#this is the result. (chucks them at you)

[opikiquu]

[gollancz]

Guys. Christmas is coming. Consumerism is in the driver's seat and GAWD don't I know about the existential ennui of all these faceless corporations trying to schill you their wares. It's cold. Impersonal. Bleak.

So I, a fellow tumblr user, will instead try to schill you MY wares, so that when you purchase these items you can say "Hey, that person from tumblr worked on this", and feel the warmth of HUMAN CONNECTION in a way that is completely normal and not parasocial at all. We really are friends. I promise. Yes, you. Love you, bestie. Remember the boop war? Good times. Fond memories.

THIRTEEN STOREYS and FAMILY BUSINESS by Jonathan Sims

Tumblr's favourite Nightmare Factory @jonnywaistcoat has two novels out and they're phenomenal horror that also punch you in the throat with SOCIAL COMMENTARY and FEELINGS. He's so adept at tapping into the specific part of my brain that feels fear like a small child - not the adult creepy scared that I normally get around horror, but specifically the kind of fear that almost freezes your limbs and vocal chords with a terror you don't quite understand because there is so much in the world that you don't know, but you know that somehow this thing might be quick enough or smart enough or sneaky enough to get you before you can get to the safety of your parents sort of fear.

THIRTEEN STOREYS is a haunted house novel, but set in a refurbished block of flats. Each chapter follows a different resident being haunted in a different way, with a style to match the flavour of ghost. It's all tied together phenomenally and brutally.

FAMILY BUSINESS is a story about ghosts in a different way, following a woman who joins a post-mortem house cleaning service while grieving the death of her best friend. But as she removes the stains from the houses of the dead, she begins to suspect something else is removing even more.

Both of these titles are available from Gollancz worldwide!

THE LAST UNICORN, THE WAY HOME, THE INNKEEPER'S SONG and A FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE by Peter S. Beagle

Obviously Peter's work needs no introduction, and our editions aren't available in the US and Canada, but I've had a wonderful time working with Peter and his team to bring these beautiful books back to the UK. Meeting him at Worldcon this year was such a magical moment, and he was jet-lagged and I had gone through sleep deprived into hyper and was bringing an Extremely Weird Energy to every interaction I had that day, resulting in this photo:

THE LAST UNICORN and THE WAY HOME are a matched pair of wonderful fairy stories. THE WAY HOME has two novellettes in it, and the first - 'Two Hearts' - won the Hugo award. It will also destroy you.

A FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE was Peter's first ever novel, and it's wistful and romantic and so beautiful.

THE INNKEEPER'S SONG is his epic fantasy quest, it's an adventure story that reads almost lyrically. Also there's an orgy in the middle which caught me by surprise when I was reading it for the first time on the train into work.

HIGH VAULTAGE by Chris and Jen Sugden

It's possible that someone on this website doesn't know I was involved with this book but don't worry, I will HUNT THEM DOWN AND TELL THEM. This is the first book I took all the way through the editorial process from end to end and I am SO PROUD of it and Chris and Jen and their wonderful world of @victoriocity. Officially one of the seven funniest books published in the UK this year, shortlisted for the Wodehouse Prize for Comic Fiction. It's a chaotic, bonkers murder mystery set in an alternate Victorian London which is the most gleeful dystopia I have ever encountered.

Featuring:

Grumpy Sunshine besties

The Victorian Equivalent of the Chuck Norris Meme

A robot who undertook a course in People Management

An indefatigable beagle

This is another book that you can get from Gollancz all over the world, and you SHOULD because it's amazing. Go into your local bookshop and ask them to order it into stock. It's a great Christmas present. It's my firstborn book baby (like that's a completely normal thing to say when I didn't even write it). Also if you're a fan of the podcast, why not tell the Guardian how great it is, and make a nuisance of yourself until they review. (I would, but the form asks for your name and then they'd know I didn't suddenly discover Victoriocity this year. Either that or think I was a very careless editor.) If you've not listened to the podcast yet, you absolutely should. It pings all my Douglas Adams receptors in the best way. If you like HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE, if you like CABIN PRESSURE, VICTORIOCITY is the perfect addition.

