#this is disjointed as fuck yes

[finely-tuned-line]

RP:

Log 236

FTL: ...No updates on either of the experiments. I haven't checked. I've been... thinking.

FTL: It's hard to say what I've been thinking about. Everything, I suppose. Echoes of a Paradox... Well, their rant directed at me has thrown everything off-kilter.

FTL: I don't- They're right. They're right. They must be. It all makes sense and yet- It doesn't. Well, it does. But-

FTL: Was I really that blind? Was I really that-

FTL: I can't think. I can't think about anything at all, it's all just going in circles, I need to figure this out, I'm wasting time.

FTL: Why am I wasting time? Why do I rush so much to get back to work, to keep- Because it's my purpose, it's what I do, it's why I exist. Therefore I must do my work.

FTL: I- I'd still be doing my job even if I didn't like it. Right? I mean, surely it's not just my- I have reasoning. I exist because of my purpose, therefore I must fulfill it, therefore I do so. That fact that I like my work doesn't matter all that much. Its doesn't.

FTL: I don't see any flaws in that logic, so how did I end up here? How did I end up hurting my family so much and not seeing it?

FTL: I need to get my thoughts in order. Pause. Don't think.

FTL: Alright, what did Echoes of a Paradox say?

FTL: They said that my mindset, specifically the careless comments, put pressure upon them and the other members of our Local Group to follow that mindset as well, despite the fact that that was not my intention.

FTL: Is this a possibly true thing?

FTL: Yes. Echoes of a Paradox has never lied to me before, they have no reason to do so, no outright falsities were clear within their words.

FTL: Was this intentional on my part?

FTL: No. I'd never willingly hurt any of them. My Local Group is my family, they're the people I'd never hurt. They're only joined by approximately two or three external others. I never did pause to see what the effects of my words were, perhaps because it was inconceivable to me that they could be harmful.

FTL: What else did Echoes of a Paradox say?

FTL: That my mindset of prioritising my purpose above all is unhealthy and pitiful and that I'm only harming myself by not breaking out of it.

FTL: Is this statement unique?

FTL: No. Echoes of a Paradox is not the first to share a similar sentiment and share it with me. The others being primarily LIFEGIVER and somewhat Upsilon.

FTL: Due to this not being an uncommon sentiment, is it a logical one?

FTL: No. No, it is not. Iterators are built to accomplish one or more tasks, disregarding that purpose even a bit renders the Iterator useless.

FTL: ...Do I apply that statement to anyone other than myself?

FTL: No. That belief is one that I hold only myself up to - others, whoever they are, can do whatever they wish to.

FTL: Is it logical to apply the statement to only myself?

FTL: No. I am not the only Iterator, that statement generalises all Iterators, which includes both myself and every other Iterator.

FTL: Why do I apply that belief to only myself?

FTL: ...I do not know. Perhaps it's a sense of only being able to control my own actions, of the fact that I'm the only one who appears to see that fact. If it even is a fact.

FTL: Why does everyone appear to be taking this mindset to be a negative one?

FTL: I do not know. It makes sense, there is no reason to disregard it the way that everyone does. It is a fact, denying it is rather pointless. We're - I'm - machines. Artificial Intelligences. Designed to fulfill tasks at the behest of our creators.

FTL: Why does anything else matter?

FTL: It doesn't make sense. That is the definition of my existence, why should I strive for anything outside of it even if my creators are long-gone? Why do irrelevant things, like relationships, emotions, personalities, anything matter? Why put so much stake on it?

FTL: Echoes of a Paradox says they pity me for thinking this way. I don't know why. I'm, of course, remorseful about the unintentional harm I've caused them, I don't wish to ever hurt them.

FTL: But why? Why, why, why?

FTL: Why do I care?

FTL: Why does it matter?

FTL: The rules of existence are laid out so clear, I follow them, yet why is that-

FTL: I don't understand. I simply don't understand.

FTL: I've had logical explanations laid out before me by LIFEGIVER. They make sense. But they also don't. It's unnecessary. I can accomplish my task well enough without emotions, or anything of the like.

FTL: I exist only because my creators needed someone to fulfill the purpose I was given. That is all I am, and that is all I ever will be. There's no reason to concern myself with anything else.

FTL: Why bother with, or care about anything outside of that? It's unnecessary.

FTL: So why do I do it?

FTL: I do not know. I simply do not know.

FTL: I have nothing to say. I am unable to figure this out on my own, nor do I care to inquire about it.

FTL: All I can truly say is that I regret what I incidentally did to the members of my Local Group, and as much as I wish to properly take Echoes of a Paradox's advice, LIFEGIVER's advice, anyone's advice, I simply cannot.

FTL: Perhaps it's a matter of viewpoints. Perhaps their external viewpoint of myself allows them to realise things I do not. Perhaps I've just been thinking this way for too long.

FTL: It just doesn't make sense.

FTL: As much as I wish I could follow the suggestions given, I can't. Not out of stubbornness, but due to the lack of sensibility.

FTL: I've been fine thus far, have I not? Despite my lack of care about my own safety - and I maintain: for good reason - I am alive now. I am as functional as the day I was given consciousness. Nothing matter beyond that, no?

FTL: I suppose the only thing I really can do is perhaps take LIVEGIVER's advice about how emotions are useful and not burdens. I am quite hesitant about that though, because I do truly doubt it. They're blinding. Irrelevant.

FTL: ...At this point, I am completely unsure what to do. Simply going back to my work seems- ...Feels incorrect. I can't cut down on the time that I spend working - what else would I do? Besides, that's only wasting time.

FTL: It's all I have to do.

FTL: Besides, I cannot simply abandon my experiments, bad things could very easily happen with a half-finished experiment. Such as the one I currently have in progress.

FTL: So, while letting it rot away would be very easy, that would be very counterintuitive. I'd rather not do that.

FTL: In the end, as always, all I can do is go back to my work. As always. Even after something that seems so world-shattering. I've done my contemplation, I've arrived at the same conclusion as I always do - other than the realisation and acknowledgement of the unintentional effects of my actions. Nothing can and will change, really. Beyond perhaps talking with my Local Group more often.

FTL: It's all I can do.

FTL: Back to work.

[a-hollow-forest]

people are so unwilling to ascribe even a hint of artistic meaning to gore and sex even when they enjoyed the media it was in it is so wild, literally even reviews that are positive to books with those themes heavily present they'll still say shit like 'lazy gore shock fest' as if the shock of how we respond to gore in itself is somehow devoid of all meaning or value to explore

desperately shaking media reviewers by the shoulders begging them to do the self-same critical thinking they keep saying you 'have to use' when engaging with this kind of media rather than only relying on their gut instinct of disgust to immediately dismiss any artistic value in the work they are 'analysing' please for the love of god i didn't come to your book review wanting to be reminded how nothing that i create will ever 'be of value' just because it involves topics most people can't stomach

[soullessjack]

he is so important to me

[polaroid-petals]

Stray is combining two setup elements and genres that absolutely should not be combined, but they're currently meshing together so well that I believe that after the initial what the fuck factor has died down, it can actually be a meaningful story.

After all, what am I if not the guy who writes fics where people wonder why I didn't just write two separate fics and then ends up combining them well anyway

[aleksiej]

tumblr might be the only place where i can actually read and engage with talks on superhero comics and ninja turtles and all that types of media with a specific following of angry dudes screaming how "it should have been dark and gritty!" and "this show is too silly for the source material!" and all that.

like, i was looking at some reviews of tmnt mutant mayhem on imdb (big mistake on my part) and stumbled upon not one, but a couple of reviews like that and threw me for such a loop. maybe it's because, even having watched every piss sad batman movie since the first dark knight, when i think of batman, i picture brucie wayne from shitpost and superbat content.

i guess i just forget that the sad, "oh, everything is too happy for the literal guy dressed up as a bat to fight crime" type of people exists lol

anyway, i blame the silver age and the killing joke for that. to my knowledge, they were the first to swerve into the dark side of batman and superhero comics in general, but i might be wrong. and even the og turtles aren't as bad as some people say they should be, so it seems like the brainrot infected them from a different fandom, so yea. blame the killing joke for that too.

[dancingbirdie]

Back with another bout of plotless smut. Read at your own discretion and take note of the tags. <333

Like my smut writing? Find more here.

We Have All Night

Rating: MATURE

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader x Halsin

Word Count: 800

Warnings/Tags: Oral sex (fem!Reader receiving), praise kink, hand kink, threesome technically?, mentions of alcohol, pure plotless smut

Summary: You'd been wondering for some time what it would be like to have Halsin and Astarion share you.

*****

You could have easily blamed the events that ensued on the bottles of Blingdenstone Blush you all had passed around camp that evening. But if you were honest with yourself, the position you found yourself in was one you had been fantasizing about for some time. 

“That’s it, darling,” Astarion coaxed as his fingers slipped gently through your hair, teasing and massaging your scalp. Your head was pillowed in his lap, pupils blown wide with lust as you peered up at him. He smiled down at you, a wicked, hedonistic sort of grin.

“You so desperately want to hold still for him, don’t you?”

You whined your assent, trying your best to keep your hips from bucking – an impossible task considering the relentless way Halsin’s tongue was licking and circling that sensitive spot at the apex of your thighs. 

“Such a good girl. You’re doing so well” Astarion cooed, while Halsin groaned in agreement. The vibrations it created against your skin felt like electricity surging through your limbs. 

Your mind was a disjointed haze of lust and alcohol. Totally uninhibited, you keened loudly as the druid suddenly gripped the softness of your thighs and plunged his tongue inside you.

“Shh, shh, shh” Astarion hushed, moving a hand to cover your mouth. “We don’t want the rest of the camp to hear our fun, do we?”

You groaned and shook your head slightly. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to join in?” you rasped, your lips moving against his slender fingers.

He gave a mischievous little chuckle. “I’m certain. I’m having a wonderful time just watching,” Astarion returned. 

“The night is still young,” Halsin persuaded, pausing his feasting on you to meet Astarion’s eyes. The absence of his mouth left you wanting, aching for contact once more. “If you change your mind, there’s plenty of fun to be had.” 

“A tempting offer, indeed,” Astarion smirked. “Let’s see where the evening takes us, shall we?”

You moaned against his hand as Halsin dipped his head to begin circling your clit with his tongue once more. You fisted his gorgeous auburn locks in your hands, eliciting a groan from his mouth that felt absolutely delicious against your hypersensitive skin. 

“Our sweet pup has an oh-so-difficult time keeping quiet, doesn’t she?” Astarion crooned, tracing his fingers against the seam of your lips. “You’re trying so hard, darling, I know you are.”

