arms, pressing your arched back on the smooth surface with the weight of his own body, lips avidly leaving trails of his devotion over your exposed neck and chest — when they weren't busy muffling your needy murmurs.

you can barely take your stare away from his lustful eyes, piercing you so hungrily "please, i- let me sit in your face, please!" a hot breath blows past your lips, heavy with so much desire that it makes you feel dizzy. he's shivering above your body, clenching his jaw to suppress a scandalous moaning from escaping.

"you...!" oh, so that was the reason you wouldn't take your eyes off him, getting all worked up everytime his eyes rolled to the back of his skull in pleasure. he knew you were up to something, acting weird somehow, spacing out. fine, he gives you the permission to turn that humble wish of yours into reality. it would be kind of the same as eating you out, rigth? so no complaints on his side.

for the first time ever you would be in charge, literally on top of him. he seems enthusiastic about the idea, amusement painted all over his face, and a smug grin showing up when you slowly push him backwards, crawling over him. he tries his best to not burst his load as soon as your hips are hovering his face, so close that your scent impregnate his senses, luring him in.

almost at your limit, there's no time for you to lose with being ashamed. your trembling knees sit around his head and the touch of his big rough hands find it's way immediately up your tensed thights, smoothing your skin lovingly. he's got the perfect balance in between calm and restlessness.

"now do it, love. sit on my face with all that you have, just as you want." he encourages you, and there's a faint hint of a plead in his tone that makes your insides squint. you can't control yourself when he's talking to you like that, staring at you like that. he looked totally blissed out. brown pupils filled with adoration being eclipsed by the heavy eyelids.

you do as said, crying out loud when you meet the hasty tongue halfway. he goes in like he's in a hurry, not able to wait anymore, not wanting to, giving in to the temptation of being drowned by your heated core.

and it was kind of different than eating you out. but so, so much better. the heaviness of your naughty hips moving against his mouth and the warmth of your soft thighs around his sensitive ears, i'ts so hot. he goes feral, immobilizing your legs with the tight grip of his hands to keep you in place, wet tongue burning and messing each and every spot he can reach as your juices drip by the corners of his lips.

you can sense his non stop moans vibrating deliciously through your soaked walls, making it hard for you to not just give in and cum all over his face. you can't just yet. you need him inside.

some time is needed for the both of you to calm down, to climb down from the top of a iminent climax. the overwhelming feeling making your legs so weak that you simply sit above his chest, delighted by the sight ahead.

he looks so fucked out, like never before, and just the image is enough to pull a painful moan out of you. panting deeply in the middle of horny grunts, you can see those beautiful eyes of him blurred by lust, yet he still smiles like the cocky monkey he is — vestiges your nectar glistering over his lips and chin.

you can tell it's not enough for him by the way he nips at your inner thighs with his teeth, slowly lapping each bite right after, hairy hands easing carefully your petrifying tension until you feel like feeding him again.

♡ the so called destined one, less composed than he normally is when it comes to you. whenever you two start to make out he find a way to have your body closer, to the point of almost fusing in one single being. he's always on the verge of desperation, wanting to make sure that you feel pampered, worshipped — and of course you take advantage of the fact that he clearly has a sweet spot for you.

"you know, i..." sultrily you whisper against his lips, making him fidget under you, gulping down with anticipation"i wonder how it feels to sit in your face" faking a innocent tone you bat your lashes smoothly at him, earning a frustrated, low mumble in response. you know just how to melt him.

mesmerized by your lustful hungry eyes he surrenders himself readily, lying on his back as soon as your hand push him to. you travel up his body with your lips first, kissing everywhere in an attempt to calm him down a little — his breath has gotten rigged to the point of coloring his handsome face in scarlet red. so adorable.

he begs you silently with his endearing, pretty brown eyes, shivering under the weight of your body and words, barely breathing cause the air around you suddenly feels so dense.

"is that alright? would you like that, sweetie?" you lick his neck intensely, causing visible chills to run through his torso. he's nothing but a mess, losing himself to desire so easily.

moaning wholeheartedly, he break down from his silent facade. big calloused hands make their way to your waist so he can press you down on him. he so want it. "yes, please-... please do it!" in a painful expression his brows frown, accompanied right away by that obscenely raspy voice, causing you to throb eagerly.

one last prolonged kiss to his jawline, inhaling his fruity scent harshly, and then you're ready to go. he watches intently as your hips approach his face, your smaller hands guiding his to your thighs — wich causes him to pulsate down bellow. he feels like a vulnerable prey ready to be engulfed by you, and he loves it.

"you can touch me as much as you want, alright?" as you hover his mouth you let go of his agitated hands which waste no time, squeezing, kneading and caressing your responsive body, burning over your sensitive skin.

he goes for it thirstily, it feels like the it's first time he's exploring you, but he knows just where to touch and what to do, feeling you up in way that makes you lose a bit of your balance, immediately sitting right on his face. you try your best do keep the surprised scream to yourself, firmly biting down on you lip. a hoarse grunt resonates through your insides and he presses you so hard that his wet muscle seems to go deeper than it would usually.

he's not much skilled and that's exactly why everything with him gets much more intense. it's all about how good he wants to make you feel, and how needy he turns to be in the process.

the more you spill over his mouth the more he wants to drown himself in, the harder he squeeze your hips and waist. he needs more, he wants to get fully drunk on you.

you're on the verge of cumming already, lightheaded, sweaty and panting, but you can't stop riding him — and he's taking it so, so good.

[crushmeeren]

♡ Master List Link

Gojo / Fem Reader

Warnings; cursing, kissing, blowjobs, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, dirty talk, bit of brat tamer Gojo

Satoru who is the prettiest, no — the most ethereal man you’ve ever come in contact with. It’s comparable to gazing upon the biblically accurate form of an Angel. Whose beauty you fear may burn your eyeballs out of your skull.

Satoru who is annoyingly aware of how breathtaking, how feminine he is. The man hit the genetic lottery. Who regards you in the exact same light. Who gets you giggling every time he dramatically complains that you must’ve bewitched him.

Satoru who is so insanely tall, it gets your heart thundering every time he has to tilt his head down to meet your gaze. Who winks each time, sporting a knowing grin like the bastard he is. Who has long, slender fingers that envelope your entire hand when he sweetly laces his dainty fingers through yours.

Satoru who enjoys accentuating his fingers by wearing eye catching black rings. Who places a hand on the nape of your neck, the cool metal of his rings making you shiver as he guides you in different directions.

Satoru who has tons of admirers. Girls and guys alike. Who could not give less of a fuck, and pays them no mind. Whose crystal blue eyes always seek you out, no matter where the two of you go. Who ignores all the unrequited stares of longing he receives. Who gravitates towards you like the beckon of a siren call.

Satoru who tells you the cheesiest, cliche, most tooth-rottingly sweet pick up lines that you’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing. You reluctantly admit it makes you fall more in love with him each time.

Satoru who gets the biggest thrill out of playful flirting with you. Whose giddy when he manages to get under your skin. Who coos at you and thinks it’s so cute when your eyebrows scrunch together and your lip curls up in annoyance. You struggle not to punch him sometimes.

Satoru who started to become obsessed with you. Who was enamored watching you teach his students. He admires the way you fill in wherever you’re needed. You mainly go on missions, but recently you started teaching to help Yaga and subsequently started spending more time with Satoru. He started requesting you help in his class so often it became ridiculous.

Satoru who clings to you like a koala in bed when you cuddle. Whose long limbs tangle with yours and cause you to wake up sticky with sweat — and not in a good way.

Satoru who takes you back to all the random sweet stands and shops he finds while he’s sent away on missions. Who, of course, returns with trinkets or items he knows you’ll love.

Satoru who is unbearably difficult to read at first. Who wears a fake smile that’s razor like at the edges until you coax him into letting his guard down. Whose real smile is warm, lighting up his whole face and melting your heart. Satoru who’s another version of Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Satoru who is nothing short of petrifying when he’s truly furious. Who is 100% unhinged. Whose blue eyes glow as he massacres anything that stands in his way. Who gives you chills when you witness this side of him. You’d never wanna be on the opposing side of Satoru during a fight.

Satoru who is definitely an asshat. Who is annoying. Who texts you at 2 am for a booty call, which is funny because you’re already in a committed relationship. Who only texted the literal words “booty call” before you’re swinging open your bedroom door ready to rip him a new one. He’s already naked when you get there, and you’re ashamed to admit you gave in.

Satoru who learns he loves to bake with you. Who loves making cupcakes. Who whips some up for your birthday. Who was so excited he was practically vibrating when you ate one. Surprisingly, they were amazing.

Satoru who you’re unconditionally in love with. Who wants to marry you someday. Who becomes the best daddy to your little ones. Who is your other half and who you share the deepest, richest love with. Who is the best thing you’ve ever experienced.

Satoru who has to admit that he has a thing for bratty girls. Girls who aren’t afraid to be bitchy towards him. Who are mean to him and don’t put up with his bullshit. Who step up and put him in his place.

Satoru whose cock gets full and achy along his inner thigh when you come into his classroom to bitch at him about stealing your bento box. You know he loves it, the man leers at you as if he’s going to devour you whenever you do come in and yell at him.

Satoru who eagerly makes out with you in his classroom. Whose tongue plays with yours as his limbs buzz with lust and the anticipation you two getting caught. Who has a bit of an exhibitionist kink. Who will unabashedly shove his hand down the front of your pants and play with your clit until you shove him away.