HAMMAJANG LUCK by Makana Yamamoto

SLIGHTLY cheating because HAMMAJANG LUCK isn't out in North America until January (pre-orders make great Christmas presents guys), but it IS out in the UK and the rest of the world next week! This is my second big editorial project and it's a Big Gay Space Heist ft. disaster lesbians, trans characters, and a tech billionaire getting put in his place. It's joyous and energetic and crammed full of Hawaiian pidgin as a love letter to the diaspora. @makana-yama is a phenomenal writer and this is their love letter to their communities, families both born and found, while also a statement on the victims of gentrification (and how those are disproportionally BIPOC communities). PLUS:

friends to enemies to cautious allies to lovers

trans cyborgs

Suck It Space Elon

You know that One Scene in Charlie's Angels where Cameron Diaz is in the white body suit and breaking into the safe and has to stretch out to hit two buttons at once? Yeah. That's the vibe.

Being able to work with Makana is a delight, and HAMMAJANG tapped into all the feelings I got watching LEVERAGE for the first time, so I went to watch it again while I was editing. Also OCEAN'S 8.

DEEP BLACK by Miles Cameron

So, barring Branderson, Miles Cameron may be one of our most prolific authors. He writes a minimum two books a year, one SFF and one historical fiction (as Christian Cameron) and he is... An absolute phenomenon. He IS the Chuck Norris meme. I'm obsessed with him. He's former US military intelligence turned naturalised Canadian Hippy, has written over fifty novels, can turn his hand to any genre and write it fantastically, is a practical archaeologist - running large scale re-enactments from a variety of periods ranging from Bronze Age right the way up to the Victorian era, using traditional techniques to allow academics to study how the practicalities of weapons, clothes, food etc. would have worked in practice. Two years ago he won a medieval combat tournament in Verona, a clear ten years older at least than the next oldest competitor, he teaches Historical European Martial Arts, but ties it into the history of martial arts globally. He can make his own clothes, ink, leatherwork. He's a ballet dancer. I once took him for a day out and he ended it in a different shirt and shoes from the ones he'd started in. I asked him for an author photo and he sent me this:

DEEP BLACK is the sequel to his critically acclaimed SF debut ARTIFACT SPACE, where he has taken his research and experience of global historical cultures and extrapolated to create an interplanetary future where the best of all are celebrated. And then Aliens Happen. And then, in reaction, Capitalism Happens (which is covered in the short story collection BEYOND THE FRINGE).

He's such a thoughtful and erudite speaker, if you're curious about his work, I'd recommend listening to his episodes on the Friends Talking Fantasy podcast, and also his appearance on The Publishing Rodeo.

If SF isn't your bag, he's also got:

Arthurian fantasy

Bronze Age fantasy

Medieval Mages fantasy

A CURSE OF CROWS - Lauren Dedroog

I actually inherited Lauren when a colleague of mine departed for fresh pastures, which gave me the great opportunity to work on this series which is so vastly different from my usual fare. It's epic, sweeping, romantic and lush, with such detailed description and complex political machinations, while also being brutal, dark and heavy (tw: for sexual assault, torture etc, etc.). If you like Sarah J Maas and Cassandra Clare, this should hit the sweet spot. Lauren is an ICU nurse when not writing, and this was somehow created when she was putting in a million hours in hospitals during COVID. The feat boggles my mind.

A CURSE OF CROWS is out now in the UK, Australia and Europe, and it won the People's Choice for Standaard Boek's Book of the Year award in 2023, in her home country of Belgium. It will be hitting shelves in North America next September! A DANCE OF SERPENTS is where I get to pick up the editorial mantle, and that has just landed in my inbox this week so I am excited to dig in.