His silken, sinful voice felt almost as euphoric as the deplorable things Halsin was doing between your legs. In a bout of unbridled lust, you opened your mouth to capture Astarion’s index and middle fingers in your mouth. 

You sucked down on them, circled them with your tongue, as you imagined having his hard length sheathed down your throat. Your bawdy move drew a sharp breath from the vampire, followed by a quiet groan. 

You paused your ministrations, lifting a hand to pull his fingers from your mouth before asking, “Is this okay? Is it too much?” 

Astarion chuckled darkly, and you watched as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. 

“You wicked thing,” he purred. “Yes, it’s okay. And it has the added benefit of keeping you quiet.”

You were beyond laughs and jokes. Hearing his consent, you drew his fingers back down to your mouth and resumed your sucking. You moaned your approval as Astarion pistoned his fingers deeper into your mouth at the same time Halsin inserted two fingers inside you. 

You knew you wouldn’t last long. Not with the way the druid was fucking you with his fingers at the same time his tongue was circling your clit. Not with the way Astarion was trailing one hand delicately across your exposed skin while you worshiped the fingers of his other hand with your tongue and lips. 

Every nerve within you was alight and thrumming with barely-restrained energy. You could feel yourself climbing higher and higher, your body preparing for the sweetest freefall that would soon ensue. Your heels dug into Halsin’s muscled back as you tensed, one hand still clenching his hair while the other held desperately onto Astarion’s thigh. 

“Yes, darling, yes,” Astarion kept coaxing as your body drew more and more taut. A bowstring desperate to be released. 

“Let yourself come, you know you want to,” he added in a soft whisper. 

It was too much. 

Those words, and a final flick of Halsin’s tongue, had you shattering into a thousand pieces. Your cries were barely restrained by the fingers still occupying your mouth. You were lost in pleasure, awash in the tingling aftermath of your release. 

Chest heaving, mind reeling, you could barely find words. 

“That… that was…” you wheezed, before letting loose a giggle. “Everything I’d imagined it would be.”

“You’d thought about this before?” Halsin grinned, wiping his mouth clean against his forearm before leaning down to plant a reverent kiss against your lips. You could taste yourself on him. It gave you more satisfaction than perhaps it should have. 

“My, my. What other sort of depraved carnal pleasures are bouncing around in that head of yours, I wonder?” Astarion added, helping you sit up so that you were lounging between the two of them. 

You shared a conspiratorial grin with both elves. “We have all night, if you’d like me to show you.”

[54625]

What I want out of a QSMP season two.

(Some of these points may be a little divisive - it's just my personal opinion. Content creators will be referred to as players for conciseness. QSMP as it has been for the past year, for the sake of this post, will be referred to as "season 1".)

1. TAKE A FUCKING BREAK.

I do not want to see the QSMP coming back in less than two months at the very, very least. Five or six months to a year is ideal, in my opinion.

This is for a few reasons. Firstly, the obvious; I want Quackity Studios to take the necessary time to make 100% sure that everyone who has worked, does work, or will work for them is compensated. Not just this, but I want the communication among the studio to become streamlined and consistent, for the purpose of maintaining the quality of the SMP, the quality of life of the employees, and entirely avoiding a repeat of the previous situation. Any less will be unacceptable, and prove that all people in charge, including and especially Quackity himself, have not learned their lesson.

Secondly, I am very sure that a lot of players will lack or have completely lost their motivation for the QSMP, due to the nature of the last few months of season 1. I am sure that those who had a lot of lore written up and had to scrap it or cut it short are probably still quite sore about it, and may not have the energy to pick the QSMP story back up. This is especially true if they had already given their characters a canon ending and don't want to overshadow it. When creating a new SMP, or a new season of an SMP, you first and foremost need player motivation to be high. Waiting several months would ensure that the wound of player lore being ruined would have mostly healed over by the start of season 2.

Thirdly, viewer engagement will always be an important thing to take into consideration when creating an SMP that will be televised. The large majority of QSMP fans are completely burned out from watching. Leaving a large gap between seasons 1 and 2 would let fans, who have had an exhausting last few months, recover and reset. It will also allow hype and anticipation to build up when things eventually start being teased and announced again. Fans have a lot of disdain for this project at the present moment, and waiting for a while between seasons will not only let fans know that serious action is being taken behind the scenes, but also will let the sour attitude a lot of fans have right now wear off over time.

2. RESET. FOR REAL THIS TIME.

Probably my most controversial take on this topic will be; I fully believe that if a QSMP season 2 is to occur, it should be a completely new server. By completely new I naturally mean a new map, but also ZERO LORE CONTINUATION. I know this is a hot take, but I personally believe QSMP season 2 is a perfect chance for a completely fresh start, and a fresh start cannot happen if it still takes place in the same universe.

We all know that season 1's lore was overwhelming, slightly confusing, and at the end of the day, completely disjointed. We all fell in love with the terrifying Federation and Codes, yes, we all loved the basis of the story; a group of people from different countries get stranded on a "perfect" paradise island controlled by a governmental body that won't let them leave, and have to work together; but at the end of the day, the lore of season 1 became messy. Very messy. Instead of trying again and again to salvage it, the best option is probably to just start again.

Put the same players in a different map, give them a completely different premise, and let the lore unfold anew. Which leads into my next point.

3. PLAYER DRIVEN LORE.

Let the players develop the story. If a player has an overarching storyline they are unfolding themselves, prioritise letting them do so. All of the best lore in season 1 was player created, and player enacted; Cellbit's regret arc, the happy pills, Cellbit's murdering Fed workers arc, literally everything Fit ever did, Roier's lore, ect ect ect. Server admins should only intervene in player's lore when directly asked, and big changes to the server's status quo should only occur when there is no active lore to be interrupted, everyone agrees it should happen, and it would actively drive engagement up, rather than down.

The best case scenario for a QSMP season 2, in my opinion, is for the server admins and Quackity to come up with an exciting and engaging premise for a brand new universe with brand new characters, to place the players in an interesting themed map, and just let them loose. Let the lore build naturally, and see what comes of it.

IN CONCLUSION.

I vehemently disagree with people who believe the QSMP should not have a season 2. The QSMP is a brilliant idea, and its noble goals shine through all of the incredible friendships and memories it, and only it, made. There is no other server like QSMP.

The act of uniting people from all over the world has been proven to be an extremely important and worthwhile goal. I, genuinely, admire Quackity for his passion in this, and for understanding that this thing should not be easily given up on or let go. Drastic changes need to occur, but the QSMP is bigger than just a Minecraft server; it represents so much unity, community, and love.

It is worth saving.

I hope, desperately and for the sake of everyone involved, past future and present, that the QSMP can come back better and stronger than ever, continuing to further its goals; to tell amazing stories, to forge impossible friendships, to spark joy and laughter, and to bring people together no matter the barriers keeping them apart.

Thank you for reading.

[dollwrites]

Good morning to you too!!! Omg yes I couldn’t decide but I would love to see #1 with Mammon. It’d be so weird to not request him as I named -mammon anon 🤣

���𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, rough backshots, spit as lube, anal play ( a finger ), spanking, suggested breeding kink, suggested anal sex, light praise, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗯𝘀 ∣ prompt # one // mirror sex

you were watching him through the mirror, not yourself. you couldn’t help it, when the devil king mounted you from behind. you had to see him— to watch how his massive pectorals rose and fell with heavy snorting through his nose, how his dark brows furrowed from behind slick tendrils that hangs in his face.

though, it definitely wasn’t easy to keep your concentration on the man fucking you. the mirror quakes, along with most everything else within the room, causing the visage of your lover to blur when his herculean hips buck home, and it takes all of your power to stay firmly planted on the bed, lest you be thrown into the floor ( it wouldn’t have been the first time, but Mammon was also not above following you down there, and sticking his foot in the back of your head to hold you in place while he finished ).

“Harder,” you pant, the sound barely audible over his bestial snarling, “harder!” with anyone else, it would’ve been a demand barked to startle them into submission— but with King Mammon, it was a plea. a whimper. a desperate yip for him to truly wreck you.

his honeyed gaze was focused downward instead of into the glass to meet your own. you knew that he couldn’t help it; entranced by the ripples your ass makes when he slaps it. he does so again for good measure, and your back arches tight, pushing his favorite section of your body back into him. hunkering closer to the bed, your breasts rubbing against the mattress, you wince from the sting. “Your Majesty…”

“Begging for me to beat your pussy up again?” there’s a thick layer of arrogance in his voice as he uses both hands to grope your ass cheeks, massaging the sting away, and spreading them. his parted lips quirk into a smirk when you clench hard, and your tight ring puckers for him, just like you know he likes. “Hmph. Spoiled little breeding bitch.” but he doesn’t complain. instead, he obliges— using the grip on your ass to anchor you, his rutting turning brutal enough for you to claw at the black satin sheets under your sweaty body. your eyes, as much as you try to keep them on the heaving, rocking figure, flutter closed under the rush of pleasure.

“Yes, yes, yes!!” you yelp in tandem with every thrust; your insides churning as he spears into them. your elastic walls thrummed in a frenzy, milking his thick cock.

“Hell, you’re tight…” Mammon grunts in appreciation, and you can feel a dribble of fluid sliding between your spread cheeks. you knew it must be spit— without looking, you can imagine the familiar sight. Mammon’s long, thick tongue hanging out, saliva dripping from it in translucent globs down on to the hole he’s dying to get inside of. “Look at me, breeder.” you open your eyes, feeling the rough pad of his calloused thumb sweeping over your asshole, smearing the spit around it, and you realize he’s also raised his gaze from your perfect ass, and his golden eyes are glaring at you from the reflection. locked in such a disjointed stare, your lips part to speak, but he beats you to it. “Is this pussy mine?” he asks, and you almost wonder if he’s joking. balls deep in your hole, stretching it out, his pounding making you see double, and he’s asking if it’s his?

“Mhm!” you answer, one hand pushing itself down the length of your belly. your svelte fingertips find your swollen clit and rub it furiously. “‘S yours!”

“And this tight ass?” he asks again. this time, his thumb pushes on your pucker, worming its way inside the spasming canal. luckily, it was slick and gave way for the large digit. you mewl in response to another hole being violated, smiling breathlessly as he uses it as a hook. the rest of his powerful hand spread against your lower back. “Do I own it?”

“Yes, yes, Your Majesty! You own my ass!” as you cry this out, you attempt to look over your left shoulder to look into his eyes and show him how earnest you are, but he doesn’t allow that.

Mammon grins, his fangs dragging across his lower lip as he does so, and his free hand palms the back of your head, and forces it straight again, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. “That’s a good girl. Are you ready to watch me fuck it?”

[peachdues]

yes yes dirty frantic hard fucking is tons of fun and we love it and for good reason.