Satoru who grips your hand and sends you two straight back to his home once you’re fed up with his attempts to fuck you in public. Who will lay you out on his bed and groan when you snarl at him “honestly Satoru you’re such a fucking dumbass.” Who hums in agreement, sinking his teeth into your collarbone and neck until your bitching turns into breathy moans.

Satoru who wears a smug expression when you lay pliant under him. Who pinches your nipples and bites at the fat of your tits until you’re crying out, weaving your fingers through soft, white hair.

Satoru who rubs tight circles into your clit with his thumb until your orgasm starts to burn in your lower belly up. Who stops right before you go over the edge, just to get you to bitch at him. “Are you fucking kidding me Satoru? What is wrong with you.” Who cuts off your complaining, slipping two fingers into your pussy as an apology. Who thumbs at your clit again and works you over until you cum for him.

Satoru who swears he’s on cloud 9 when you roll him onto his back. Whose cock twitches violently when he gazes down at you. Whose head gets fuzzy when you start to suck his cock, swallowing him until he’s shiny with your saliva.

Satoru who pulls you off and flips you onto your back. Who splays his hand out on your sternum. Who tries to shove you through the mattress as he pushes his thick cock into you, spreading your pussy to the max. Who tilts his head, wolfish grin on his face as your whines fill the air.

Satoru who calls you his “fussy little brat,” when you writhe underneath him. Who teases you with the shallow rocking of his hips. Who’s so condescending when he bites his lower lip before asking “where’s that shitty attitude you had earlier hmm? Not so big and bad now are ya? Needy little brat.”

Satoru whose arousal is turning him to ash while he watches your tits bounce with each thrust. Who drapes one of your legs over his shoulder and bends you in half. Who throws his weight into his thrusts, bullying your g-spot until you cum around him three times.

Satoru who lets his fingers wrap around your throat like a necklace. Who squeezes gently to make your head fill with cotton as he fucks you. Who watches your eyes roll back and feels your back arch into his thrusts. Whose mouth drops open as he says “fuck yes, that’s right baby girl. You just needed me to fuck that shitty attitude outta you huh? Don’t worry I’ll make you cum on my cock a few more times.”

Satoru who takes note of your fourth orgasm building. Who releases your neck as you swallow air desperately. Who rubs quick circles into your swollen clit as you cum. Whose name you wail when you squirt all over his pelvis.

Satoru who can’t fucking take the way your warm pussy sucks his cock like a vice. Who presses his forehead against yours as his cock kicks inside you repeatedly. Who murmurs “I’m gonna fill up your bratty little pussy since you’re being so obedient.” Who buries his cock until his balls are snug against your ass and cums with a whimper.

Satoru who pulls out so slowly. Who allows you to melt into the mattress. Who cleans the both of you and nuzzles into your neck. Who loves the aftermath of sex when you cling to him adoringly. Who revels in the fact he has the privilege to tame the brat in you one hundred times over.

[catscidr]

Dr ratio and student (adult) reader who tried really hard to study but she is kinda failing? 😭 I once had strict teacher like ratio and he was softer to me, so Idk if ratio would be the same or even more mean

this is a little different from what you asked. BUT. i Do think that he wouldn't be mean n would help u study because it means you're trying to not be an idiot and his whole shtick is trying to make people less dumb. ykwim. i might've projected a littol bit... times r tough what can i say <(ㅍ _ㅍ)> cw: blurb/headcanon format (?), hurt/comfort technically because ratio is a little mean. it's not that bad tho trust, university setting includes: gn!student!reader, professor!veritas ratio, can be read as either platonic or romantic (or favoritism lmao) wc: 1k

-ˋˏ I think he would be pretty frustrated at first. How come all your studying did little to nothing to change your less-than-ideal grades? Especially when he’s the one teaching you, at this point it’s an insult to him and his teaching skills! 

-ˋˏ ...but when you showed up to his office with your lips curled down in deep a frown, downturned brows and meek eyes that refused to meet his gaze for more than three seconds and reflected just how embarrassed (and almost ashamed) you were, he could only sigh and wave his hand to gesture for you to come in. 

-ˋˏ You took out your textbook, your notes and the study guide he had made specifically for the final exam. They felt heavier in your hands than they usually do, since now he could very well take a single look at your messy, scribbled notes and turn you away for “wasting his time” like you’ve seen him do with other struggling students. You couldn’t afford failing this exam though, so you place down your things on his (now cleared) desk and sit at the edge of the chair he had across of him, silently praying to whatever god to grant you some mercy. 

-ˋˏ His first reaction was... not good, for lack of better words. Your notes were a mess and there were splotches of black all over about five pages— the result of an unfortunate accident where your pen exploded in your hands during an all-nighter. He was tempted to turn you away or to, at the very least, scold you for being so disorganized, but he wouldn’t be the infamous Doctor Veritas Ratio if he did. One look at you and he could tell that you hadn’t slept properly in God-knows how long, that you hadn’t eaten a proper meal in just as long, and that you had the drive to study, but for a reason unknown to you, simply couldn’t. Or, at least not in a way that made you retain the information you tried to hammer into your brain. 

-ˋˏ You'd sit there; hands folded in your lap, eyes refusing to meet his, silently waiting for him to say something, anything lest you implode on the spot. Ratio would gloss over your notes, eyes lingering on the little doodles of yourself you drew in the margins of the page with a little speech bubble saying ‘help’ right above it, and would hold in a sigh. Crossing his arms over his chest he would lean back in his chair and tilt his head, burning holes in your skull until you lifted your head up. He wouldn’t say a word, he’d be as patient as he needed to be, waiting. 

-ˋˏ When you finally looked over at him you swore you felt your heart drop to your ass (how long had he been staring?) as you forced yourself to not grab your stuff and dip. “Um-” you started speaking but he promptly shut you up by interrupting you with a question of his own; “Do you honestly think you can study adequately in such conditions?”  

-ˋˏ (Of course he’d notice, you scold yourself internally. There’s no way to successfully hide the dark circles under my eyes.) 

-ˋˏ You’re taking way too long to answer, too absorbed into your head to speak, and it’s starting to get under his skin. His frown seems embedded onto his face, the absence of his plaster head making you quiver in fear from the sheer amount of frustration he must feel because of you. Unfortunately, you’re nowhere near as observant as he is— because if you were, you would have noticed that his frustration wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself. How did he let it get this bad? He’s supposed to be a teacher, and teachers are supposed to care for their pupils

-ˋˏ (It might seem like he couldn’t give two shits about his students, but he does care— in his own harsh way. He considers kicking people out of his class a blessing; if he didn’t care about their wellbeing, he would have let them stay and feel stupid as well as let them be completely overwhelmed as a result of not understanding the content of his lessons and the workload he assigns. Of course, he doesn’t want people to drop his class, but if that’s what it takes for people to not go insane then so be it. He’s made peace with it.) 

-ˋˏ “When was the last time you were able to sleep for longer than eight hours consecutively?” he asks, intense gaze unfaltering as your eyes dart all over his office in a poor attempt at avoiding the inevitable. Finally, you look at him sheepishly, and mumble a number that was far from satisfactory in his books. He clicks his tongue and unfurls his arms, grabbing your books strewn across his desk and shuts them, sliding them over towards you. You sit, puzzled and flustered that you’ve gone all this way just for him to kick you out. If he was going to be an ass, he should have just dismissed you as soon as— 

-ˋˏ “Your assignment is to get a good night’s rest. Do not come into my classroom if you haven’t slept for 8 hours minimum. If I see you work dark circles as prominent as the ones you have right now, I’ll drag you to the nearest bed or couch myself.” 

...Can’t say you expected that kind of response. 

-ˋˏ You can’t even get a word in before he beats you to it, already knowing what you were about to say. “I’ll let you retake the exam if I deem your health to be unacceptable when you arrive in the lecture hall for the exam.” You shut your mouth, unsure of what to even say in response. You really felt like you were being scolded. 

-ˋˏ He would gladly help you study when you come back looking (and feeling) refreshed, though. Not that he’d show it with his body language, but his actions said everything. He’d bring energy bars for you to snack on while he explained material you struggled with, would be patient when you’d ask seemingly dumb questions (one time you asked him why he hadn’t kicked you out of his class yet, and that was the first time he actually scolded you. Because that was the first dumb question you asked him). 

[automeris-io-moth]

The Offer of Her Village.

suggestive (but like only a bit)

She had kept her name to herself that evening. 

Her hands were not bound anymore, if they ever were. 

She couldn’t remember quite well, the faint feeling of soft rope still ghosted over her limbs, yet no mark showed over the surface of easily-bruised skin, no burning left trace, and no real pain ever blossomed from what she recalled as blood, pooling under the tightenings, piling up to a puddle on the dirt and the dry leaves. 

Another cup, another drink, was brought to her lips, and she smiled. 

Wine had never been quite the treat for the girl, it was bitter, on the best of cases a rotten tasting grape juice she tended to avoid, taking small sips through the night, forgetting the glasses and patting her head in acknowledgement when someone noticed, blaming herself careless as it had been, yet again, her distraction making her misplaced the aged red wine the host had been so kind to open for them all that night.

She remembered it all well, even when it felt a life and a half away, the uncomfortably alcoholic aftertaste it left on her tongue, the ashamed look on her father’s face as her best efforts to prevent a grimace as she gulped down the last bit had fallen unsuccessful. Then why, she wondered, did it taste so sweet.  