Featuring:

Harold, they're lesbians

Murder baby is actually a cinnamon roll

Sensitive wings are sexy

For serious, though, I'm lucky enough to work with a lot of authors I'm genuinely obsessed and astounded by. And yes, I do get to work on Joe Abercrombie, Brandon Sanderson and Andrzej Sapkowski, but they're not MY authors - they're led by the incredible Gillian and Marcus who I'm not 100% certain sleep. There are so many people on the Gollancz list who I could recommend for DAYS (and will, if you so request), but this is my stable of superstars.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny's knee hurts. Price helps him feel better.

cw: messy blowjob. For the @continentcakeshop, who love Johnny.

Johnny shifted his foot for the third time in ten minutes and felt the now familiar twinge through his knee. He couldn't decide what was worse; the constant dull ache of keeping it stationary, like it needed to click, which was driving him batshit insane, or the sharp burn of a quick stretch that made his entire body jolt, knocking the table he was sharing with the boss man himself.

“You broken?” Price asked, tapping the blunt nib of his biro against the manilla folder by his form.

“Naw, sir. Jus’ me bum knee. S’givin’ me grief cause it's cald outside.”

“You been t’ the physio?”

“Not fer a few weeks. No time, ye know…” Johnny gestured aimlessly at the paperwork in front of him. When he'd signed up at fifteen and nine months, he hadn't expected to spend so long with a damn pen in his hand instead of a firearm.

Price hummed and Johnny watched his whiskers twitch as they tended to do when he was mulling something over. Then came the full face grimace as he considered his options. The biro clattered to the table moments later, the chair legs scraping against the concrete floor. “Olrigh’, can't ‘ave ya fallin’ behind. Keks down, leg up ‘ere.”

Johnny blinked owlishly, first at Price's hands as they patted his lap and then at the intense blue eyes watching him from beneath thick eyebrows. “Come again.”

“C’mon, MacTavish. Don't ‘ave all day. Boot off, drop ‘em. Quick rub down will make it feel better.”

Oh, he wasn't taking the piss. Well, shit. Johnny glanced at Price's hands again, big, weathered, with long clever fingers and a scar across the knuckles from where Price had skinned them open on the steel-plated jaw of a Kortac operator. The thought of having them on his body in any capacity made a sudden surge of heat fill his belly.

His knee gave another unrepentant throb and he stood awkwardly to undo his belt, jamming the heel of his boot against the toe of the other to kick it off before loosening the laces. He managed to slide his leg out, the knee support catching on his waistband, before slumping back into the chair. His foot hovered off the floor, suddenly conscious of how fuckin’ filthy his sock was. And how tight his boxers were.

“Ain't got all night,” Price said. “Stop bein’ a pansy. Ain't gonna ‘urt ya.”

Johnny scowled and extended his leg, setting it gingerly across Price's lap while his hands cupped over his crotch. “Naw one says pansy any more, old man.”

Price raised an eyebrow as he hooked Johnny's knee support and coaxed it down his calf muscle, bunching it at his ankle as he wrinkled his nose. “This sock ever seen a washin’ machine?”

“Oh feck, now ye really sound like me pa.”

“I was eleven years old when you were born, I ain't yer dad, MacTavish.” Price chucked the support and the filthy sock onto the floor and ran his thumbs up the sides of Johnny’s leg, pressing into the swollen ligaments and tendons either side of his patella. The sensation sat keenly on the threshold of pain and pleasure; Price couldn't press too hard without oil, but his pressure was damn perfect.

“Oh, fuck… mmm, aye, but I c’n still call ye dad–”

“If ya finish that sentence, ‘m gonna dislocate yer knee cap.”

“Aye, sir."

Johnny tried to stay quiet. He yapped when he was nervous and Jesus wept he was nervous now. Not because it hurt - god, fuck, Price’s hands were a damn dream - but because the heat in his belly was spreading out through the rest of him; a warm, fuzziness humming just below his skin. As the dull ache ebbed into a low throb, Johnny’s chin tilted down and his eyes lidded. He watched those strong hands work, manipulating his muscles and tendons like putty, pressing to and fro in easy glides that left Johnny lightheaded.