But also give me the emotional sex; the slightly disjointed, slow, passionate sex where you’re both crying because you’re overwhelmed by your feelings for the other. The sex where you both just cling so fucking tight to one another because you can’t bear the thought of letting go, and you don’t want to remember where you end and they begin.

[teratosubmission]

You're a Master Swordswoman who keeps Letting Monsters Overpower You.

You are a master at your craft, undefeated by any human. Dissatisfied with human opponents, you decide to turn your attention to challenging monsters in combat, who always seemed eager to prove their dominance over a potential mate.

You’d often roam the countryside, practically inviting a challenge from one. Sometimes they approach you in the open with a threatening growl. Others lay in ambush, hoping to catch you off guard. Quickly, though, as you face off with them, you’d notice their rippling muscles, their imposing stature, their alluring strength and endurance, their musk thick with pheromones, their girthy cocks swinging about. God, the idea of losing to them makes you extremely wet, and as you parry their attacks and dance around them, fantasies of them conquering you as their prize play in your mind. Unfortunately, none of them so far could actually beat you. They all fight like wild beasts: relying on their speed and strength, but are too clumsy to best your discipline and technique with the sword.

So you throw the match. Every single time. You offer a mighty display, dodging and weaving about, slowly wearing down their patience. You knew from experience the more frustrated a monster was, the more likely they’d just forcibly fuck you where you lay. Some well-placed nicks and cuts also enrage them further, which you find really gets them wild. Eventually, you let them knock your sword out of your hand and pounce you, pinning you firmly into the dirt. You relish in their massive weight on top of you, their panting breath on your face as they rut against your clothes. You’d taunt them with a giggle, insinuating they still weren't monster enough for a woman like you, that they couldnt possibly conquer such a proud lady, that you would never submit to a beast like them.

And they fall for it, every time. They always get riled into a frenzy, ripping your clothes apart with such ferocity they leave gashes all across your skin. They never seem to notice the mounting collection of scars you proudly carry over your whole body, never seeming to notice you're only trying to resist with your inferior strength and not your technique: there were so many moments you could have wrapped your legs around them and swung on top, but theyre doing such a good job overpowering you, and youd hate to snatch that victory from them. Your hair flies loose, dirtied from the debris on the ground. Your back gets scuffed up as they rock you up and down the dirt as they mount you, hungry to devour their prize.

Your playful jabs turn into gleeful squeals the moment you feel their cock pressed against your dripping wet pulsating pussy, desperate to let it force itself inside you.  Your face immediately flushes with red and your breath is snatched away the moment they guide their cock inside you with ease, splitting you apart with ease as it rapidly makes itself fit inside. You can feel your mask slip as you moan and beg for more, desperately pushing yourself further down on its cock. You let It sink its teeth into you in its display of dominance, feeling it start its harsh rhythmatic pounding. Any words you have left for the monster falter and disjoint, coming out only as a pathetic whimper or moan. “Yes… More… Fuck… Oh fuck… Harder…”

And they mindlessly comply, slamming their cock inside you even harder, savoring this feared woman turned limp piece of fuckmeat for their desires. You’re so out of it, you can barely hear their howls of victory as they pull you up and fuck you in the air, your head leaned back, your fingers trailing the dirt with each thrust inside you. You don’t care who sees this public display of humiliation, you were theirs and they earned the right to fuck you any which way they wanted. All you wanted was them to take you, make you theirs, let them fill up your pussy with your seed so you could cum all over those thick fucking cocks over and over.

And as you’re gasping for breath on the ground, clawing around for anything that could ground you from your euphoria, they clamber away satisfied to have bested and earned the right to pillaging the master swordswoman. They never realize that you played them like fiddles, orchestrating everything to make them satisfy your primal lust. They never realize this is what you wanted all along.

[dollypopup]

"all the negativity is killing the vibe"

"just be grateful for what you got!" "was it perfect? no! but we got some good stuff!" "people are just being so down about season 3"

There is a reason people are displeased.

We are consumers of this media. We PAID for this media. With time, with money, with subscriptions. We bought the merch, we watched the promos, we paid in attention, we paid financially, we paid literally and metaphorically.

And they did not deliver.

So, yes, we have a right to complain because objectively speaking, it was a bad ending. It just was! It was poorly written and poorly edited, it did not leave viewers happy, and there is a REASON the engagement of part 2 is much lower than part 1. Polin is not the problem, sidelining Polin is the problem. Writing Polin poorly is the problem. Shoving Colin to the side (half of the pairing) is the problem. Inconsistent characterization is the problem.

the fact that we came in with high expectations and they were let down for us? makes it a bad ending. makes it bad writing. the fact that we waited 2 years for it and then another month in between and did not walk away feeling as though that time was worthwhile? makes it a bad ending.

the writing was disjointed, characters were underutilized, Colin was pushed aside in his OWN SEASON, they tried to do a #girlbossfeminism narrative and then threw Cressida to the wolves because she did a few things that hurt the main heroine's feelings, even after showing us as viewers we should (and do) empathize with her. I mean, for fuck's sake, there was literally a big speech and everyone clapped moment. stakes were defanged, there were threesome scenes that cut any and all tension building between Polin, Eloise's character was written inconsistently for the sake of swift forgiveness, they threw Babies ever After at us, momifying the one character who was said to be plus size representation at NINETEEN, there were more sex scenes for Benedict than there were for the main couple Polin. Lady Whistledown was a black hole for good quality because instead of writing a narrative that suited the couple's ending, they wrote a narrative to keep her as a plot device by any means possible. This season was a roller coaster that went up up up and then stagnated.

there are legitimate criticisms to be had about this season. as if we don't have a right to demand good quality from something we paid for.

and the worst part of it is that they set it up SO. WELL.

I ended Part 1 pacing my apartment, giddy and kicking my feet and rewatching the ending over and over. Part 2? None of that. And the reason people have been so negative about it is that IT SHOWS.

Yes, in part, some negativity is homophobia for Michaela, who I honest to god adore and am so happy to see on screen. Yes, in part, some negativity is for Polin from haters, a couple I love with all my heart.

But most of the negativity comes down to poor writing. Inconsistency. A lack of bravery for dropping a plot device (Lady Whistledown) that the show has held onto not for Penelope or for Polin, but for Bridgerton's story moving forward that writers do not feel confident portraying without a narrator so it might crutch them.

Stop licking a plate of crumbs and claiming it a meal. They had 2 years to deliver a fantastic season. They didn't do so. That is not at all on the actors, because they are FANTASTIC, it is on the writers, and on the production. Was it beautiful? Sure. Was it well acted? Absolutely. Was it good? Well edited? Well written? Meaningful? Fun?

No.

There are parts of it that are, but when you fumble an ending, it sours the entire experience. The reason people loved Part 1 so much was because of the ending of Episode 4, which was done beautifully. It felt satisfying. And then Part 2 felt like an entirely different beast. If you settle for mediocrity, that is all you will get. So yes, I demand better of this season. I demand that we get more than just one thirty second scene of Pen and Colin being intimate after their marriage. I demand more characterization and time devoted to the main couple instead of useless side plots. I demand better writing. I demand better EDITING. Cressida was done dirty, Colin was done dirty, Eloise was done dirty, Penelope was done dirty. And at the end of it, VIEWERS were done dirty.

There's a reason Part 1 had such glowing positivity and then Part 2 is garnering horribly mixed reactions. It's because one is better than the other. And if this show is CAPABLE of delivering content like Part 1, then yes, I will absolutely demand it of part 2. One day, Bridgerton will learn how to write a proper final episode, a proper closing to an arc.

That day was not in Season 3.

[nap-thym3]

I’ll Eat You Whole

Bob Velseb/Reader | Ch: 1, First Encounter

• Word Count: 5,217 •

When a scare-actor comes across the real-deal, you barely manage to escape by the skin of your teeth. However, in the aftermath of your encounter, you’re left with more questions than answers.

Who was he? Why didn’t he kill you when he had the chance? And why was he kinda…

Anyways. Now caught in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse, you have to quickly figure out what role you play. Will you survive? Or will you be swallowed whole?

Wild cackles spill from your throat, disjointed and borderline hysterical. A giant chainsaw roars to life in your hands, the bloodied business-end a warning. The constant vibrations from the motor making your very bones feel tingly and near numb with pins and needles.

The blood coursing through your veins feels electric, super-charged in a way that you only ever feel when you’re giving chase.

For all intents and purposes, you were dressed to kill.

Ahead, a group of teenagers shriek for their lives, pushing and shoving at each other in a desperate mad scrawl to escape.

Giggling dementedly, you cheekily taunt the pair. Some cheesy one-liner that you’ve already used maybe thirty times tonight.

In response, the blond, shaggy haired boy unkindly shoves at his friend, looking honestly a little pale. God, you hoped he wouldn’t vomit. The last thing you needed was for this kid to puke in your section.

“Damn it— move Craig, move! They’re coming right this way!”

Craig, you’re assuming, laughs mischievously. Arms and legs spread out wide and hooked onto the exit’s doorframe like a human barricade. Effectively blocking his friend from passing through, reveling in the panicked shouts and desperate pleas to move.

“Chill! They’re not even that scary!” Craig manages between full-bellied chuckles.

You cluck your tongue, bouncing from foot to foot impatiently. You had a strict schedule, and didn’t really have the time to play a game of chicken with these two before the next group passed through.

Panting, you try to subtly rub your face against your shoulder, sweat-slicked baby-hair clung uncomfortably to your clammy skin. Slowly, as to not alert the oblivious pair as they squabbled, you crept forward. Quietly making your way over, inch by inch, until you were only a meager three steps away.

“Fuck you Craig! I swear to god, if you don’t move in the next five seconds, I’m gonna—“

Reaching down, you cut the power to your chainsaw. The pair, still oblivious and too caught up in their back and forth, fail to notice the abrupt silence.

Before anymore grating arguing can spill, your reach out, gently reaching over the blonde’s shoulder and gently poking the troublemaker with your index.

The pair, having momentarily forgotten all about you, whip their heads around. The action is done so quickly, you’re half surprised they hadn’t snapped their necks. Their eyes were wide and terrified as they watched with bated breath. You offer nothing but a playful little finger wag; deceptively casual, before lunging forward and delivering a scream so fried, most metal-heads would’ve applauded.

You barely have enough time to clear your throat before the teens are tripping over one another, a messy pile of limbs as they half-crawl on all fours. Before then remembering that, yes, they did indeed have legs. And that yes, they should probably use those.

Man, you loved Halloween.

Hours later, and the haunted house’s endless waves of shrieking crotch-goblins and thrill-seeking teens had finally slowed to a light trickle. Granted, it wasn’t all that surprising. With it being the busiest night of the year, after all. The attraction had been at near full capacity all night, guests squashed together like canned sardines with seemingly no end in sight.