It was, indeed, intoxicating. But the girl shook her head, hands limp at her sides, it could not be the alcohol. 

She leaned further in, chasing the edge of the golden up to her offered, trying still to keep that ladylike, shy sipping she had been taught so long ago. And the cupbearer, the cupbearer smiled at her so sweetly her stomach dropped further down for a moment, when he caressed the skin of her hand, when he cleaned the edge of her mouth, and smiled more. 

Dizziness, haziness, were so familiar then she had forgotten how the lucidity of only fake ebrity felt at the parties. 

Parties. 

The music echoed across the salon, even with no walls, with no marble floor nor high ceilings, different, as foreign as everything else caught by her wandering sight, like stars popping, like how fireflies should sound if they one day wanted to change their buzzing. Like the church bells, she finally settled, but more delicate, higher pitched and accompanied so well by the sound of an harp, an harp of thicker cords, an arp that sounded like something entirely different. 

They were so good at imitating the melodies of the night.

A woman approached, as beautiful as the rest of the crowd, long, dark hair trailing behind her, falling through the antlers sprouting from her skull, a pan flute held to her mouth. The melody consistent, soft and calling. 

Light wood was set in between her palms, other’s hands guiding her fingers to the right spots, it was handcrafted, that she could see, some missing polishing here and there, the clear strokes of a thin paintbrush marked on the delicate drawing of flowers. 

The girl blew. 

Broken, far from perfect, and yet, there was clapping, there was praising, and playful laughs. And she smiled, returning it to the musician. 

A whisper in her ear. 

The woman holding her in her lap urged her to continue her story. 

Such a stupid, simple story, one repeated far too many times for any of her friends to appreciate anymore, one of her few adventures to the beaches of the neighbouring town, how she had found a fish with a stinger, transparent and apparently, electrical, or something of the sort, as it had stung and scared a child playing around it. 

The body was not dangerous, she explained, she had used it to return it to the sea, the string falling down from it was the real problem. And they nodded and cooed in, most probably, fake awe to her words. 

She had acquired a peculiar interest for the sea life from then on, she told them, describing a couple more wonders she had found near the ocean grottoes, earning their complete attention. 

Carter blushed at the attention. 

Such an uninteresting, uncharismatic thing should settle to be seen, even if she’s as much of a treat for the eye as she is for the ears. 

A flower crown was placed over her head, daisies and periwinkle intertwined, braided into fitting her perfectly. 

“You should stay for a little longer, wouldn’t that be pleasant?” the man she was leaning her back against suggested, hand gently tilting her face to meet his eyes “I would be honoured.” 

The woman holding her chuckled, “That would certainly be quite a treat.” 

Her fingers traced Carter’s lips, and for a moment, she thought of how dry they had to look, biting them down to hide them.

“Oh none of that now, pretty thing, you don’t need to fix anything.” 

“I think I…” the girl stated, eyes fixed on the woman’s, staring limp at the yellow glow they emanated, even under the cold light of the moon “I think I need to go back, my friends were with me and I don’t know…” 

“That would be such a shame,” the man interjected, taking the girl from his partner’s lap, pulling her gently to his own, having her lean against him as he ran his hands up and down her back “to leave when the night is still so young.” 

The woman chuckled, reaching down for the half-drank cup and placing it to her mouth, watching as she drank.

Her eyes were soft, such a sight the girl did not recognize from ever before, and she met them. Unable to take them away, she stared. 

“How are we to make you go home without at these ungodly hours of the night, one so young would get lost so easily.” she added.

“It would be our pleasure if you allowed us to offer you sanctuary, for tonight at least.” 

“But my friends are…” 

“Safe and sound, of course, enjoying the party just as you are. Oh my, maybe you had a little too much wine,” said the lady, pointing with her open palm at the crowd.

Carter turned slowly, afraid a sudden movement would get the wine working.

A couple clouds dissipated, and she noticed that, sometime ago, the ropes had existed, they had dug into her skin opening more raw spots the more she had tried to get rid of them. But they were no more. 

No more on her own wrists at least. 

But it was fuzzy still, the faces, those faces looking right back at her, uttering more fear, though silent, as they settled their eyes on her own, and the concept was as blurry as everything else, fear seemed too far away to consider it real, even so well displayed in others' faces. 

“What a good offering they gave,” the man said, taking his own cup to his mouth, smiling to her once it was lowered, bringing both faces closer together “and what a cute thing they lost.” 

“Offering?” Carter murmured right over his mouth.

“Shh, we do not wish to upset her, do we?” the woman interrupted, quick at the words of the other “No, she’s had just about enough of that with all those hating people from the village, haven’t you, sweet thing?

She nodded mindlessly and the fae giggled behind her fist.

Soft hands, the softest she felt, careful in their touch of the claws idly disguised as nails, twisted her head away from the man into anothers, offering between long fingers a berry, a single, bright red berry, squished if only a little by the grab, and otherwise perfect to the eye, not like the ones from the bushed around her home, mushy and almost brown when the time for picking approached. 

A bright red, inhuman perfect berry. 

Crafted. 

A berry of the fae territory within the forest terrain. 

Carter twisted her head away, hiding in the man’s shoulder. 

“Perhaps,” the woman continued, taking the fruit away, “we’re still missing something.” 

The man hummed.

“Would you honour me with this next dance, sweetheart?” she asked next.

“I have never…” 

“Oh, you hear that? What a delightful thing to know myself as your first dance partner.”

_

Masterlist

Disappearing for a couple of months and suddenly coming back, no warning no explanation, is my favorite activity.

[crashess]

Party Saviour

jason dean x gn! reader

warnings: talk of vomit, swearing, arm grabbing

a/n: this is a combo of storyline’s from the movie and musical

The last thing you had expected to happen when you joined the heathers was being thrown to the streets after vomiting all over Heather Chandler. Confused and slightly tipsy you walk into your local 7/11. You browse the isles, rubbing your eyes due to bright lights. You don’t notice the shady figure approaching you until you bump into him.

“Well, didn’t expect to see you here twice in one night” You look up and notice the familiar face of Jason Dean “Jason, sorry for bumping into you I’m just a little-“ “tipsy, yeah I can tell” Your cheeks turned slightly red “No worries, I have the perfect cure” You follow him until you reach the back of the store “Slushies? I’m failing to see how those can cure…this”

He laughed and started filling up a cup “Trust me, these things are the cure to any pain” You looked at him half sleepy half suspicious. He handed you the drink and a straw, you stabbed it into the ice cold drink and took a big sip.

“I don’t really see the- Mother Fuck-“ A wave of icy cold pain shot you right in the skull, snapping you out of your midnight mood “So? Was I right” You took a deep breathe still recovering from the cold pain “Yes, somehow” He smiled “Their my cure too, so you never answered my question”

“You never asked one” He smirked at your response “What are you doing here this late, I thought Heather dragged you to a party” You groaned the thought of her made you angry “I barfed on her and by tomorrow morning I won’t be alive” You noticed his face go a tiny bit paler his smug expression faltering slightly

“What? What’s wrong” He snapped out of his worried daze “Huh, oh nothings wrong” You took another sip of the slushy “No your expression changed when I mention she would kill me” He grabbed you arm, a little too hard “Don’t say that! She’s not going to kill you not-“ He stopped probably feeling your struggling trying to free yourself from his grip.

He let go a little stunned and a little sad he had hurt you “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened” He turned away ashamed “Hey, it’s okay don’t worry” He turned back “We can visit Heather in the morning and try and apologise” What you didn’t know was that his idea of apologising was very different from your own “Yeah, we can swing by but only if I can come” You took another sip before handing the drink back to JD “Sure, If you’re there maybe she’ll listen”

[goodqueenaly]

Would it not be amazing if Aegon and Arrianne pull an Egg and upon being presented with dead children have the sand snakes or even Varys thrown in a black cell? Arianne adores her cousins but we see how even indirectly harming Myrcella leaves her feeling ashamed and it would be nice if this time around justice actually got done instead of waiting for KL to blow up and coincidentally kill the murderers along with half a million other innocents.

To the extent GRRM will have Tommen and/or Myrcella murdered by Nymeria and/or Tyene - and I do think either or both is or are very possible if not probable - I don’t think such an event has to so explicitly parallel events in Robert’s Rebellion as to have Nymeria and Tyene literally lay the bodies of the “Baratheon” children before the court as Tywin once did the bodies of Rhaegar and Elia’s children. This is somewhat related to a point I made before with respect to Jaime and the (possible) Second Red Wedding - the author doesn’t, I think, necessarily need the POV character for any given event to experience the same impact of such an event that the author intends the audience to experience. However we as the audience might learn (or be hinted as such) that Tyene and/or Nymeria killed Tommen and/or Myrcella, we as readers could then draw narrative and thematic parallels between the respective murders of these innocent royal children during the invasions of their respective homes and the overthrows of their respective dynastic regimes; we don’t also need, for example, Tommen and/or Myrcella to be killed in exactly the same way, or their bodies to be presented in exactly the same way, to make the point.