Johnny bit back a moan. Price was good. He knew what he was doing. Didn't stay only around the knee, but rubbed behind it and slightly down the calf to ease the resulting tension from where the rest of his leg was overcompensating. That was all fine… it was when those thumbs went up his thigh, one on the hairy outside, the other up the milky soft skin of the inner, that the whole arrangement got a bit spicy.

Johnny was getting hard. Proper hard, not just a cheeky little chubby. He could feel the wet patch in the cotton where his leaking tip was pushing up against his palm. Fuck, fuck. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tried to distract himself. Mentally listing off the steps for stripping a gun, the ingredients for a pipe bomb, the starting fifteen for Man City–

“Ev’ryfin olrigh’, Soap?”

Johnny’s eyes blinked open and he realised he'd been damn panting. Price hadn't stopped though. One hand had wandered a little higher, massaging his thigh muscle while the other cupped beneath his calf. Just a little higher and he could slide his cock into his captain's palm. Those callouses would feel unreal against the silky skin of his shaft… no, no, normal thoughts. Normal.

“Aye, sir. Sorry. Jus’... Uh…”

“Feels good,” Price finished for him. “Been a while for more ‘an jus’ physio then.” There was a wry amusement to his tone and Johnny’s lower lip pushed up in a pout, his face flushing red.

“S’not what it looks like.”

“Looks like yer hard from a little tenderness, sergeant.”

“Fuck, don't tell anyone, ah’ll do dogsbody in officer’s mess fer a whole month.”

“Oof, humiliatin’.”

“Not as humiliatin’ as Garrick takin’ the pish cause ah got a stonner for me captain,” Johnny blurted out, making it infinitely worse. “Fuck.”

Price snorted a laugh and Johnny’s eyes blew owlishly wide again. Those big hands were still working; any pain had faded, and only a warm pleasure remained, pressure coiling in his groin. Price hummed. “Maybe I can help ya with that too. If yer up for it.”

“What?” Johnny squeaked. Price was a gay man. That was no secret. He was one of the few gay men in the service that Johnny had ever encountered that endured precisely fuck all abuse about it. No cunt was daft enough to even try. Johnny had been too feart to own his sexuality, but Price had probably heard Grindr ping one too many times to be left under any illusion that Johnny was straight.

“Yer not the only one goin’ through a bit of a dry spell. Offer’s there.”

Johnny swallowed thickly. He couldn't lift his eyes from Price's hands, watching those strong thumbs circle either side of his knee again, prick throbbing in the confines of his boxers. Of all the days to wear his snug Calvin Kleins that left nothing to the imagination. The bulge had filled his palms now. He could pull away, put a stop to it, but he didn't want to. He wanted Price’s hand wrapped around his prick. “Aye.”

“Whot?”

“Aye, sir… ah’d like some… help,” Johnny finished lamely, his fingers tightening over his cock as he shifted his arse in the chair.

Price blinked at him slowly, leaning back in his chair. Johnny’s leg shifted a little, foot tilting out, and he saw it for the first time. A huge fuck off bulge in the front of Price's Carhartts. “Oh-ho, fuck me, look at the size of it,” Johnny wheezed, and then clicked his mouth shut, lips sucked in so he could chew on them before murmuring, “Respectfully… sir.”

Price chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, nails raking down through his beard around the edges of his grin. “‘m gonna be glad ev’ryone's on leave, un’ I?”

Johnny flushed to the tips of his ears. “Ah can be wheesht.”