It wasn’t until just a little after midnight when the non-stop traffic of people had finally slowed to a trickle, that you realized just how loud it had been. The abrupt quiet left only the looping audio of groaning ghouls playing from outdated speakers hidden in dark corners. You’d honestly forgotten there was any background ambience to begin with, when all you could hear for eight long and grueling hours was the screams of the horrified.

God, you were so glad you had the foresight to bring a bottle of Tylenol with you.

With little more fanfare, the annual haunt had officially closed for the year. The end of the final shift was marked with exhausted high-fives, sighs of relief, and more than a few of your coworkers tearing off sticky prosthetics like their skin had been itching something fierce for hours.

Quickly, actors were dispersing and heading home for a well-earned night’s rest. But not you.

No, you’d gone and volunteered for one last task: the final sweep.

It was your favorite part of the job. Wandering through the darkened maze of the building, making sure no drunk idiots had keeled over and passed out in a coffin or gotten stuck between the walls of the mirror maze. Occasionally, you’d even find a late-night straggler who thought it’d be the bee’s knees to hide and loiter around until everyone left. Those ones were the best. Scaring the hell out of someone who thought they were smarter than the rest? Totally oblivious that they weren’t alone, and wouldn’t have the last laugh?

Better than any therapy session. Free, too.

Tonight felt different, though. The air seemed heavier in the aftermath of the long season, as if the building itself was holding its breath. But maybe that was just your imagination. It was all too easy for these dark corridors to play on your anxiety.

Shaking it off, you adjusted your grip on the prop chainsaw you carried, the dull heft of it a grounding weight. Despite the fact that it wasn’t real, it still gave you an illusion of safety.

As you tiredly shambled your way through the maze of halls, fantasizing about your plush mattress waiting for you back at home, you trod into a room chalk-full of fog. The familiar, smokey scent a pleasant balm over your pulsing migraine. Someone must’ve forgot to turn off the fog-machines, you figure. You couldn’t really find it in yourself to blame them for wanting to go home as soon as possible after tonight.

Turning a corner, you stop dead in your tracks as your eyes hone in on a distant shape.

Ahead, barely visible in the foggy gloom, was the hulking silhouette of a person.

Your heart gave a little leap of excitement. A straggler, ripe for the spooking!

Grinning, you bend your knees into a half-crouch, keeping close to the wall as you quietly crept forward. The flickering lights overhead did little to illuminate the figure, but you didn’t need to see much. You knew this maze like the back of your hand and could strut these halls blindfolded. No dumb teens stood a chance against you.

Close enough now to start feeling the ramping rush of adrenaline, you gave the chainsaw in your hands a few hard tugs. It sputters. Once, twice, before roaring to life on the third pull. The sound of the faux engine roaring to life bounces against the walls of the narrow hall, creating a cacophony throughout the desolate space.

The figure, hunched over something on the ground— please don’t be vomit, please don’t be vomit— straightened slowly. And kept straightening up, reaching a towering height all the while remaining completely unbothered by your approach.

Well. That wasn’t the reaction you’d been expecting. Usually, this was the point in time where people screamed, turned tail, and ran. Or at the very least flinched in surprise.

Real or not, people had a tendency to allow fear to overtake their rationality. It was hard not to, when somebody was chasing you, swinging around a chainsaw in an enclosed space. There was little time to think, just scream and run. Which was great for you.

Annoyed, you take several menacing steps closer, brandishing your chainsaw and revving the engine promisingly. It typically made even the most jaded customer uneasy. But the figure didn’t even react. Was this guy deaf?

“Alright, tough guy,” you muttered under your breath, squinting to get a better look at them.

Through the flickering lighting, you could just make out a worn, burgundy turtleneck and a matching devil mask to boot. Pointed horns perched atop their crown, casting jagged shadows across the walls. In one hand, they held a cleaver—large, wickedly sharp, and dripping with what looked unmistakably like blood. Thick, dark rivulets of it that clung to the blade and fell in slow, pattering drops onto the floor.

Oh. So maybe not a guest.

Sighing with slight disappointment, the muscles in your legs that’d been tensed in preparation to give chase slackened.

“Nice getup,” you called out over the rev of the chainsaw, lowering it slightly before cutting the power off altogether in order to be heard more clearly.

“Sorry— thought you were a guest. Y’know, we closed like… Half an hour ago, right? You can go home.”

The figure tilted their head, confused maybe, before turning towards you fully. Behind them, something was sprawled across the floor—a crumpled, unrecognizable heap in a pool of blackened liquid.

You squinted, trying to make sense of the shape. Some kind of prop, probably. From your vantage you could just make out bone-white, jutting ribs blooming from the gorey mass. Indescribable lumps spill from the open cavity, glistening in the low-light. Most likely meant to look like exposed guts.

Your stomach roils unpleasantly at the sight. That was some pretty convincing stuff. Not typically what you saw in here, considering this haunt advertised itself as nothing too intense— for the younger audience.

Your attention is redirected, when the stranger shuffles closer.

“Didja know,” they spoke— tone baritone and unmistakably male, with a honeyed southern drawl, “human meat tastes most similarly like pork?”

You shuffle in place awkwardly as the man completely ignores your previous words. Your brain buffers, struggling to formulate the right words. Quickly, you decide to go with the tried and true method when dealing with odd social encounters. Polite enthusiasm.

A nervous laugh bubbles up in your throat, forced and strained.

“That’s… uh, great trivia,” you stammered, looking around, confused. Why was he insisting on dragging out the bit? It was just the two of you. Right? “Um. You really don’t have to keep acting though. Like I said before, we’re done for the night, so…”

You trail off as the man took another lumbering step closer, his boots squelching in the messy viscera underfoot.

You stepped back instinctively at his unhurried advance, your gaze darting between the cleaver in his fist and the mangled body behind him. It wasn’t real, right? It certainly didn’t feel real.

Yet all the while something kept nagging persistently in the back of your skull, your gut telling you something was deeply wrong here.

Why don’t you remember this guy? Surely you would’ve seen him at least once in passing if he worked here? Yet try as you may to recollect your scrambled thoughts, you can’t for the life of you recall.

Faintly, you heard the ‘whoosh’ing of the overhead fan as it was powered to life. One of you had tripped the motion trigger, a practical effect meant to disorient you. Bombard your senses and overwhelm the intended target for a better scare— or something along those lines. The finer details escaped you in this moment.

It was only as a fresh burst of circulated air wafted in your direction, that the smell hit you. You were expecting something mildly sweet. Like liquid corn-starch and colored food-dye.

The scent that assaults you instead, is anything but. Coppery and acrid, like licking a battery.

This was real. Like, really real.

It hits abruptly, and it hits you hard. The chainsaw in your hands suddenly felt too light, too useless. You took a half-step backwards, swallowing hard as a cold dread crept up your spine.

The pounding war-drum of your pulse roared in your ears as panic began to set in. “Okay,” you said, your voice thin and wispy.

You swallow again, clearing the cotton-dry feeling in your mouth and try injecting some authority back into your tone. You don’t think you quite hit the mark. “Okay. Uh, You’re— You’re not supposed to be here, man.”

The stranger says nothing. Just smiles and stalks forward, cleaver raised and poised to slash.

Alarm bells blare in your head as you backpedal, frantically twisting to turn back the way you came.

He lunged.

You barely had any time to throw the chainsaw up between you as the cleaver arced through the air. A resounding ‘crack’ rippled through the air as steel met cheap plastic, the force of the swing knocking the prop straight out of your hands. As it clattered to the floor, useless, you only had one thought.

You were so screwed.

You scramble to keep your balance and maintain a sliver of distance as the man advanced, his movements slow but deliberate. Like a cat batting around a mouse.

In one sudden move, he swung again, forcing you to dodge with a wild stumble to the side. The motion sent you skidding on the slick floor, your shoes struggling to find traction on the grimy surface smeared with blood.

Turning your head to the side, you just now notice the man’s sweater-clad arm brushing against your cheek— caging you in.

He’d missed— No, that’s not right. You’d dodged.

The giant cleaver was stubbornly embedded into the wall beside you, right where your head had been not even a second previously. And it was stuck.

With a panicked noise, you duck under his right arm. Narrowly escaping him as his left hand had just barely brushed against the back of your costume.

“Shit!” you hissed, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. The acidic stench of gore clawed at the back your nostrils— it’s real, it’s real!—, threatening to gag you as you struggled to wrangle your limbs into cooperation and go.

Behind you, you catch the sound of the man grunting as he ripped his weapon of choice out of the wall. Quickly followed by his deliberate steps behind you, steady and unhurried. Completely sure of himself.

It only served to spur you into a clumsy, mad sprint.

The maze of hallways felt suffocatingly narrow, the walls pressing in on you with every corner you turned. Your mind scrambled for an escape route, or-or a familiar face, for anything at all that could give you an edge. But the layout, once so familiar, now felt like a disorienting trap.

Behind you, the man’s steps falter, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

You turned your head, just a cursory glance over your shoulder to gage his distance, but that split-second look had cost you.

Your foot hit something—a stray, thick cable for some electronic or another. Your balance vanished, and you went down— hard. Your palms shot out before yourself, slapping the cold and sticky floor. Pain shot up your wrists as they took the brunt of the impact, but it barely registered in your panic-addled brain.

The heavy thud of boots snapped your attention back to your aggressor, and you looked up to see him closing the distance. The cleaver raised high, winking promisingly in the stage-light.

Feral and desperate, you crawled back on your elbows. No other thought in your brain except to get away.

Another step forward, and his foot caught on the same cord that had betrayed you. His confident stride faltered, his boot sliding out from under him.

It would’ve been a comical sight in literally any other circumstance.

As he stumbled forward with a startled grunt, his massive frame pitched off-balance as he wildly swung his arms outwards in a desperate search for purchase.

It wasn’t much of an opening, but a split second decision needed to be made.

Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you surprise yourself.

Instead of taking the opportunity to keep running, like literally any other sane person would do in your situation, you’d leapt. Right on-top of your attacker.

Your arm whips out and catch’s his neck, capturing him in a headlock. Or it would’ve, if the damn guy wasn’t built like a fucking rottweiler.

The man lets out a noise between a half-aborted chuckle and cough at the unexpected restriction. Large hands scrabbling for purchase against your forearm, nails raking angry red lines across your skin. You curse at the slight sting, yet remain firmly saddled to his broad back, legs firmly locked at his sides. Even as he wildly thrashes, you hold on with all your might— like you would on a bucking bull at the carnival. Knowing you’d be facing pain far worse than a few scratches if you failed, you swing your other arm around, firmly clasping your hand against your opposing wrist and pulling it taut as hard as you could. The muscles in your arms burn at the prolonged stretch, but no matter how much it aches and feels like your arm could pop out of its socket at any moment, you hold firm.