Likewise, even assuming that Tommen and/or Myrcella are murdered by Tyene and/or Nymeria (and again, I don’t think either or both deaths as such are implausible), there is no saying on a practical level that all the characters in-universe would necessarily know Tyene and/or Nymeria was or were responsible. Even Gregor’s murder of Elia and Aegon was not open, public knowledge before Gregor’s own admission to the same at Tyrion’s trial by combat: even Ned, who was in King’s Landing to see the bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon, knew only that “[s]ome said it had been Gregor who’d dashed the skull of the infant prince … against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother … before putting her to the sword”, while Tywin himself referred to such rumors as “[s]table gossip and kitchen calumnies” (to say nothing of Yandel’s official history of the event, which deliberately portrays the deaths of Elia and Aegon as an unanswerable mystery). Unless Tyene and/or Nymeria decided to publicly claim responsibility for the murder(s) of Tommen and/or Myrcella as Gregor did for the murders of Elia and Aegon, the likely chaos I think is to come in the taking of King’s Landing by our Aegon’s forces could obscure the details around Tommen’s and/or Myrcella’s (possible) death(s), including the identity or identities of their killer(s).

(Let’s put aside the fact that GRRM often makes the question of justice complicated, messy, and far from straightforwardly satisfying, and consequently my doubt that he would necessarily do as much here.)

Nor indeed, I think, should we assume that the storming of Maegor’s Holdfast will be the only influence on the (possible) deaths of Tommen and/or Myrcella. I think there’s a very high likelihood that Jon Connington - aware of his rapidly approaching death and desperate to redeem himself in the dead Rhaegar - will look to “correct” what he believes was his mistake at Stoney Sept - that is, in (so he believes) letting Robert get away instead of razing the entire town and its innocent souls just to make sure Robert couldn’t escape. This is, in other words, an entirely different but entirely plausible means by which Tommen and/or Myrcella might perish, one in which the Sand Snakes have no part, and while I have no strong feelings on which (if indeed either) scenario is more likely when it comes to the deaths of Tommen and/or Myrcella, I think the existence of this possibility undermines the necessity of GRRM putting Arianne in a situation where she needs or wants to condemn her cousins for the deaths of the “Baratheon” royal children.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Hurt and Protect

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: 18+ (Warnings: violence, bloodshed, Joel being a murderer, dub-con, mentions of drug use, choking, public nudity, sex in public, exhibitionism, slapping, hitting, moneyshot.)

Word count: 2.3k words

Summary: In a world where politeness wasn’t part of trade, it helped to have someone like Joel Miller as your protector. But to be his to protect also meant being his to hurt.

A/N: This is my first attempt at second person pov. I think this is the worst thing I have written in terms of things that will get me a VIP pass into hell. There is so much shit here like damn. So, please read the warnings above for anything that you might not like. I’m ashamed and will need 15-20 business days to recover from my shame. I hope it’s worth it lol

“Throw in your bitch and I’ll get you those 50 extra pills.”

As far as last words went, that was…unique. You stood aside, unable to do anything but watch as Joel pummeled the guy with his fist. Although, you had to say you wouldn’t stop him if you were able. The man’s trade offer angered you enough that you would have shot him yourself. But it wasn’t wise to kill your suppliers.

Watching Joel beat him up was an entirely different thing. It felt good to have a protector, an attack dog who would pounce at any threats to you even if you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. It must be why Tess kept him around. She pointed in a direction and he walked, she identified a guy and he killed. And now he was doing something similar for you. You hadn’t asked, but Jesus he was doing it just for you.

He was a sight when filled with rage. You had nothing else to compare it to of course. Rage was one of the only things decorating his features other than agony, shame and emptiness. You licked your lips as he grunted from the effort as his fist connected with the man’s head. The man’s screaming had quietened a while ago, but he didn’t stop. Jaw clenched, teeth gritted and face splattered with blood, he continued, pouring out every bit of fire he had in his eyes into the man.

As though it wasn’t enough, he retrieved his knife from its sheath and stabbed it through the man’s chest. The blade went in easily and it was then that he finally looked up from his victim and at you. Rage transformed into something else, something still dangerous but somehow sexier, you realized as you found your hand reaching between your jeans. You rubbed yourself through your thick jeans, the stitches joining the fabric in the middle seated perfectly to get some traction.

On Joel’s other side stood the man’s friend— no, associate. There were no friends in this world. He took a few steps back when Joel’s attention turned to him. But he didn’t run, seemingly frozen in place by the sheer power of Joel’s fury. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide when Joel Miller had his sights on you. It was as good as a bullet in your skull to just be targeted by him.

A crowd began forming around you, watching in morbid fascination the murder of two men. It only made you rub faster, your eyes trained on how he caught the guy by his collar and slammed him against the wall. You felt a sick jealousy growing inside you. You wanted him to do that to you, to slam you against a wall and hurt you in front of a crowd. You would beg for it if he asked you to.

The man who'd made it a habit to eye you like a piece of meat ever since you’d started trading with him looked at you. You smiled, relishing in the fear in his eyes. The number of times you’ve had to stay awake with a gun in your hand in your own apartment because you feared men like him and what they wanted to do… It was nothing short of bliss to see one of those men tremble in fear like you did, waking up from nightmares of what they promised they would do to you. “Please, please. I’m sorry— ask him to stop, plea—aaaaaah!” his begging turned into screaming as Joel’s bloodied fist connected with his face.

Joel looked towards you and smiled a sinister smile and you mewled as though it were his hands instead of his eyes touching you. His knee connected to the man’s crotch and he screamed for his god and his mother, neither alive to stop the atrocity. There was only man and the horrors he was capable of when society collapsed.

Joel’s eyes never left you as you touched yourself. He knew what his violence did to you and he was going to make every motherfucker that dared to ask for you a victim in his hunger to see what the world had done to you.

This wasn’t you before everything. You’d dated nice men who opened the door and pulled out your chair and were instantly loved by your family. Now… You wanted the likes of Joel who killed men with his bare fists for you, who would watch as you touched yourself to his violence in front of a crowd of your neighbors.

Joel pulled the half-conscious man off the wall by his shirt and slammed him back on it. Hard. The man let out a pitiful whine that was overpowered by Joel’s grunts and groans. As the man hit the wall again, Joel’s large hand around his throat, you moaned your protector’s name. He palmed his growing cock through his jeans, his lustful eyes set on you before he bent down to pull his knife out of his first victim. A little gasp was all that was heard when the blade pierced through the man’s jugular.

He pulled the knife out of the dead flesh, the blade and the handle now both a dark red from the lives it had taken. He pointed the knife at you and spoke, panting from his efforts, “Strip.”

You obeyed.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see a few people shuffling away. Parents with kids mainly. It was funny how they would watch men being murdered with their kids like it was the morning cartoon but this was where they drew the line.

You shook as you pulled your boots off and then your jeans and panties. Joel unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out, making no effort to take his clothes off. With your jacket, shirt and ratty bra joining the pile of clothes, you were completely naked for Joel and the Boston QZ. A few heads peeked out of windows in nearby buildings, their curiosity piqued by the noise.

He approached you, his blood soaked hand going directly to your cunt. Two large fingers pushed in without any warning and you whined at the sudden intrusion. You clenched around him, pulling him to you as though he was what you needed to be alive. Like he was air. Like he was water.

Joel was a man of few words and that didn’t change when he fucked. He wiped the bloody knife on your skin with practiced motions, careful not to cut you. Although you wouldn't have complained if he drew blood. He could take everything he wanted from you and you would beg him to take more, to take and take and leave you empty for him to fill you up with his needs and desires, for him to mold you into anything he wanted.

You found yourself on the floor, debris poking into your back as he hovered over you. The dead men lied on either side of you but you had eyes only for Joel, for his hunger and his lust. You moaned his name as he entered you with force, giving you no warnings to prepare for his length. You cried as you burned from how he stretched you out. You attempted to kick your legs, but his weight atop you meant that you couldn’t move an inch. You were truly trapped underneath him, your fate entirely in his hands.

You were fully willing, yet he brought the knife to your neck. He placed the sharp edge of the blade at the base of your throat and you should’ve cried but you moaned his name. You were immobile underneath him, doing nothing to further your own pleasure or his. You just laid there, a cunt in place of his fist as he rutted into you. The sounds that slipped out of your lips were not your own, we’re not even human. But he seemed to like it, pounding you in the exact same angle that made you cry so.

Images of him punching the men entered your mind and you clenched around his cock. “Hit me,” you begged. “Plea—” your cheeks stung and your head turned to the other side as he slapped you. You didn’t have to ask again. His hand struck your cheek again and again and— it burned and it hurt so good and he must’ve known from the way you tightened around him that you needed it. Needed to be violated on the streets surrounded by strangers, friends and the men he’d killed in your name.

Sounds of his quick breaths filled your ears and it had your mind reeling. It shouldn’t be possible for just the sounds of someone’s breaths to fill you up with such intense lust. But this was Joel. And it was beginning to make sense. The reason for your sickening need for the violent man. The sounds of his breaths were the same as the ones when he killed and tortured. His sounds in moments of passion— both carnal and animal were the same…

His hand came around your throat and squeezed hard. More blood on your skin. Wherever he touched, he left evidence of what he was capable of. There was no technique, no care for your safety as his hand squeezed and relaxed at a pace most pleasurable for him. Just what he wanted and how your cunt tightened around him when you struggled to breathe. If you had to breathe your last breath because it made his dick feel good for a moment, it wouldn’t bother him. It didn’t surprise you that you were unbothered by it.

His hand around your throat felt just as good as the heroin he injected into your veins to help you sleep— part of your payment for accompanying him on dangerous trips out of the QZ, trips that didn’t necessitate someone as strong as Tess. Your moan combined with the lewd squelching of your cunt around Joel’s cock.