“Nah, don't be.” Price took Johnny's ankles and lowered his leg slowly to the floor. Johnny licked his lips as anticipation bubbled in his chest, hands still clasped over his crotch despite the futility of trying to hide his erection. His eyes somehow widening further as Price slipped from his seat and onto his knees between Johnny’s feet.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Johnny breathed, hands shaking as Price took them and guided them away from where they still cupped protectively over his cock. He felt the warm puff of Price's breath over the hair on his belly and the damp spot on his boxers, and his toes curled against the floor. Those weathered fingers stroked up his thighs, over soft cotton to the elastic of his waistband. Johnny’s cock flicked gratefully free, ruddy and dark compared to the rest of him, and he sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth as cool air found his wet slit.

“Well, pretty all over, ain’tcha, sergeant?”

Johnny knew he had a nice dick, good girth, nice upward curve to hit all the right spots and a respectable length. He'd taken enough selfies with it and then had his phone blow up to know, but to hear Price say it in that silky rumble made him go weak. His hips squirmed, and he bit his lower lip as Price's beard rubbed on his inner thigh, followed by the softness of his lips as he kissed a trail up. Johnny fingers bit into the outside of his legs as they pushed out, urging Price to get to his destination. “Please, sir…”

“Relax, soldier. I gotcha.”

Finally, Price grasped Johnny’s cock, fingers pushing through the coarse thatch of hair at the base. Johnny let out a soft whine, shaft flicking in Price’s grip as a thick pearl of precum welled from his slit. It was sweet, sweet torture. A mixture of relief and yearning that made his entire body light up. Price’s thumb swept below his waistband, brushing the swell of his sac, before he stroked up, fingers brushing over the flare of Johnny’s crown.

Johnny groaned, head flopping back because he needed to briefly thank fucking God for blessing his dick and promise to visit confession at some point in the next decade to repent for lusting after his captain's hands and mouth. He couldn't take his fucking eyes off Price for long, and he looked back in time to watch Price ease his foreskin back, the wicked tip of his tongue pushing though Johnny’s slit to lap it clean of pre. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… god, shite, ahh, sir, mmm.”

The lines around Price's eyes deepened in amusement, and then his eyes slid closed in what Johnny could only describe as bliss as he kissed the thick vein down Johnny's length, brushing the tip of his nose across silky skin until it buried against Johnny's groin with a soft groan. “Mm, fuck, ya smell good.”

Johnny spread his legs a little further, lifting his arse when Price tugged his boxers to bring them further down his thighs. The heat of his mouth enveloped Johnny’s balls, his tongue pressing down the seam, Johnny's cock resting against his cheek as he tasted his fill. Johnny panted through parted lips, one hand finally leaving his leg to slide around the back of his captain's head to pull his face closer. “Aye… sir, fuck… ahh.”

The moan that rumbled from Price’s chest rolled up Johnny’s body like an earthquake, and he heard the clatter of a buckle as Price fumbled with his belt to free his cock. Jacking himself off to the taste of Johnny’s sac in his mouth. When he finally drew away, he left Johnny's dark curls wet with spit, his blue eyes lidded, drunk on Johnny's musk and the pleasure of his hand pumping slowly up and down his own cock.

“God, yer a fuckin’ bonny picture, sir. Love tae suck cock, eh? Fuck.”

Price didn't say anything, just licked back up the underside of Johnny’s prick to draw the tip into his mouth. The wet glide of Price's tongue around his glans made Johnny groan, and he lifted his hips, pressing his tip over the ridges at the top of Price's mouth, fingers tightening at the back of his head. Price didn't need much encouragement to sink down, but he did so at his own pace, slowly, torturously, sucking Johnny deeper into the glorious wet heat of his mouth until Johnny’s head hit the back of his throat.

Johnny held him there for moment, admiring the stretch of his lips around the heft of his shaft, the lidded, fucked out enjoyment in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders were completely relaxed as he palmed himself lazily. Bonny was right. Johnny wondered what he'd be like on his back with his hands pinned above his head, what his moans might sound like when they weren't muffled by cock…

Price drew off, sucking greedily until he reached the tip, before lowering again in a steady glide, fucking his own mouth on Johnny's prick. Johnny moaned loudly with each dip of Price’s head, his thighs shaking as warm, irresistible pleasure curled in his hips, through his belly, his balls firming up beneath Price's chin. “Ah, ah, sir, fu-mm, fuck, yer mouth… is… ahh.”