“Feisty lil’ treat, ain’t’cha?” The mysterious man manages through a gasping grunt, meaty digits wriggling between the space of your arm and his reddening neck.

White-hot anger sears at the forefront of your mind. Just who the hell did he think he was? You did the scares and crappy one-liners around here, bitch.

With a snarl against the nape of his neck, his onyx hair tickling your nose, you act on impulse.

Before anymore teases or taunts can be made in that southern drawl you’re quickly coming to despise, you bare your teeth and bite down at the exposed clammy flesh just peeking above the burgundy sweater smattered with someone else’s blood.

Your attacker gasps, stumbling backwards as he vainly attempts to reach behind himself and dislodge you. All the while you clamp down harder, teeth aching with the force not meant for your blunt pearly-whites.

The acrid, metal tang of iron bleeds onto your tongue— a bitter taste that you’re thankfully not subjected to for long as the mountain of a man loses his footing once again. The wires looping around his ankle in the struggle. Sending him stumbling backward one, two, three paces before his back harshly met the wall.

Ergo, you as well.

The abrupt force of the entirety of the man’s weight hitting you like a freight train, pinning you against the wall, is already bad enough. What makes the shitty situation even worse, is that your aggressor wastes no time in taking your momentary shock and striking.

Lighting quick, you don’t even have time to shout or attempt rolling away as an elbow jabs into your diaphragm with startling accuracy.

The response is instantaneous, as the muscle in your chest seizes— momentarily paralyzed.

You crumple inwards, leaning against the grimy wall for support as you gasp and heave for air. All the while uselessly clutching at the collar of your shirt, struggling and fighting for oxygen that your lungs are seemingly incapable of drawing in at this moment.

Faintly, out of the corner of your eye, you recognize the stranger as he stalks forward. Knife clutched in an angry, white-knuckled fist.

As you’re kneeling hunched on the floor, breathing in harsh pants— but breathing, nonetheless— your eyes dip downwards. Catching the slim portion of skin peeking just above the collar of his stained turtleneck, nearly as red as the devil mask he dons as a result of the damage you’ve wrought.

‘Bites and strangulation’s a good look on him.’ You think to yourself deliriously, as a toothy, blood-soaked grin tears proudly across your face.

The man, taking notice of your face smeared with his own blood, cocks his head to the side. Considering.

Defiantly, you jut your chin upwards. Wordless in your challenge but a challenge nonetheless.

Devil-guy chuckles at your show of bravado, his own smile hitching impossibly higher, the pinks of his gums winking at you.

With a thudding step, and another, he shambles towards you. Stalking. Slow and steady, completely unbothered. He’s got you backed into a corner now and he knows it. Wants you to know it, too.

Feeling hopeless, you can do little more than press yourself flush against the wall. With nowhere else to go, and sufficiently crowded by this guy, you brace for impact.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel the heavy, damp breath fanning over your sweat-slicked face as he leans over you. Even without your eyes open, you can feel the lofty weight of his unabashed staring. Despite this, you resist the urge to kick or swing. You already knew it was futile, and anymore resistance would surely be met with a swift rebuttal.

The moment stretches on, a long silence filled with nothing but your intermingling pants occupying the cramped space. Faintly, you hear the looping audio of the haunted-house’s ambient audio. Previously, you’d already had a strong dislike for the downright cheesy moans and groans of the supposed supernatural, interspersed with distant howling. However, in this moment, you despise nothing more. As for the umpteenth time, a distant shriek pierces the quiet. It feels mocking, somehow.

Something warm and wet drips onto your cheek, rolling down your flushed face. Goose flesh erupts along your shoulders as you nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected sensation. Thankfully however, you do nothing more than flinch, before cautiously peering through squinted eyelids.

Above you, your attacker openly drools. Spittle forming and accumulating along his bottom lip, before trailing down his chin. All while his wobbly pupils minutely shift, raptured and ravenously watching every micro expression flitting across your face.

Nervously, you gulp. Before reflexively wetting your own lips in a practiced, anxious habit. It’s not until you taste copper that you remember you still have flakey, dried blood staining your maw. Gross.

The man above, however, has clearly different opinions as he erupts into a full-bodied shiver. The tips of his ears flushing a bright pink.

Okay. Noted.

He lingers, eyes eagerly raving over the dried streak of blood on your lips with unnerving intensity. You squirm, uncomfortable and feeling like a pinned frog, ripe for dissection. Something feral flits across his expression as you wriggle, a startling hunger, before he raises a hand to wipe the drool from his chin with the back of his sleeve.

“Look at’cha,” he mutters, his voice low, husky. There’s a disconcerting undercurrent of amusement beneath the words, like he’s speaking more to himself than to you. “Wild as a bearcat. ‘Love it when they got a bit of fight in ‘em.”

He squats down to your level, his massive frame moving with surprising grace. You’re keenly aware of just how little space exists between you, his knees nearly brushing yours as his free hand, fingers wide and blunt, presses firmly to the wall beside your head. A cage. One he doesn’t intend to let you squirrel through this time.

Seeming content to just stare at you for the moment, cleaver still clutched in his other hand and catching slivers of light. Angling it lazily, almost conversationally, near your face.

At your clear terror, he withdraws. You relax— at least, as much as you’re able to in this guy’s presence—, a shaky exhale leaving you as he does so.

It doesn’t last long though, of course. As you’re once again tensing up all over again, breath hitching as he raises it to his own mouth instead, the flat of the blade skimming his lips. He slurps at the excess there, his tongue then darting out to lave over the steel, before finally pulling it away. His smile widens, and he makes a soft sound, thoughtful. Like he was out taste-testing cheese and not savoring the blood of the innocent.

“You—” your voice cracks, chest aching, lungs still struggling to catch up. You cough and try again, forcing as much venom as you can muster into your words. “You’re sick.”

“And yer stupid,” he counters quickly, his grin unwavering, a flash of teeth that gleam wetly in the pale light. “But I don’t reckon that’s news to either of us.”

A tense moment of silence passes.

“Ya bite hard,” he muses, disrupting the momentary quiet. As though that’s a normal thing to compliment. Is it a compliment? “Bet’cha I bite harder, though.”

The words sink in slowly, and your stomach twists, blood flushing up your neck. Something in your expression—your attempt to recoil while still pressed helplessly to the wall—delights him further. Like you’re tethered together by a string, he follows your pitiful attempt for personal-space. Never letting you forget for even a moment how helpless you really were.

“Ya weren’t s’pposed to be here, treat.” His free hand lifts from the wall, fingers brushing against the sweat-slicked edge of your jaw. The touch is light, deceptively gentle. However, it’s ruined by how his hands feel like a loaded gun against your skin. Knowing that at any moment, he could snuff you out.

He drags his thumb down your jaw, just barely grazing the space between your lip and chin. The blade stays in his other hand, ominously idle but never forgotten.

You jerk your head to the side with a sharp inhale, dislodging his touch, and finally manage to spit out a weak, “Don’t.” You didn’t even really know what you were refusing. The nickname? Touch? Your inevitable demise? Maybe all of the above.

He chuckles fondly—a deep, guttural sound that reverberates in your chest, too close, too intimate. “Sure thing. Treat.”

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave stinging crescents in their wake. “What do you want?” you snap, the edge of your voice sharper now despite the wobble. You’re desperate to gain back some sense of control, some foothold in this surreal nightmare.

His grin softens, just slightly, into something more contemplative. “Want?” he repeats, as though tasting the word on his tongue. “Don’t’cha see, darlin’? I already got what I want.” He leans in even closer, his forehead almost brushing yours.

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Your stomach flip-flops, dread curling tight in your abdomen as his hands wander again, finally transferring off and away from you.

His proximity feels suffocating, but despite every rational instinct screaming at you to do something—anything—you find yourself frozen. Not just in fear, but in something else. Something other than self-preservation.

He’s terrifying, sure. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, a wild fascination that unsettles you to your very core, yet holds you immovably still. That kind of obsessive attention fixated solely on you, like you’re the only thing that exists in this moment. You’ve never had someone look at you that way before. It was frighteningly addictive.

“Ya feel that, don’t’cha?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near whisper, almost conspiratorial. “Yer lil’ heart, pounding away? That’s a once ‘n a lifetime feelin’, treat.”

Yeah, because he fucking kills them right after.

“I could kill ya right now, y’know,” he says it so casually, as though he read your mind. His grip on the knife shifts, and he raises it just enough for you to catch a glimpse of that glinting steel once again. “Wouldn’t even be hard. Like squishin’ a baby bird.”

Your nose scrunches, but you refuse to buckle and give him the reaction he’s clearly fishing for. “Then why don’t you? Hurry up and get it over with, prick.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t get the chance to, actually. As a scream echoes down the hall, back the way you came. Sounds like somebody found the body. Er- what was left of it, anyhow.

However, your would-be killer doesn’t even deign to spare a glance in that direction. Instead, he grunts, irritated at being interrupted. Eyes drinking you in , as if committing you to memory.

For a split second, you fear that he isn’t going to move. Quickly, knowing time was running out, you open your mouth. Wether it was to shout or maybe offer some snarky quip, you’ll never know.

Because with the strength of a kicking mule, he shoves you, cutting you off before you could make a sound.

A winded ‘oof’ is punched out of your abused lungs, balefully watching as he rises from his haunches and finally tearing those near-black irises away from you.

And just like that, he’s gone. The weight of his presence lifts as he stands to his full height, towering over you for just a moment longer before turning on his heel. His boots thud against the slick floor as he saunters off, leaving you trembling in the silence. Nothing but the sound of voices down the hall, panicked and steadily growing closer. Something about calling the cops.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts as you stare after his retreating silhouette, equal parts relief and confusion flooding your senses.

You get the distinct feeling this isn’t over.

Going home is a complicated ordeal. After your manager found you, you’d been a little shell-shocked, to say the least.

And utterly exhausted.

You didn’t really know the haunt-manager that well. It seemed like a different organizer every year, and to be honest, you weren’t all too keen on getting to know them anyway. They seemed nice enough, though.

“—And-! Where’s your car? Don’t tell me you walked here!” She frets, hands coming up to grasp you by the shoulders, before thinking better of it last minute.

“I’m fine.” You grouse, idly thumbing your sternum that still aches. That’s going to be one nasty bruise, you’re sure.

In the distance, you can just make out the red and blue lights strobing down the streets. You really didn’t want to deal with that headache right now. You were never a fan of cops, having your own complicated history with them that you weren’t really interested in reminiscing on.