Your legs kicked out, the gravel and stones scratching, diggin in, drawing blood. You became lost in the feeling of it all- the euphoric sensation of his hand around your throat, the stretch of your cunt around his cock, the safety of being Joel Miller’s, the knowledge that everyone in Boston now knew what you were. It all became too much to bear, pushing you over as you found a high you would forever chase in drugs only to realize that he was the only one who could provide it to you. It was the moment he made you his, whether or not he wanted to own you.

His hand left your throat in search of the next piece of your flesh he could use for himself as you gasped, drawing in every bit of air that you could. His hand found your tits, alternating abuses between the two as he pinched, slapped and mauled the flesh. His hands wrapped around your tits, using them for purchase as he pounded into you, the force pressing you hard against the ground.

The world returned around you as the haze of your orgasm dissipated to provide some clarity. More men were left in the crowd than women. Some had their hands on their crotch as they used your humiliation to satiate their needs. If Joel wasn’t occupied with you, those men would lose their hands. Potentially more. It should scare you, the eyes of so many men, many with the worst intentions, pleasuring themselves to your body. But it didn’t. It was now well established that you were Joel’s. There didn’t need to be a label of friend, fuckbuddy or girlfriend to give you the protection that belonging to such a man did. You would not be spoken to rudely again. You wouldn’t have to fear late night knocks on your apartment door. Not even a fool would ask for his use of your body as a tool in negotiation.

Joel pulled out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing at the loss of him. In the few minutes he had filled you up, he’d made your body forget what it was like to not be wrapped around him. His loss felt like the withdrawal between periods of finding the drugs you needed. You cried his name and your fingernails lodged themselves in his back as you attempted to push him back on yourself. But he moved up your body, stopping with his cock over your face. You gasped at the sight of his length coated in your slick, shocked that you’d been able to take all of him. He pumped his cock a few times before he came, spurting ropes of his cum. The red on your face mixed with his release.

It only took him seconds to recover. He tucked himself back in and zipped his jeans up, restoring his dignity as you laid bare for the city to watch. He collected his equipment from around the ruins of you and the men he killed for you- guns, knife and both your backpacks. He bent over and grabbed you, pulling you to your feet by the strength of just one arm.

You stumbled, but he grabbed you by your hair before you fell. Doors and windows shut as realization dawned on the residents of the Boston QZ that their heads would roll if Joel’s thirst for blood hadn’t been satiated for the day. The crowd began to disperse. The audience ran in the opposite direction as Joel paraded you through the streets, on full display for anyone who thought they could speak to you the way the men had spoken. It was a warning— this is mine and mine only.

His to hurt. His to protect.

.

.

.

Read more of my Pedro Pascal character fics

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Would Blanche let me give him head?

Tw: Well, blowjob, seggs, description of bullying, cum eating, violence

Short answer, Yes. Long answer:

You would have to win him over, though. He's ridiculously shy when it comes to anything outside platonic love and attraction. As charming as he is, Blanche actually never had anyone express genuine desire to bed him. He was by no means ugly, but his whimsy and quaintness made others label him as this unromancable, unfuckable weirdo.

Blanche is almost as if he has a built in magnet for bullies, the closest to a love confession that he got was when the people around him dared each other to ask him out, as a joke. It's funny to them because Blanche is not at all an eligible candidate as a bachelor. The idea of sleeping with him is humorous, hilarious, even. They weren't laughing anymore when all of them experienced the metallic taste of his brass knuckles driven deep into their skulls.

He experienced this treatment for the majority of his life, following him all the way to adulthood and even during his time living as a hermit in his cottage. They just can't fuck the old man and they kept tormenting him because of it.

He yearns to be the romantic gentleman he would see in love films, he yearns to be treated like someone valuable like a protagonist of a steamy romance novel. Alas, he was hurt and used for so long, that he blocked that longing out entirely from his mind, to save him from the unavoidable heartbreak. Unfortunately, even when he is expecting nothing, he still gets let down.

It's not a surprise that he's wary with the notion of romance and erotic attraction. It's already drilled into his being that he isn't desirable carnally. It's an automatic no to anyone who thinks it's a great idea to 'prank' him again.

But you... you're different. You're so special and so lovely to him. Bringing up the idea of sucking him off made Blanche freeze in place momentarily, letting all those horrible, horrible memories flood back in. However, he reminded himself that you wouldn't hurt him, you're his beloved friend. His only, one true friend. It should be okay, right?

He's apprehensive at first, but with enough patience and convincing, you could make him sit down at least. Blanche would drape his hair over the back of his chair, letting it pool on the floor. He would nervously bite on his thumb as you slowly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.

Blanche felt like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, how could it not? The only person he loves is on their knees at his crotch level, offering to do something so dirty, something unthinkable. Yet so... intimate.

You would stop when you saw him crying, eyes red and wet. His eyebrows would be knitted together and his lower lip trembles in anticipation. Upon asking what's wrong, he would break out into a sob, covering his shameful face with his hands. He would grow hot and his ears would resemble hot embers, he is so, so ashamed.

"I-I'm sorry, my darling. I'm just- I'm Just... embarrassed." And it was too overwhelming for him to see a growing bulge on his crotch, he had never felt this vulnerable before. Not even after being called all kinds of derogatory slurs by hundreds of people in real life and online. This is a different type of humiliation that somewhat felt nice, because it was with you.

He would draw in the sharpest gasp and widen his beautiful, deep blue eyes when you took him in your mouth. Swirl your tongue around his length, let it touch the back of your soft and slimy throat and enjoy the delicious whines, whimpers and mewls that would escape his mouth.

His moans would be like music to your ears, it's so pathetic and needy. Blanche would have his fingers tangled within your hair, not to force you against his length, but to try and slow you. You would bob your head up and down, occasionally catching a glimpse of his messy, teary face. It almost seems like he's in excruciating pain, but whenever you stopped to ask him if he's hurting,

"No! N-no, not at all. It felt so good, I-I can't describe it. It felt so good..." Drool would drip down from the corner as he watched you with a daze. He would let out a cry when you went back to mouthing his throbbing cock, leaked with excess amounts of precum.

Blanche would convulse as if you passed electricity through him, his eyes would roll back into his skull as he's overcome by immense bouts of forbidden pleasure. His fingers would grow weaker and weaker, at one point even slipping off your head and dangling limply on his sides. More tears, mucus and drool would streak down his once clean and dignified face.

At his climax, his entire body would contract and Blanche would let the loudest, most lewd, most improper moan rip out from his vocals. His copious amounts of cum would take you by surprise as it fills you up to the brim, it's so powerful that some would come out of your nose if you didn't open your throat properly before blowing him.

It will take him half a minute to unload everything, making a mess all over your neck, chest and floor. It would almost look like the bedroom is flooding with semen, some even got soaked up by his curly hair nearby.

It will take another few seconds to recuperate, slowly snapping out of this euphoric bliss that he experienced for the first time in his lonely, lonely life. You would be wiping your eyes to remove the cum that temporarily blinded you.

"O-oh! I'm truly sorry, darling..." He would lean forward, cupping your cheeks and helping you clean your face up from decades of pent up frustration and desperate yearning. "I'm so sorry... oh, look at you. I'm terribly sorry for this..." He would frown, now being brought to tears due to guilt. He would be flicking as much of his semen away from your face. Blanche noticed that you're still holding quite a substantial amount between your tongue and teeth, he would bring a cupped hand next to your chin, expecting you to spit it out.

"My dear, don't-" He would be wide eyed when you decided the remaining load in your mouth, grinning happily and even showing that there is nothing in your mouth. Blanche could only dream to have the tomatoes growing in his garden to be as scarlet as his face right now.

Because of his clean diet, his jizz actually tasted... nice? It's mildly sweet and has a very mild smell to it. It's smooth, creamy and generally pleasant to eat.

"You..." He would be at a loss of words as he processed what you did. Upon realizing what the implications are, that you have a part of him inside you willingly, and in unimaginable amounts too... His cock would find a new burst of energy to spurt one last load of cum, soiling his trousers, chair and your face again.

He would then cry out apologies before hastily wiping away more spunk away from your already painted countenance.

You had to assure him that you're okay, you enjoyed it too, only then he will let out a shaky sigh of relief before looking you with eyes filled with so much love and adoration. He quickly tucks his member back into his underwear and zipped it out of sight, before it could do further damage,

"Thank you, my love. Thank you..." He leans forward to press numerous kisses onto your face, initially not caring that he's also coating his lips with his spunk. Only when it seeped into his mouth did he cringe and shudder.

"Ah, icky." Blanche would laugh, and so would you. He nuzzles his nose against yours and continued giving you kisses while you kneel in front of him.

His eyes would land on the disaster that he created while ejaculating, darting from your drenched form to the floor, and to his soiled hair too. Blanche would nervously chuckle while trying his best to wipe your face using the napkin he tucks into his other breast pocket. "Yucky, yucky." He would mumble lightheartedly to himself while he stares at you with the brightest twinkle in his downturned eyes.

"You're such a blessing to me, I love you." He whispered, urging you to come and sit on his lap, despite knowing that he would get his cum onto his waistcoat too. He tries his best to clean you up, but it's already staining everything. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He would love you up in his arms, showering you with praises and kisses for hours if you let him. You would be as giggly as him, as his fluttering lips would be ticklish. In the end, he would bury his face in your shoulder while he holds you close.