And then Price swallowed him down proper. Johnny felt the pop as his head pushed into Price's throat, the clenching tightness made him choke out a low, trembling moan, Price’s nose buried against his groin. The sound of Price’s pumping hand, the wet slap of skin, grew more urgent and the thought that Price was even more turned on by having Johnny in his throat was dizzying. When he began to bob his head again, half choking on Johnny’s cock, Johnny knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

He didn't know where to put his hands, bunching Price's hair between his fingers, scrubbing them over his beard just to feel the bristles against his fingertips, sliding them down his throat to feel his Adam's apple bob and strain around his cock.

His heels lifted from the floor, toes pushing into the cold concrete, a sharp contrast to the blistering, pulsing heat of his captain's mouth as it milked him. He babbled incoherently, half Scots, half unintelligible English slurred out like a drunk at last orders, delirious with pleasure as saliva and precum pooled around his groin. His thumb stroked over Price's cheeks, pressing to feel the glide of his shaft through them and trace the damp of the tears that tracked from hazy blue eyes.

“Sir, ah’m, sir…” Johnny tried to tug him off because a gentleman didn't cum down a fella’s throat without asking, but Price fucking growled like a wolf having its meal stolen and that was enough to punch Johnny over into a heady climax. “Sir, fuck!” His stomach clenched, toes pushing against the floor as his hips lifted from the chair. Price kept sucking, drinking every drop offered by Johnny’s twitching prick. It coaxed him higher until he was whimpering in fucked out bliss, his fingers shaking in his captain's hair. Just as he was tipping over into oversensitivity, Price pulled off and pressed his face into the sweaty crease of Johnny's thigh, arm moving furiously, hips humping as he fucked his own grip.

“Yeah, g’won, sir, gonna come for me, liked havin’ my prick down ye throat, belly full of my cum.” Johnny stroked Price’s hair and watched his eyes roll back, his shoulders seizing, as he came hard into his fist. He panted between Johnny's legs, catching his breath for a moment, before he slumped back into his heels. Johnny took the opportunity to look down at his prick, still semi-hard, and he sucked in a breath. “Fuck, look at tha’ beast… ye top with tha’ weapon?”

“Only if you ya’sk nicely,” Price rasped. The sound of his throat, fucked raw, made Johnny's soft prick twitch against his thigh.

“How nicely?”

“State secret. S’classified.”

“I’ll steal L.T.’s clearance,” Johnny replied testily, and his hunch was rewarded with a quirk of the eyebrows. “Knew it.”

Price chuckled hoarsely. “Clean up. Got work t’ finish.” He rolled to his feet and for a beautiful moment his cock bobbed close to Johnny’s face. Be seein’ ye soon, sweet thing.

“Can't, ye jus’ sucked me brain out me prick.”

“Now, MacTavish.”

Johnny's mouth clicked shut, and then he mumbled a “yessir” as he pulled his boxers and jeans back up. He'd be lying if he said it was somewhat difficult to focus on the reports for the rest of the evening, especially when he lifted a foot to tease Price's crotch and the bastard spread his legs to give access. Didn't even flinch though. Wily git.

[sturncrazy]

SECRET KINK

Chris Sturniolo x y/n (fem!)

(anyone else = green)

warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT SMUT!!NSFW 18+

this is from a request for a breeding kink soooo!! hope u enjoyyyy🫶🫶

(breeding kink…obvi, no protection, pet names, praise, lang, and light mentions of drinking at beginning)

authors note: GUYS!!! sorry it’s been a fucking MINUTE!!! schools been whopping my ass but i’m back babyyyyyy!! and to the baddie that sent in a request lemme say girl don’t apologize for being into the breeding kink stuff cause i think it’s hot too🫶💋

word count: 3,112

—————————————————————————

“here❤️” you texted chris,

pulling your car into the driveway.