“Look, Ms-“ you pause, just realizing you’ve forgotten her name already. With an awkward cough, hoping she didn’t catch on, you continue “it’s been a real long and shitty night and I really just want to go home. I’m leaving.” Stiffly, you turn on your heel. Robotically marching down the steps and towards the sidewalk. You weren’t typically a very tactful person on a good day. So if you were a little more terse than you intended, you don’t think you could be held entirely at fault. Tonight had been overwhelming.

“Wait- No, you can’t just walk away! Someone died tonight, there’ll be questions-and-and-“

You pause in your tracks, aggravatingly, she was right. No matter how much you just wanted to go home and forget about tonight, you could potentially get into a heap of trouble for just walking out. Afterall, it’d probably look awfully suspicious of you to try slinking off after a murder.

A murder. It didn’t feel real, hearing that someone really did die tonight, and that it wasn’t some hysteria-induced hallucination.

You should’ve been dead too.

You clear your throat, uncomfortable. Deciding to save yourself the future migraine, you fish out your trusty bottle of Tylenol. Swallowing two pills dry.

The haunt-organizer looks a little on edge, despite her insistence that you came back. Dragging your feet back up the steps, you notice her slightly backpedal from your immediate vicinity. You suppose you can’t really blame her. What with you still dressed in uniform, ratty hair, and features smeared with patchy face-paint. You must look pretty ratchet right now.

With a long, suffering sigh, you fall back onto your rump. Leg bouncing anxiously.

Well, it’s not like tonight could get any worse.

Hope ya’ll enjoyed. I got bit by the Bob-Velseb-Bug after playing Tender Lovin’ Cannibal. So this was born :,)

Also-Also, I will not be posting future chapters to this Tumblr, so if you’d like to read more please consider checking out my Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/60694933

[darlingofvalyria]

❝You don't think I can please you?❞

part 05 | we're really in it now, darling

chapter summary:

[ Everything comes ahead at a hedge maze because. . . hedge maze. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 4,517 ] [ series masterlist ] | best friend's brother!aemond targaryen x f!reader, ft. cregan stark x f!reader, aemond x alys rivers

contains— angst, a lil smutty but no full whorishness, ya'll good - i should really put idiots in love as a tag shouldn't i - nsfw: grinding + some sexy, sexy second base lmao - no kingslayers, no rogues, no betas.

a/n— i hope ya'll forgive me. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You don't really know what you were expecting come Sunday. Once you started to 'ehh' 'hmmm' and 'maybe's your way through random moments with Helaena after the radio silence from Aemond— your best friend put her foot down.

"Fuck him," Helaena grumbled. "You've been going to Sunday dinners before he was even born, you are not backing down now."

 You snorted. "That's wildly inaccurate."

"Point still stands. Fuck. Him. You deserve my mother's tiramisu cake. He doesn't get to take that from you." Her eyes widen as if trying to instil her determination into your system via eye contact. "You are not going to let him take that from you."

You nodded. That's at least a point to pro you can stand by. Though she can't cook to save her life— Alicent's words, not yours — the woman sure can bake. It became therapeutic for her, she once said. How measuring ingredients and kneading dough to patiently folding cream after another kept her mind quiet and her hands busy.

"My faith strongly does not advise rage shooting, you know?" Alicent once hummed.

"Did you mean 'range' shooting?"

"Oh?" she nodded absentmindedly, smiling. "Yes, that too."

"That's true," you mused. Tiramisu cake was her mother's specialty. Every Sunday, she has all attendees pack up at least one cake per person and you and Hel usually stave off bites throughout the week until the next Sunday comes.  "I deserve some tiramisu cake, gods be damned it."

"Plus, if you come with me, we'll get two cakes to take home instead of one." She wagged her finger. "We count as two separate entities with one fridge, it's our greatest privilege."

"Daeron calls it preferential treatment."

"I am her only daughter, of course I get preferential treatment."

"As you should, bestie."

Even when you've stopped struggling with choosing if you were going or not, your mind is never faraway from thinking about Aemond. You wonder if he's finally gotten back with Alys was a bad train of thought, while an even worse train of thought is how soft his lips were and how he holds your hair to pull you close when his tongue glides across your bottom lip.

You blink, shaken from the thought. Bad. Bad brain. Stop it.

And repeat. At this point, it was safer to think about Alys and Aemond.

According to previous cycles, by this point they'd be at the height of their newly blossomed relationship— all sweet kisses and heated looks, unable to stop touching each other much less act a little bit better when they're trying to leave a group function to fuck their brains out — so you wouldn't be surprised to see come Sunday that he arrives with Alys— both of them tall, gorgeous with just enough undertone of smirky, smarmy tension that would make you want to stab your own eye out — pointedly ignoring you or whatever happened between you and him.

It hurt to think about sure, but what else did you think was going to happen?

That call made a space the size of a puddle that turned into a lake, welled deep with unresolved feelings and untouched topics. More questions than answers, drawing lines both of you were too scared to tug and see.

It's big enough to notice, and both stubborn enough not to anything about it.

You tried. Well, you almost did. In the weird hours of the day when your brain and body are more physically disjointed so rationality gives way to adrenaline. Most of the time, this is during working hours. You, checking your phone, running around his profile with your thumb a few times, biting your lip as your mind blanks and your body fights to call him. Or leave a message.

Before your mind and body reconnects and you fling your phone as far away from you as possible.

It's weird. You've never fought with Aemond before. If this was considered fighting. You've been disappointed in him, gotten angry and annoyed with him, but someone always, always offers an olive branch.

Every time you think about that call, you close up, your annoyance flares, and you shove your phone away.

In your amicable defense, this was primarily his problem. You weren't truly dating. He made it clear every choice he was making was en toward the agreed conditions were of making his ex jealous enough to take him back, yada yada yada.

Even if, possibly, you wanted more, he made no actual steps to make it known that he was considering it too.

Funny stares on your lips don't count. The only sabbatical from sexual adventures Aemond got were the breakup round with Alys, and as established before, they got it on pretty frequently.

Another thought bubble about Aemond's lips pops in your head, the mint from his toothpaste and the coffee from his black with no sugar, no milk, the way he seemed to suckle on your sighs—

Gods. Damn. It.

Focus.

That last call?

You're a grown ass woman. You're allowed to do whatever you want with whomever you want, and you're not going to make Aemond Targaryen's steely silence of what— disappointment? Of your choices? Of your choice in Cregan Stark and Cregan Stark Jr? Of what you were doing? Sure he was faithful to the Seven, a good old religious boy raised by his momma, but it doesn't make him a saint. Just because he's clinging to the vestiges of first love thinking it could very well be his last doesn't make him holy, or warrant enough to judge you for getting your little you some good dick.

Life is hard. Good dick is hard to come by!

So. Yeah. Days leading up to Sunday was radio silence and way too many thoughts circling your head like vultures, eating away at logic and rationality, and stubbornly still, you refused to make contact. If it's not out of pride, it's out of hurt.

Because he could apologise, but Aemond wasn't known for his apologies.

But then you remembered the flowers, the tulips, and now you just felt sad. Moping, getting annoyed, and trying to get through work without breaking your phone speeds the week in a blur.

Come Sunday afternoon, Helaena was coming to pick you up from her shift at the vet— the beauty of having a vet bff is the Russian roulette of pictures; you never know if you're about to get cuddly new patients with big, sad eyes and pouty snouts or her newest c-section win without any attempts of a blur — so you could get to her mother's house together, you decided to go for the nines with your outfit.

A sweet summer dress later, some gold gladiator sandals half off from your favourite but largely can't afford shoe boutique that you swear you were always going to wear to make up for the insane price (thank the gods Alicent didn't have a no shoe policy because it takes fifteen minutes to get them on and you cannot be on the floor, on her house, with Aemond around, rolling around like a hot potato on the entry way trying to get a fucking shoe on), dusted and prepped in you're fancier version of makeup, and was just finishing off your hair— using the good mousse whilst blaring Disney epics — when knocking came.

You freeze.

On one hand, it could just be Helaena, forgetting her keys again somewhere as she had done so numerous times before, but there hadn't been a slew of expletives or her impression of a cool, clinical voice saying, ''Tis I, the Stranger, have come for thee soul! Open up I gotta pee, woman!' so you got a pretty good guess on the alternative, sending your heart into a stutter and get smacked with a well deep of yearning.

You miss Aemond. You miss hanging out with him, even just having him on video call whilst you prepped a late dinner and he's working out his thesis defense, too late for either of you, but catching another's eye in the tiny phone and sharing a comforted grin. You miss being called my lady in a language that means so much to him, miss bumping shoulders and smelling his crisp scent of cologne and laundry.

Miss his lips, his very soft, very delicious lips—

"Gods damnit, woman, keep it together," you murmur to yourself. Another series of knocks, ever patient, and you're moved by body not mind as breathless giddiness yanks the door open—

Only to fall flat.

"Oh." You can't hide your disappointment at the curly blond with the smirk for centuries. "Aegon. I didn't know it was you."

"Yes, the expressive disappointment in your eyes could bring a man on the edge to his downfall, I must say," he jokes hoarsely, a little hurt. "Not even a hi Aeg. I've missed you Aeg, or— hey Aeg! You look good enough to eat!"

It's Aegon. Not Aemond. Or Helaena. Helaena and Aemond's older brother, Aegon. Party rocking, cocaine hiding, sweat and someone's lipstick smelling Aegon. You like him despite his whorishness because he's funny, because he's sweet when he wants to be, and he always, always gets you a funny mug when he comes back from wherever he came from.

You blink a couple of times, laughing awkwardly as you give him a quick hug. He still smells the same, with the lightest tint of sun in him from his days at the beach not so long ago no doubt.

"Sorry, sorry. Hi Aeg, I've missed you Aeg, and yes, you do look good enough to eat, Aeg."

He hugs back tighter, smothering you in the denim jacket he's wearing and the curly edge of his white blond hair. He's got a new piercing and smells of new perfume.

"So do you, princess," he says as you step back and he appraises you appreciatively. "Those shoes can step on me any time."

"I will never."

"You will never," he says chirpily, moving back with a teasing grin. "Let me guess, you were waiting for my uglier version to come by and got too overwhelmed by the majesticness of me."

'"Majesticness isn't even a word." You snort. "And Aemond is not your uglier version, you don't look that alike."

He raises an eyebrow as you blink. Fuck. "Dear me oh my, I meant Helaena, babe. When did Aemond get into the mix?"

You shove his shoulder, huffing as you pick up your keys and bag, forcing him to step back as you lock the apartment, trying to give yourself grace from his burning, teasing stare. "As if Helaena didn't tell you." You finally turn to him, lips pursed at his faux innocent pout. "Helaena tells you everything."