"I'm sorry I made such a mess. I got a bit too excited, y-you made me feel things I never felt before. It was... It was so good. I-I don't know what to say except thank you." He would murmur softly before you felt a certain dampness on your clothes, he's crying again.

"You're so good to me, my rose. You're my one and only, I love you." Blanche then presses a long, tender kiss on your lips. You close your eyes and he closes his teary ones, both of you melting into each other and enjoying the warmth.

He would slowly pull away and tenderly massage your jaw, it must have been straining when you did that for him. He isn't one to brag about his size, but he could clearly see that he was too big for you.

"I can't express enough how grateful I am. You're such a wonderful angel in my sad, sad life... How could I ever repay you, my love?" He caressed the side of your face, occasionally picking out hair that clung to your skin. "Would you like me to..." He trailed off, looking away embarrassed.

You got what he meant, you said yes. But only if he's comfortable with it.

"Of course, I am, my dear." He pressed his cheek against yours, hugging you as if you're his beloved stuffed toy. "But... I'm not, I don't- I don't have much experience doing such things."

He held your face and looked into your eyes, you could see uncertainty and nervousness swirling in those ocean blues.

"Will you teach me, darling? I would love to please you too. You have shown me a world that I couldn't even dream of experiencing. I am forever indebted to you and I-I'm having a hard time coming up with methods to show you my unyielding gratitude."

[tanadrin]

This is the Palestinian resistance. It’s not beautiful. It’s not inspiring. It’s desperate and futile and sad. Generation after generation of children, throwing themselves into the path of one of the most brutal military machines in human history, smashing their skulls against its steel hull, mangling their limbs in its treads, thousands of them, for seventy-five years, destroying themselves as they try to face down an engine that simply rolls on over the dying and the dead. These kids were brave, much braver than I’ll ever be. They rose to defend their honour. It’s noble. But stupid beyond belief. Later, Hedges talks to Lieutenant Ayman Ghanm, a Palestinian police officer who says he’s given up on trying to save these boys’ lives. ‘When we tell the boys not to go to the dunes,’ he says, ‘they taunt us as collaborators.’ I began by saying that this is a war without opposing sides. Israel is not actually trying to defeat the resistance; it has no political objectives, just violence. But the same goes for the resistance: they are not, in fact, doing anything to meaningfully resist. Think about what actually happens in Hedges’ story. The Israeli soldiers call through their loudspeakers for the Palestinians to come, come and be killed—and the Palestinians obediently show up. Their resistance is indistinguishable from following orders. The Israeli state wants a certain level of violence from the Palestinians, it actively courts it, and the resistance factions keep doing exactly as they’re told. They teach Palestinian children that the best thing they could do with their lives is lose them. This is not a very healthy attitude, but when you start up your bullshit about the glorious resistance you are part of that sickness. What would actual resistance look like? Maybe it would start with not handing over your life to the enemy. Not climbing up the dunes. In saying all this, I’m obviously breaking one of the biggest taboos on the left, which is that you must not presume to tell Palestinians how to go about their resistance. I might have spent time in Palestine, but I’m not Palestinian. I’m not subjected to the daily nightmare of occupation. Who am I to start preaching? My only reply is this: if the armed resistance factions were resisting sanely and effectively, this kind of taboo wouldn’t need to exist. If there were a better argument for their actions than don’t criticise the victims, you’d be making that one instead. But there isn’t, so you can’t. It’s not a coincidence that the exact same rhetoric is deployed by Israel and its apologists: yes, we’re committing hideous atrocities, but how dare you notice? Who are you to say anything to us? Whoever’s saying it, the fact remains that there is no military path to a free Palestine. This fact is inconvenient and unfair and doesn’t leave much room for the optimism of the will, but that doesn’t make it any less true, and if you think there’s an exemption from unfair truths that’s awarded to especially just causes then you are wrong. Israel has nuclear weapons: it will not be overthrown with small arms and explosives. I don’t think I have the right to condemn violent resistance altogether—but I can reject violent resistance that’s doomed to fail, that achieves nothing and produces nothing except violence for its own sake. Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad claim to be fighting for an Islamic republic, in which Jews will be free to live peacefully as long as they don’t dispute the sovereignty of Islam. The PFLP claims to be fighting a revolutionary people’s war for a liberated workers’ state. Their critics say that both are actually fighting for an unlimited genocide, the death of every single Jew in Israel. But what difference does it make? This is all make-believe! None of it matters, because none of it is ever actually going to happen! They’re not fighting for anything at all. They’re just fighting.

This is a good essay in general, but this point draws out something I think is important: the need to believe that, if there is a group of Bad Guys in a conflict, doing Bad Things, there must be an opposing group of Good Guys doing Good Things. But there's no law of the universe that says it must be so; mostly there's just the churn of senseless, sickening violence, to no useful or redemptive end.

[salstray]

An Arrangement ((Ghost x Reader))

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Warnings: 18+ Content, NSFW, Smut, p in v, AFAB reader, established situationship, very little plot, also my first time writing x reader smut so let me know if its ass k thanks

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Summary: Ghost and Reader are co workers, of sorts. You work under Laswell, helping with intel and information while the boys are in the field. During the months you work with Ghost, you and him figure out an... arrangment that helps you both relax a little in the midst of all the chaos of war. When the job comes to an end, you give Ghost a letter and a choice. End it here or extend the stress relief beyond work. You get your answer when he shows up at your door in the middle of the night.

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Note: As I said before, first time writing x reader smut.... or really any smut at all! Usually I get to blushy and ashamed when I get to this point in a work, but this one wormed its way out into the pages anyway! Tell me if it sucks, K? Rad. Thank you!

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    The letter is so professional, so clinical, it almost makes him laugh. 

     Your slanted handwriting against perfectly lined paper, calling this whole thing an 'arrangement' between the two of you. Like it was a trade deal or a transaction and not like he'd been fucking you stupid every time he got you alone. It was all for secrecy, he understood that, but it was still funny. 

     At the bottom of it all, the clipped and emotionless words and flowing business speak, was your address and your phone number. 

     In case you'd be interested in a continuation, it said. Ending in your name. Just the first one. The only hint anyone would have that this was anything other than work, should any unwanted eyes find their way onto this page. They wouldn't, Ghost was far too careful to let that happen, but still. The only slip you’d made.

-

     It takes a surprising amount of courage to end up at your door. More, he feels, then it takes to stare down the barrel of a gun.

      The apartment building is smaller than what he would have expected from someone with your salary, but he wasn't one to judge. His own flat was barely more than a shoebox. Just enough space to keep the walls from closing in when he stared at them too hard and enough to hold what few possessions he had to his name.

     He's not sure if you'll be awake when he finally knocks. One glance at his phone tells him that much. Ghost had decided not to text you before he showed up, either. Somehow that felt more intimate than anything else. A trapdoor in his walls that he wasn't willing to address just yet. Or open.

     When you appear through the doorway, he nearly collapses on the spot.

     Your in a fucking skirt.

     Maybe it shouldn’t have been such a shock but in all the months you'd worked together you'd always dressed practically, more or less. The leggings you favored would probably be considered less, but it was always trousers of some sort. Dress pants, a button down shirt, hair pulled back. Ready at a moment's notice, as you needed to be to survive in this life. A perfect mirror of Laswell. The person you worked under and the reason you two had met in the first place.

     But here? Now? In your own home with the only danger being bad TV and loud neighbors you looked so much different. 

     You favored black in your style, something that drew Ghost in, something Johnny would relentlessly tease him about, and it showed even outside of work. The skirt was that color. Solid black, flowing gently around your thighs, topped with a simple forest green tank top with thin straps and no bra. Your hair was loose and your glasses were nowhere to be seen, leaving your eyes wide and shining.

     The way you gasped snapped his gaze from your body, your thighs and your hips, up to your face.

     "Simon?" You ask softly, like you weren't sure it was really him. Like you expected anyone else to show up in the dead of night with a skull print balaclava covering their face.

     "Evenin', love." 

     You curl in on yourself. Bashful. Shy. Looking up at him through fluttering lashes, hands tucked up by your breasts. The way you always looked when he approached you with sinful intentions. 

     Heat pooled low in Ghost’s stomach as he leaned forward, his hands tucked away in his pockets, his eyes dark and heavy. 

     "Gonna invite me in?" He breathes, knowing damn well what his voice does to you when he speaks like that. The reaction in you was instant. The rapid blinks, the shaking breath. The little nod as you took a few steps back, opening the door wider to let his massive form through the frame. He steps inside slowly. Letting his eyes roam the walls and furniture. Cataloging every little knickknack and art piece and surface he'll be able to bend you over once he finally puts his hands on you.

     Your voice draws his gaze back to you.

     "I… I didn't think you'd show up," you say, trying to sound casual. Trying to sound like this was planned and not simply offered a few weeks ago with no reply given. 

     He doesn't give you one now, either. Instead he takes a step closer to you. Closing the distance in one swift motion, causing you to press your spine into the half wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. You're blinking again, trying to gather your thoughts as his hands settle on your waist, palms warm and fingers strong. Ghost’s digits press into your flesh as he hums and leans back, clearly enraptured by the outfit you chose for your quiet night in. 

     "Look good in this," he mutters. His right hand shifts, sliding lower over your thigh, just enough to slip under the skirt and start a slow, teasing trail back up to your leg. 

     "Y-you think?" You ask, biting your bottom lip when his hooded eyes meet yours. 

    "Yeah." His fingers slip up and behind you, pulling you forward, chest flush against his with his hand now cupping your ass. "I do. Think you should wear it more often." 