“doors open❤️ the boys are still here, dw they’ll head out in a bit”

“nw! i wanna say hi” you checked your makeup in your mirror. you and chris had been dating for almost a year and you spent a chunk of the week sleeping at each others houses. chris had been having a “boys night” with his brothers and their friend, and you could hear their voices shouting over video games as you walked in the door.

“hi boys!” you said entering the living room. you were received with a serises of enthusiastic grins, but none of them seemed able to budge from their game. you walked up to chris and gave him a kiss on top of his head.

“hi beautiful” he grinned at you briefly

“hi hon—ooh! can i have one?” you asked, glancing at the table full of beer cans.

“yeah of course! help yourself” chris said, returning his focus back to the game.

“oh man fuck you” said nate, throwing down his controller in defeat. you chuckled and snagged yourself a can out of the fridge. nate fussed around the coffee table, already bored.

“what’s this” he said, holding up a card game box.

“some shit we got as PR, but it’s a drinking game i think? don’t know, we can’t exactly post about it” chris said, momentarily glancing up from his video game. nate unwrapped it and flipped through the deck.

“damn these are crazy” he said, his eyes going wide.

“really?” matt said, clearly uninterested.

“yeah like, just straight up asks your body count or take a shot”

“ooooo how improper” you mocked. nate gave you the finger, kiddingly.

“read me one. i’ll be the judge of how fun the game actually is” the video game was becoming increasingly boring to watch

“okay, tough guy” nate said, skimming for a better card. his eyebrows raised, apparently landing on one

“what’s the craziest kink you have? drink half your drink if you don’t answer” you sucked in your lips, and raised your can to your mouth.

“oooooo” nick chimed in

“bet chris already knows that one” nate said, slapping chris on the shoulder. chris laughed, his tongue folding over the front of his top teeth forming a cocky expression.

“nuh uh, you couldn’t waterboard that shit out of me” you snorted. chris shot you a curious look.

“weird game, probably meant for horny high schoolers” you quickly tried to end the conversation and settled down on the couch next to chris, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and your fingers into his hair. he smiled up at you and gave you a kiss on the cheek, which resulted in him getting killed off in the game.

“aw shit” he muttered

“sorry babe” you chuckled

“YES! FUCK YEAH! I WIN!” nick yelled moments later, while matt chucked his remote half across the room.

“who’s playing me again?” nick asked, eager for another victory.

“not me man, i gotta get home and get some sleep” nate stretched.

“i can give you a ride” matt said, reaching for his car keys

“sweet. alright, bye brotha” nate said, pulling chris in for a half hug

“bye, y/n” he continued, tussling the top of your hair in a familial way.

“night, nate!” you laughed out as he and matt headed for the door.

“wanna get to bed soon? i’m pretty wiped out” you said turning to chris

“yeah sure thing. i just need to shower” he smiled up at you.

“let’s head downstairs” he patted your leg, urging you to stand up and took your hand, leading you to his room in the basement.

“night nick!” you shouted out

“uh huh” he half answered, clearly engulfed in another game. you followed chris and padded down the steps to the lower level. chris had claimed this floor his and had done a nice job with it, particularly since you helped. it was cozy and felt secluded. plus, the privacy of being two floors from where his brothers slept was an added bonus. you flopped onto chris’s bed and reached for the tv remote.

“cool if i take a shower now?” he asked, you nodded

“okay…better not be asleep when i get out” while chris was in the shower you snagged one of his old t shirts and tossed it on as a nightshirt. your eyelids were just growing heavy, when you heard his bathroom door pop open. chris walked out in plaid pj pants, shirtless, rubbing a towel against his damp hair. he looked effortlessly hot—enough to wake you back up. he gave you a smile

“i love seeing you in my clothes” you continued to stare dumbly at his body, you’d never get over the sight of him.