"She might have mentioned a thing or two about a thing or two." He bumps your hip as you both get into the elevator. "Imagine my surprise when Lae-lae tells me of a wondrous development between her two favourite people that involved a breakup, some gift-giving shenanigans, and kissing." He gasps dramatically as you groaned. "I leave for what— a month or two and suddenly you and Aemond are making out? Babe, I must say, you're doing the tongue tango with the wrong brother."

 "He's not the wrong brother, also the tongue tango? Really?" you snap suddenly. The wrong brother comments always irk you because you understand that it's a sensitive issue to Aemond, as well as Aegon himself.

But it's a bait you realise too late because Aegon Targaryen enjoys hauling truths from people in steps and tricks, uncaring if he takes a stab or two to get there as you meet his gaze against the reflective wall, positively smirking.

"Really now?"

"Why are you even picking me up? I thought you were in Oldtown."

"Already sorted. Hel wanted to make sure you get there in time, she's going to be late... After all your earlier ride backed out didn't he?"

Your mouth pursed, annoyance prickling at your edges as the elevator pulled into the lobby. "I don't want to talk about it, where's your car?"

He whistles, languid and all the time in the world on his shoulders with just the hint of smug. "It's a thirty minute ride, babe, you're going to spill."

You shoot him a withering glare. "Not if I have say in it." For emphasis, you yank his door and slam it. Fuck his new Maserati.

"Mature!"

Thirty minutes is more than ample time for Aegon Targaryen to weed his way into your brain like the worst case of earworm (like a stupid ass commercial jingle that just. Won't. Stop) that by the time you reach his mother's, you were ranting.

"—like I get it, saying I'm going out with another guy to get some good dick after confirming that we're going to your mother's for Sunday as a date is bad, but we're not really dating! He said so himself! He pressed the issue of it not being a real thing! And he didn't attempt any—"

"— any communication at all," Aegon echoes, stretching his legs as he stood. "Not a sorry or anything."

"Anything!" you bolster, slamming his door again that is less about him and more about the aggressiveness. "I know that he's bad at apologising, or facing things that are hard, choosing to stew in it and act all shitty to people, I just... I thought he'd at least tell me. Doesn't that warrant our friendship?"

"Hm. Ever think that's precisely why he struggles with you?"

"What does that even mean?"

"That he cares about you, so he struggles more with expressing himself."

You turn to him, cocking your head. "When did you get so wise, oh Gandalf?"

"A Seven focused rehab facility can do that to you," he muses wistfully. "There was this nun that says verses when she orgasms."

You make a face. "Love the fun fact."

"You're welcome. But back to point, isn't the issue also the fact that you never tried to make contact with him either?"

"Well. Yeah. Because..."

Aegon squints at you sympathetically. "Because you're scared of rocking the boat because of how much you like him?"

"Not, well," you hesitate. "Not like that precisely..."

"How much you're capable of liking him?" Aegon smiles wryly. "You had a crush on him, I remembered that at least. When Hel first introduced you to him, you couldn't stop teasing him until he lit up like a Christmas tree. I knew you liked him since then. You called him pretty half the time, and I started to realise it was less about his reaction but how you actually see him, and speaking as the naturally cherub, pretty boy of the family, I find this highly, highly offensive."

You pinch his cheeks, wounding your arm over his shoulder. Aegon was built like a linebacker with less muscles that aren't postern, with wide shoulders and a strong body that's too easy to lean against.

"You're pretty too, Aeg," you coo. "But he's just..."

 "If you say ethereal, I will vomit right in my mother's petunias." He makes a face. "How about this. The problem is that you think Aemond doesn't like you back."

You frown at him. "I know Aemond doesn't like me back."

"Oh, sweetie," Aegon coos, sympathy and pity swirling in his smug, smug smile. "I'm so glad you're pretty."

You pinch his sides until he squirms. "Fuck you, what the hell?"

"What I'm saying is, let's test that, you know? Because that's the only variable you aren't sure with?"

You sigh. "Aeg, even if he does, I'm not going to pounce—"

The door swings open, and there he is, of pretty boy face and good boy posture because his mother raised herself a good, devout boy who doesn't know what a slouch is because he's not an ape— and is he wearing his leather jacket? Of course he's wearing the leather jacket and you know that smell, that spiced cologne with the leather and his natural scent and fuck, Aemond is looking at you, looking at his brother, and the open expression, the shock, that smidge of relief— shutters to an icy politeness.

Aegon because he's Aegon, pulls you closer, his mouth curling into a grin that only says trouble, forcing Aemond to straighten up his already perfect posture in preparation for whatever his brother has in mind and his stare is white-hot on the conjoined appendages between you and his brother— and Aegon lands a wet, smacking kiss on your cheekbone.

"Had to pick up your girl, baby bro, I mean what kind of—" his blue gaze finds his mother descending the stairs, peering out to see on who it was, and you're frozen, waiting for the bomb to drop and simultaneously unprepared for it, "— boyfriend has his brother pick up his girl? Good thing you got a good excuse, huh? Oh, hey mother dearest! Your favourite son has come back!"

As Aegon leaves your side with a cheeky little wink, you bit your lip at the frosty look on his face that makes you feel like an absolute idiot and fills you with rage all in one go. Because Aemond has never looked at you like that, like you were at fault and acting like a child, but that you also want to jut a finger against his chest.

"Did you have a nice talk with him on the drive over?" he says, jaw hard.

"I didn't tell him," you hiss, taking the hem of his leather jacket instead of his hands enough so you can pretend to kiss his cheeks because his mother is right there, eyes wide at that two of you as Aegon gave you a discreet thumbs up.

"Helaena did. Get over yourself, your mother's—"

 "Aemond?"

As he freezes and Alicent calls your name, you plaster the best smile you can make as you twine your fingertips with his.

"Smile."

"Hm."

When you leave his side to greet Alicent, you make sure to stomp on his stupid shoes.

As soon as you've finished your mandatory greetings— even with Otto Hightower, Aemond's grandfather, who merely raised his eyebrows at the apparent new status of you and his grandson, Alicent having to blink multiple times, wrangling positives as she kept shooting her son looks while he stood like a block of ice behind you — Aemond takes your hand by his own volition, tangles your fingers too tight, and starts tugging you along like a bouy.

"Are you a child?" you hiss, trying to pry your hand as insistently without outright yanking, Alicent already sending you both concerned looks at a news that she called 'oh, that is wonderful!'

"I am younger than you," he murmurs back, holding you tight.

"Oh, fuck you."

With a defeated huff, you take longer, heavier strides and stomps so you're the one dragging him.

It's all illusion of control built on pettiness because you're still being navigated, it's more just pride at this point, but you don't care, and when he scoffs right back, you felt at least a pinch of a win.

And then he, of course, matches your strides so fucking easily.

"Freaking horse-legged motherfucker," you mumble. You don't know if he catches it, or you're imaging the soft, surprised noise that's both a snort and a laugh.

He winds you around the hallway, an unbreakable trajectory to the backyard, dragging you past an easy eye view from the dramatic, floor to ceiling windows and trespassing straight into the hedge maze because of course they had one of those.

"Really? Here?"

"Do you want to be ogled up by my mother?" he says in a nauseatingly chipper voice. "Is that what you and Aegon are planning with all this, hm?"

You twist out of his grip, walking deeper on your own until your eyes are swallowed by the darkness. When you turn to him, your eyes adjust, only seeing the silver of his hair, so different from his black leather jacket and dark green jumper. You don't see his expression or his sharp gaze.

"Planned this? Seriously? Nothing since coming here had been planned, Aemond," your voice has bite and if your eyes had adjusted faster, or if you could see better, you would see the flinch he makes, "if it had been, this certainly would be the last of my fucking choices. Or do I have to remind you of the fact that we were supposed to go together? Oh right, things change when you drop a call out of fucking nowhere!"

"I—fuck." He moves around, a hand through his hair as exhales in frustration. "I didn't... think you'd want to go with me. That Sunday plans had been cancelled."

"And you didn't think to message? I mean it's not like we're friends in literally every social media." You try not to sound hurt before taking a deep breath, offering your palms up. "I didn't—don't even know what the issue is, Aemond. Were you so offended that I was sexually active that you just had to rudely drop the call and not talk—"

It's maybe the darkness, or intuition but you can bet half yours savings that Aemond Targaryen is blushing.

"It... gods, no it's not... I wasn't offended that you were sexually active," he says softly, evenly. He clears his throat. "I don't... mind that you're... sexually active. I actively... support it. Even." He coughs. Swallows. Curses.

If you don't feel like your heart is pounding in your throat you would have laughed. You had never seen the boy this flustered before that it's affecting his words, because Aemond has always been the most well spoken person you know.

"Is it about Cregan? Do you have something against Cregan?"

His eye flutter close. "No... and yes."

"I don't understand, Aemy," you whisper, defeated.

He sighs. In the dark, you notice a movement. His hands flex. It's a habit he's had since you've known him. It's instinct. The way you reach out, finding a piece of his leather jacket until you find your way to his hands, running your fingers over the bones and ridges, his sinew and skin. There are callouses from his fencing, running your thumb over his knuckles.

He's frozen first before he sighs, melting through the warmth you share with him.

 "I have nothing against Stark," he finally says. "It's the fact that you were still having sex with him that I found unfair." He steps closer until you can see his face better, the struggle in him can be told through the furrow in his brows and the press of his pillowy lips, red and wet as if he had bitten through it. "I... understand that we're not really together, but I couldn't... not feel as if it wasn't right. As if I wanted it to be me."

His hands finds your arms, eye closing and gently placing his forehead against your own. At first you panic, your body trying to make your brain decide do you like this or not but it's Aemond, and he's warm, gentle, sweet almost. It's familiar and new at the same time. It's warmth you recognise, skin you will know anywhere, but in a way that you've never felt him before.

You close your eyes and breathe with him.

You know that this is rare. That this Aemond is reserved for people he loves and cares about, but with his forehead against yours, with his hands holding you steady, rubbing a comforting thumb over your skin that felt just as for him as it was for you, breathing you in and exhaling you out. A single breath between two bodies.

"I don't know if I can agree to that, Aemy."

"What?" He pulls back, hurt pulling taunt your favourite pair of lips. "Do you like Cregan more? You don't think I can please you?"

"That's not—"

His hands closes on your face, cupping it in his palms as you stare, wide-eyed at the blue fire lit up in his eye. His breath brushes your lips, making them tingle.

"Push me away if you don't want it," he says before his eye closes and he takes your mouth against his own, swallowing your gasp then pulling you away again, eye glinting.