     He feels the shiver that rolls up your spine as he speaks. Smirks when your hands reach up to grab at his jacket. Pulls the hand still on your waist away just long enough to push back his hood and tug up the end of his mask. He settles it on your shoulder instead of your hip, however, and slides it up along your neck and into your hair, taking a fistfull and using it to tug your head back.

     Your breathless gasp makes him rumble low in his chest. Something between a growl, a hum, and a grunt. Ghost leans forward, his tongue slipping through his lips and marking a wet trail up your pulse. 

     The little whine you let out makes him shudder and he sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth as his mouth reaches your jaw. 

     He'd never tell you, never admit it, but he missed this. Missed you. Your reactions, your sounds, the taste and feel of your skin. He'd been in this apartment for less than five minutes and already felt like he was gonna split apart at the seams if he didn't have his cock buried in you in the next two. 

     The next breath he takes is punctuated by a groan and he uses the hand on your ass to lift you off your feet. He lets the other take hold of your thigh to keep you steady as you make a noise of surprise and wrap your legs around his hips.

     "Bed. Where?" Is all he says, his lips parted and panting against your cheek as he speaks. 

     Moments later your back is hitting the mattress. Ghost is already reaching under the skirt by the time you push yourself up onto your elbows, yanking away your panties and tossing them somewhere into the room. He crawls over you, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting them into the air so your skirt flops up against your stomach, revealing your newly naked sex to him. 

     He groans again, low and slow, head tilting as his right hand slips away from your leg and down towards the slick heat that had been torturing you for hours.

     "So wet already?" He teases. Ghost chuckles when his touch makes you jerk, his fingers just barely grazing your clit and making you whimper.

     "I…," your gaze slips away from him, your flushed cheeks only getting hotter as you confess, "I've been… thinking about you… all day." A startled cry leaves you when he plunges two fingers in without warning. There was no resistance at all. Just a loud, wet noise as he slowly drags them back out and presses in again.

     "Aww… thinkin' bout me? How sweet," he purrs, leaning in close to watch your face twist with pleasure. "To think that's all it takes to get you so worked up." Your eyes, which had twisted shut at the pleasurable stretch of his fingers, peel open just a bit to look at him. Plead with him. Beg him silently for more.

     Luckily he's always been able to read you like a book. That's what led to this arraignment in the first place. 

     "Want more, love?" You whimper, nodding weakly. "Want my cock?" 

     "Y-yes." 

     "Yes what, sweetheart?" 

     "Yes, sir."

     You didn't take orders from him. He wasn't your superior in the field and, in all honesty, he was totally fine with that. There was no way he'd be able to keep focus with that sweet voice calling out to him. All it would take was one little 'sir' over the comms and he'd be done for. That's why he made you use it here. Where only he could hear it. 

     Both of his hands leave your body and you'd have protested if you didn't push yourself up farther to watch him work at his belt. In one fluid motion it joins your panties across the room and you sink your teeth into your lip to hide the moan that draws out of you. The sight of his dick, fully hard and already leaking, pulls another free. One you don't hide from him. 

     Ghost crawls over you again, tucking his thumbs into the straps of your tank top and pulling them down your shoulders. He tugs just far enough for your breasts to be freed. Another shiver rolls through you when he licks his lips. 

     "Simon," you whimper, reaching up to dig your fingers into his biceps. "Please." His newly shining mouth twitches into a smirk and he tilts his head for a moment, brows raising with the motion.

     "Since you asked so nicely." 

     You'd hate how cocky he acted if he wasn't so fucking attractive and if his actual cock wasn't pushing into you. 

     Your eyes flutter shut again as you gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the solid heat of him fills you. Ghost takes the opportunity to slide his arms under you and pull you close, his face hidden in your shoulder, his breathing short and shallow as you stretch around him. It takes a few careful thrusts to get him all the way inside. Slow drags a few inches back, then a steady roll of his hips until his pelvis is pressed against yours. 

     "Ffffffuck, sweetheart… fuckin' hell-" 

     He only gives you a few short seconds before he's thrusting. Filling the room with the harsh slap of his skin on yours, the wet squish of your slick, and the echoing moans you can no longer contain. 

     "Si-Simon! Fu-ahhh! Fuck!" 

     He's not quiet either, to your surprise. In the past, you'd both been at risk of being caught. On base, hidden between paper thin walls, surrounded by other soldiers. Ghost's self control was honestly impressive, but he had to silence you in anyway he could. Either with his mouth on yours, his fingers down your throat, or just his palm slapped over your lips.

     Yet here, in your own home, he's just as bad as you. Moaning freely, cursing and whining along with you, groaning deeply as he sucks at the soft skin of your throat. His teeth sink into your flesh and you clench around him, making him pull away with a gasp. 

     "Ffuuu… fuck… like that, do you?" He leans forward again, lower than before, leaving a harsh red mark over your collarbone. 

    One of his arms wiggles free from under you and his fingers appear at your clit, making you nearly sob at the sudden friction. Before you know it your panting and moaning, nearly falling to pieces as heat coils in your abdomen, threatening to toss you over the cliff and straight into oblivion. 

     You grunt, gasp, curl your legs up around Ghost's waist, then throw your head back with a hoarse cry, eyes shut tight as you cum. 

     Ghost only stops for a handful of seconds. Long enough to lean himself back on his knees with a grunt, his hands taking hold of your hips. Then, before you've even come back down to earth, he's fucking you again. Deep, hard strokes that have your already muddy thoughts washing away in bliss. 

     Your orgasm drags on and on as he chases his own high, leaving you a weak, whimpering mess as he manhandles you back into his thrusts. Not much later, he's curling over you again, his eyes clenched shut and lips parted. He rolls his his again, two, three more times. Then his shoulders shake and he moans lowly, his face suddenly slack with relief. You finally fall limp a few trembling seconds later. Utterly boneless beneath him. 

     The pair of you stay there for a while. 

     Ghost lets himself lean into you, laying mostly on his side, still buried to the hilt in the mess you both made. One of his arms found its way under you again, holding you close to his chest as he breathes slowly and evenly. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was asleep. But you did know better and you grunted softly as you tried to shift your legs.

     "Alright, love?" He calls softly, his head raising just enough to look at you through the darkness. He hadn't turned the light on when he'd carried you in here. It would have wasted time.

     "Y-yeah… feel like jelly…" you say, still sounding and feeling breathless. You swallow, throat dry, and twist in his grasp, making him groan quietly as his soft cock finally slips free of you. 

     He twists as well, moving you until you're curling against his chest, sweaty and sticky and satisfied.  

     "Gonna be able to make it to round two?" He asks teasingly. 

     You groan. "There's gonna be more?" It's playful. You know perfectly well how much it takes to satiate him. Ghost chuckles and you can't fight back the grin that bunches your cheeks in response. 

     "I just got here, sweetheart. Maybe if you hadn't worn a skirt…"

     "Maybe if you'd given me a warning I could have changed." You wouldn't have, both of you know that. "My number was on that page too, Riley. Use it next time." 

     You couldn't see the way his jaw clenched when you said that. The way his eyes shifted through the shadows, wondering… thinking… considering the consequences. 

     Luckily, your hand trailing down his chest, over his jacket, pushes thoughts ever present fears away. 

     "You should take this off." 

     "You just wanna see my tits." He speaks before he thinks and it makes you laugh. A full, bright laugh that he's never heard from you before. Not that there's much place for laughter when he's got a gun in his hands and you've got lives on the line.

     It makes him smile. Just a little. Not where you can see. The sultry smirks and teasing grins were easy, this kind of smile was different. Softer. It's gone as you tilt your head back to beam at him, not a single worry behind your eyes.

     "Well, you saw mine. It's only fair."

~

[gatheringbones]

[“One author of the Clinical Psychology Review article was Shira Maguen, a researcher who began to think about the moral burdens of warfare while counseling veterans at a PTSD clinic in Boston.

Like most Veterans Affairs psychologists, Maguen had been trained to focus on the aftershocks of fear-based trauma—IED blasts that ripped through soldiers’ Humvees, skirmishes that killed members of their unit. The link between PTSD and such “life-threat” events was firmly established. Yet in many of the cases she observed, the source of distress seemed to lie elsewhere: not in attacks by the enemy that veterans had survived, but in acts they had observed or carried out that crossed their own ethical lines.

Soldiers were not, of course, the only people who risked committing such transgressions. All of the counselors I interviewed at the Dade Correctional Institution struggled with inner conflicts related to horrifying things they’d witnessed but failed to prevent. What kind of person was she? Lovita Richardson wondered after seeing a prisoner bound to a chair get bludgeoned and not intervening to help him. “Why didn’t I do more?” Harriet Krzykowski asked herself after learning about the “shower treatment.” Many of the prison guards I’d interviewed had alluded to incidents where they’d done things they knew they shouldn’t, as when Bill Curtis slammed a man to the ground, nearly fracturing his skull. Moral injuries were an occupational hazard for anyone whose job involved “perpetrating, failing to prevent, or bearing witness to acts that transgress deeply held moral beliefs.” For most dirty workers, that is.

Among the veterans she counseled, Maguen grew particularly interested in the emotional toll of killing, which was sanctioned in the military but not when defenseless civilians were involved. “I was hearing about experiences where people killed and they thought they were making the right decision,” she told me, “and then they found out there was a family in the car.” To find out how heavy the burden of killing was, Maguen began combing through the databases in which veterans of conflicts dating back to the Vietnam War were asked if they had killed someone while in uniform. In some cases, veterans were also asked whom they killed—combatants, prisoners of war, civilians. Maguen wanted to see if there might be a relationship between taking another life and debilitating consequences like alcohol abuse, relationship problems, outbursts of violence, PTSD. The results were striking: even when controlling for different experiences in combat, she found, killing was a “significant, independent predictor of multiple mental health symptoms” and of social dysfunction.

Later, when she started directing a mental health clinic at a VA hospital in San Francisco, Maguen convened groups where veterans came together and talked about the killing they had done. In the VA no less than in the military, this was a taboo subject, so much so that clinicians often referred to it euphemistically, if at all. To ease the tension, a scene from a documentary was shown at the beginning of each session in which a veteran said, “Out there, it’s either kill or be killed. Nothing can really prepare you for war.” Afterward, Maguen would ask the veterans in the room a series of questions about how killing had impacted their lives. Some reacted angrily. Others fell silent. But many seized the opportunity to talk about experiences they later told Maguen they had never spoken about with anyone, not even their spouses and family members, for fear of being judged.

The veterans in Maguen’s groups didn’t talk a lot about fear and hyperarousal, emotions linked to PTSD. Mostly, they expressed self-condemnation and guilt. “You feel ashamed of what you did,” one said. Others described feeling unworthy of forgiveness and love. The passage of time did little to diminish the depth of these feelings, Maguen found. Geographic distance didn’t lessen them much either. Maguen recounted the story of a pilot who was haunted by the bombs he had dropped on victims far below. What troubled him was, in fact, precisely his distance from them—that instead of squaring off against the enemy in a fair fight, he had killed in a way that lacked valor. Obviously not all pilots felt this way. But the story underscored the significance of something Maguen had come to regard as more important than proximity or distance in shaping moral injury—namely, how veterans made sense of what they had done. “How you conceptualize what you did and what happened makes such a big difference,” she said. “It makes all the difference.”

Unlike PTSD, moral injury was not a medical diagnosis. It was an attempt to capture what could happen to a person’s identity and soul in the crucible of war, which is why it struck a chord among veterans who did not feel their wounds could be reduced to a medical disorder. “PTSD as a diagnosis has a tendency to depoliticize a veteran’s disquietude and turn it into a mental disorder,” observed Tyler Boudreau, a marine officer who served in Iraq and came back haunted by doubts about the war’s morality. “What’s most useful about the term ‘moral injury’ is that it takes the problem out of the hands of the mental health profession and the military and attempts to place it where it belongs—in society, in the community, and in the family—precisely where moral questions should be posed and wrangled with. It transforms ‘patients’ back into citizens and ‘diagnoses’ into dialogue.”]

eyal press, from dirty work: essential labor and the hidden toll of inequality in america, 2021

[spotaus]

Orchid and Horror doodles! (More context under the cut!)

Orchid is an errormare ship kid! She was made from loose magic in a bid to make an heir for Nightmare so that he could give Dream even more hell than before. However, the child he'd intended to train into a weapon ended up being far too cute, so he raised her right instead.

Horror was one of Orchid's main influences as a babybones, because Horror was pretty much the only one who'd looked out for his brother in his own au. Night trusted him to be around her from the start (Dust and Killer didn't recieve that same trust) so as much as Orchid most certainly knew Night was her father, Horror was her Uncle from the start. He knew how to raise a babybones and helped Night learn (with actual hands-on learning instead of his books).

Of course, Horror was also her main influence even after her bad injury (cracked open her skull and snapped off her leg). The rest of the household coddled her, rightfully so, but she didn't like the taste of their pity and wirry. She would more often than not try to keep up a brave face up until Horror arrived, and then she'd dig into his jacket and cry and tell him all about her woes. Little kid logic on this one I guess.

And of course he didn't always know how to help, but he tried not to take away her freedom now that she was injured. Obviously her bed-rest days were important, but he'd carry her around on her better days and have her watch him cook or train. She picked up most of her swearwords from Horror, and she loves to use his hands-on fighting style when she's older too.

Horror was the reason she grew less ashamed of her head wound and loss of death perception. He never treated her too differently about it, and one day during an outburst, Nightmare told her that Horror had the same injury as her, in a way. That had almost immediately changed her perspective.

And yeag, idk. I just really wanted to finally draw Orchid with her favorite uncle. She might've gotten all her magic lessons from Nightmare, but her combat style is built on the base which Horror gave to her.

Oh!! Bonus art!

Idk if I posted this or not, but Orchid is on the right! She usually uses her 'Spindles' to move, but Post-Eternal Ashes and very shortly after her injury she uses these canes(???) To get around a lot more often. As a kid Horror and Dust taught her how to keep her balance on her one leg and move quickly using these crutches so she wasn't vulnerable if her magic was restricted. (Don't mind Shotput on the left, he's unrelated. Just didn't wanna crop it weird.)

[stars4krios]

My acc is all over the place in terms of what I post rn but I don't really care so...

My thoughts on the Chaos redesign for Hades 2!!

I personally enjoy Chaos' new look, sure their more human appearing but I don't mind (I'm attracted to both the glob and the pretty humanoid, and I'm not even ashamed)

But I do understand the criticisms of this new design, Chaos is the embodiment of the void and creation so them being just a bunch of ambiguous gunk makes sense.

But I have a theory that because their the embodiment of creation they change their form every once in a while.

I think the new from is the fetus that's in both designs. It's smaller in the new because that from is newer and younger. The fetus grows over time and once the old body dies Chaos' consciousness is transferred to the new body once it's old enough (new Chaos is holding was is likely og Chaos' skull) and then that new body grows a fetus and the cycle repeats.

Also the two designs are very obviously not the same body - ones a bunch of gunk one is not, og Chaos is darker and has a different face shape - but they share enough characteristics for it to be believable that their the same person - bat like wings, the eye motifs, bright colors, ect.

And, they are the only character that has gotten such a major redesign (most just adding armor to their design) so there's likely a lore reason for Chaos' new look that we don't know yet because it's still in EA.

[theseshipsshallsail]

THE SOUL WITHIN (NO MAN CAN DEGRADE)

“I’m not sorry,” Oliver barks, in the same defiant tone he’d used whilst slamming the apartment door on his father’s abusive tirade. “And I’m not ashamed, either! Not for loving you. For being with you. Not ever!”

His red-rimmed eyes hold a dull, wretched sheen as Elio puts an end to his manic pacing; planting one palm on his heaving sternum. His left, he slides to Oliver’s nape - tugging him into a clumsy embrace - and with both arms snaking to Elio’s waist it doesn’t take long for the tears to fall; soaking the collar of his slate-grey polo shirt with each irregular breath.

“I know,” Elio murmurs, teeth clenched so tight he risks chipping the enamel. “I know. I believe you. I do…”

Craning his neck, he nuzzles the anguished furrow of Oliver’s forehead. 

The pale patch of skin behind his ear. 

The rough brush of five o’clock stubble that decorates his jowl. 

“I’m not sorry, either,” he swears in turn, carding his fingers through sweat-damp hair: Oliver’s occasional sniffles interspersed by the chorus of car horns from the street outside.

Elio forces a modicum of calm, and after what feels like an hour - but according to the kitchen microwave is nearer to three minutes - Oliver lifts his leaden skull, blinking stoically against the veil of mental exhaustion.

“I shouldn’t have let him bait me,” he says, pressing his tremulous lips to Elio’s crown. “But the things that bastard said -”

“Were truly dégoûtant,” Elio interrupts, reining in the protective anger he need not speak out loud. “And equally irrelevant.” A beat.“My sole regret is you once had to face him alone.”

Oliver shudders; pulling him impossibly closer. “Your presence wouldn’t have made a difference,” he replies, and bile rises in Elio’s throat as he recalls the pleading nightmares that plague his boyfriend, still. “Not to him, anyway. He’s spent years preaching how wrong this is. How a real man would never -” 

“Oliver -”

“But it’s not, is it?” he continues, fairly vibrating with fury. “It’s not wrong. And neither are we. And if that makes me selfish, then -” 

“He’s a fool,” Elio says vehemently, taking Oliver’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “You, mon amour, are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” he insists, forcing him to meet his gaze. “And even if it did - even if you were - so what? I’m the one who pushed for this. Who refused to let you go. Surely that makes me just as bad, ouais?”

Oliver sniggers. “You can’t fight the whole world on my behalf, sweetheart.”

“Wanna bet?” Elio grouses; demanding nothing but promising everything. “I’m going to be your biggest champion, you’ll see! I’ll fight anyone who thinksthey can insult you. Hell, I’ve no problem fighting you if necessary…”

A muscle tics in Oliver’s jaw. “God knows where I’d be without your bravery,” he tells him - shaky yet sincere - and Elio scoffs as he steers him over to the couch; guiding him down to the middle cushion before taking both hands in his.

“I'm not brave. Not really,” he mutters, circling the peaks of Oliver’s knuckles in various idle patterns. “But love thrives where common sense fails, and we found the stars, you and I. What point then, is the pageantry of normalcy, when we’d only succeed in settling for less?” 

For a moment he fears Oliver might protest - haunted, as he is, by the ghosts of his father’s manipulation - yet the fledgling fire dies out in an instant, and resting his head upon Elio’s shoulder he places a kiss to his fluttering pulse instead, fanning the flames of emotion in another, more favourable direction,entirely.