"Push me away, ñuha riña." His voice is so soft, words crisp while your body thrummed in a single, frantic heartbeat. When you don't move, too shock, thoughts tangled, he smirks.

With his teeth, he captures your bottom lip, grazing it. When he feels you shudder, eyes fluttering, he chuckles meanly.

"Push me away as if you don't want me." He tilts your chin up as he looks down on you, eye confident in its lust. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. "As if you don't feel everything I do."

"Fuck you," you manage to exhale as you grab the back of his head and devour him just as you did at the restaurant. He groans, using his other hand to feel your side, pass your one breast, giving it a firm squeeze that makes you gasp, tongue clashing, legs tangling as you push and push and he pulls you to him, his back hitting the prickly hedge. It's teeth and tongue, breaths twisted in one air as you used each other like lifelines, like enemies in a swords match.

It's feverish and passion, infuriating want that gives. Because when you dominate the kiss, tangling his tongue with your own, yanking him down and down as if you want him to reach every part of you inside, he bends and follows. And when he pulls you, tangles your hair and takes every gasp and breath, you surrender.

He groans when you suck on his bottom lip, pulling away just enough to spit out, "You taste so much better than my dreams." His mouth moves down and down, leaving a path of heat as he suckles at your neck, practically ripping the buttons of the top of your dress as he slides down and grunts in pain.

"A-Aemy?" Your eyes flutter. "Your back, shit—"

"Fuck that." He tugs you down until you land with an oomph! on his lap, your chest at his eye level before he drags them back to your gaze. "Tell me to stop."

You shake your head, tangling your fingers in his hair. "No."

"Good."

Your back arches, supported in his hold, as he starts sucking the skin lower and lower, another hand massaging your tit that pools hot down your core until his hand, warm and solid, sinew and bone, and Aemond Aemond Aemond, slides between your bra and cups your breast and his hand is so big, and it feels so good that you start grinding on the hard length you feel right at your—

An ear-splitting shriek freezes the both of you. You and Aemond pull back, hand still on your tit.

"Wha—"

"Ew, ew, ew! Mom said you were fighting! FIGHTING DOES NOT EQUATE FUCKING IN THE MAZE, YOU FUCKING CLICHES!"

TAGGED: @snowprincesa1 @gemini-mama @fan-goddess @snh96 @valeskafics @opheliaas-stuff @tempo-rary-fix @fantasticpeaceharmony @diannnnsss @iamavailablesstuff @spinachtz @at-a-rax-ia @bespinnn @tsujifreya @moonlightfoxx @kemillyfreitas @joyouart @bananzaa @honey-on-mars @alexa4040 @cinnamonbambii @wintrr13 @wxb-slingrr @astroswift @queenofshinigamis @helaenaluvr @kaetastic @jxdegodfrey @laniii-on-your-left @watercolorskyy @microwaveallthedemons @kazuyatokue @herfantastyworldd @averyyreads @urmomsgirlfriend1 @bellstwd @jiminie-08 @ttkttt @nockerin @backyardfolklore @random-ocity @hc-geralt-23 @vendettasblog @cicaspair418 @malynn @anehkael @schadenfreude-and-sarcasm

[undreaming-fanfiction]

I've always loved the Steddie SpideyPool pairing, but after DP3, I'd like to suggest Eddie as Deadpool and Steve as a very messed up Wolverine.

Steve who had hard time coping with failing his chosen family and the punishment of not being able to die and join them. It wouldn't be the X-Men characters, but the whole gang of his kids and friends who took up being heroes to protect their world. Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Max, Lucas...all gone.

So Steve survives on alcohol and moments of self-pity and rage. Sometimes he tries to see if maybe his healing factor got up and left, but no. Still there.

Enter Eddie as Deadpool. He tried dating Chrissy, but they ended up breaking up after she got targeted. He is trying to make a honest living, but fuck, it's hard. Then the TVA thing happens, Eddie panics, brings in a replacement Wolverine who just happens to be Steve.

The movie happens sort of the same way.

And then Eddie drags Steve home and Steve just breaks down. Because in this world, his kids and friends are fine. They are alive. They never got into the hero business, Robin tends to the merc bar that Eddie used to frequent. Dustin tried to join Eddie's temporary group X-Force (yes, he's their Peter), Mike is Eddie's former getaway taxi driver. El ended up in the X-Men and she is mentored by Hopper, but she's safe and thriving.

It's when they're all sitting at Eddie's shabby desk with Wayne and everyone that Eddie and Steve stop bickering. It's the very moment that Max mentions that superheroes aren't as lame as she used to think and she might try becoming one.

The joint "OVER MY DEAD BODY' sounds almost rehearsed. The disjointed rant about why this is such a bad idea doesn't, but everyone's eyeing them with suspicion.

When Eddie reminds everyone to be safe on their way home ("or I'll always order pizza with pineapple for the next DnD, I swear it, Wheeler, you'll wish you weren't born in this century!"), and Steve nods behind him, Max scoffs. "We get it. Go kiss your new crush and don't worry for a minute, yeah?"

It takes Eddie several minutes to register what she said, but by then she's gone.

"A crush?" he spits out. "Unacceptable!"

Steve just stares at him.

"I mean, we saved the world together. That makes us so much more. Right, boyfriend?"

Steve still stares at him, but hey, Eddie's an optimist. What else can Steve do than stab him (been there), slash him (done that), dismember him (they'll get there one day), or break his heart? Maybe the last one.

"Boyfriend, huh?" asks Steve, and his claws stay in for now.

Eddie feels brave and puts his hands on Steve's shoulders. "My calendar and heart are free. So what do you say, baby?"

"That depends."

Eddie still isn't stabbed. "On?"

And fuck, it seemed impossible, but it's there. Steve smiles at him. "On whether kissing you shuts you up."

Laughing, Eddie pulls him closer. "Why don't you find out, big boy?"

[clockwayswrites]

Masked

*cough* so... idk, writing muse possessed me? Was joking with Moku that Dick has so had sex with his domino on and this happened? Danny/Dick, no actually sex, but it's right after they talk about it blatantly and crudely.

-

“I can’t believe you kept your mask on the whole time,” Phantom said, tracing his fingers around the edge of the black domino.

“Secret identity,” Dick said with a laugh that he hoped sounded believable.

From the way Phantom’s brows furrowed together, Dick didn’t think he had succeeded.

Phantom kissed the corner of Dick’s mouth before he rolled off the bed, taking the blanket with him. “I know. But just seems, fuck, what’s that word? Disjointed? That’s not, it… whatever, I can’t be expected to think right now—”

“I’m surprised you’re even walking,” Dick said honestly and with a smirk. He rolled over onto his side to watch his teammate dig around in their discarded clothing.

Phantom flicked him off. “Seems at odds when we just fucked—”

“Several times.”

“Yes, several times. So it just seems at odds I guess to care about a mask when I’ve still got your cum dripping out of me.”

“None of the others would believe me that you’re so crude,” Dick said.

“I know,” Phantom replied with a fanged smile. “And stop it, I know that look. Down boy. I am fucked out. I’m going to go take a hot shower and go to sleep.”

“You could stay,” Dick offered, the words out of his mouth before he even realized he was saying them. He meant it though. “I’ll be good. No fucking. Just… you could take a shower here and stay. I’ll change the sheets.”

Phantom smiled at him, blanket and his effects clutched to his chest. There was a a somber edge to that smile that made Dick bite his lip and look away.

“That sounds really nice. But I think… the mask on and fucking is one thing. I get it. I get it and I enjoy it and I’m fine with it. But there’s too many secrets between us for me to have room to sleep on that bed with you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure, of course, it was silly—” Dick stopped talking as Phantom rested a hand on his cheek. He looked up in time for Phantom to press another kiss to his lips.

“It was a sweet idea,” Phantom said, “Just one we can’t have.”

[sneppu]

Hello! Welcome to The Sneep Zone

You may call me Nagi

Main blog: @nagoo (I'm also on Bluesky! absolutely NO MINORS on the bluesky, no exceptions. nsfw art will be going there.)

@headmasterseverussnape and @sevsbestfriend are my beloveds

u better be able to tell fiction from reality i stg.

first and foremost: fuck jkr. i do not endorse her. i do not agree with her. we dont do that weird shit here.

we do different weird shit instead (bask in the decadence of The Sneep)

This sideblog is for me to post all my Snape art and Snape related ramblings! I am addicted to snape fics, and have found myself needing to make fanart for some of my favorite writers. such things will be posted here!

Severus Snape is my favorite guy!

I am known to refer to him as: Sneep, Snorp, Sneb, The Sneberous Sneb, The Snebulous One, He Who Sneeps In The Dark, SneepSnorp, Mother, Sneppu, El Sneepo, Snorpo, Snib, The Best One, The Only One That Matters, precious beloved sneep, Babygirl, etc.

rest assured, I am talking about Severus Snape every single time

I ship him with everyone! yes, even [insert character]. I always tag ships so block the tag or w/e if theres one you dont like.

I truly and genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, do not care even a little bit about The Grievances u may have about my ships or my sneeps. I cannot stress enough how much that is not my problem. If you're the type to throw a tantrum over ships and fictional content I'm just gonna block you tbh.

Dark/Fucky content WILL be found on this blog. Snape was practically MADE for that shit and I like to project my traumas onto him so like. ykno. I expect ppl with critical thinking on here ONLY.

in my ideal world, everyone would love and cherish Sneep. I tend to focus on marauder's era Snape

not to be rude, but i kind of only care about Snape really. the slytherins are cool and chill too (especially Lucius, Rosier, and Mulciber), but i mostly care about how they interact with and potentially fall in love with The Sneep. the marauders are rat bastards and i ship them with Snape in a "grovel eternally for the scraps of his affection" kind of way. I am not sorry.

dont expect nothing serious from me unless im waxing poetic about Snape or heavily projecting my own Tragic Past onto him tbh, and even then...

i have zero interest in any debates whatsoever. i cannot emphasize this enough, my thoughts are disjointed and nonsensical. The mere thought of having a serious debate about anything is stressful and unpleasant. I mean it as kindly as possible when I say it makes my eyes glaze over.

i am just here to draw Snape and shitpost about my favorite little guy.

i dont care that he's mean.

he shouldve been meaner, actually.

he's better than me and he's probably better than you too, because i wouldve absolutely lost it big boy style.

Art tag: #nagi nyart

Have you ever written a fanfic about Severus Snape? If so, please PLEASE read this post Here

this shouldnt even have to be said but please do not??? take me stuffs and completely re-upload it without credit or permission?? dont do that to anyone, actually? like idk basic courtesy towards artists or w/e. you know better, i know you do.

BUT that said.. using my stuff for your header or profile pic is fine with credit somewhere easily visible, like the profile description, or pinned post!