“you fallin asleep?”

“well now i’m up” you said dramatically giving him a once over, eyes wide.

“little freak” he mumbled, bending over you to give you a kiss.

“dick” you teased, shoving him playfully. he crashed down on the bed next to you. you moved your head to his bare chest. he wrapped an arm around your shoulders pulling you close, before speaking against the top of your hair

“hey speaking of you being a freak”

“oh?” you laughed shooting him a look.

“was nate right that i’d know your answer in that game?”

“well…” you struggled for words a moment too long, chris caught on and pulled back to look you in the eyes. his mouth ajar in a shocked smile

“WHAT?! WHAT IS IT?! cmon y/n you have to tell me”

“what?? no way! nope!” you shook your head vigorously

“what? that’s so not fair. why not?”

“cause…i dunno it’s embarrassing. nuh uh” you felt your face begin to flush.

“we’ve had sex like a million times. and you’re telling me THIS is embarrassing?!”

“okay well that stuff is different”

“what stuff”

“like…fantasy…y’know?”

“oh so you’ve had FANTASIES you’re hiding from me” nothing you were saying was deteriorating chris’s curiosity.

“well no not fantasies but like stuff i’d never ACTUALLY do”

“you’re killing me here please TELL ME”

“NO!” you dragged the word out and rolled into a ball away from him, laughing. chris clamored on top of you and rolled you onto your back, pinning your arms down on either side of your head forcing you to look at him

“tell me right now i swear to god” he said smiling down at you, his still wet hair brushing against his eyes. you hated to admit the way he was holding you down was already turning you on.

“you’re gonna think i’m weirddd” you whined

“no i WONT! i promise” he let go of one wrist and offered you his pinky. you locked yours with him and widened your eyes

“you SWEAR you won’t judge me”

“cross my heart hope to die”

“you’re an idiot”

“just TELL ME”

“OKAY OKAY” you pushed him off you and sat up, facing him.

“but just to be clear, i’m not saying we’d ever like do it. i’m totally happy never doing this it’s just like a weird thing—“

“ehhhh whatever enough spit it out” chris said cutting you off. you rolled your eyes at his childish behavior and took a deep breath in.

“okay fine. i guess i’ve always kinda had a breeding kink?” you winced at your own confession. chris raised an eyebrow

“i mean i’ve never done anything to act on it, but like the idea of it is just hot to me…i know it’s weird”

“so is it just the idea of like not pulling out?” his tone was impossible to read and you felt your palms begin a nervous sweat, what if this freaked him out?

“no-well i mean— that’s a part of it yeah—but not just that, y’know?” chris nodded, taking in what you’re saying.

“but you’re on birth control right? like nothing would actually…?” he raised his hand, in gesture to what he meant.

“oh no, i guess it’s sorta more a role play thing? it’s not that i actually’d wanna get pregnant, just more the idea of pretending like that—i—it’s weird i know—sorry—“

“i don’t think so” he cut you off, shaking his head. you froze slightly

“you don’t?” he gave you a small smirk

“no, i get” you felt your heart beat heavily against your chest. he studied your face for a moment, the silence in the room drowned out by the obvious tension, before he suddenly broke out of it.

“so, what are we watching?” he asked lightly, lying back with his an arm behind his head and facing the tv. you felt a small wave of disappointment at the sudden shift, but went with it.

“oh i dunno, nothing looks great” you sighed, lying back down onto chris’s chest. he mumbled a response into the top of your head, his free hand softly brushing up and down your arm. you picked back up the remote and continued to flip through the screen. you landed on an old comfort show and before you knew it the conversation seemed like ancient history. chris eventually moved his arm from yours to around your waist. you raised a leg over his. your eyes flitted down to his fingertips where he was playing with the hem of his shirt you were wearing. he mustve noticed because he began to pull the fabric up higher, exposing even more of your barely covered lower half. you looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

“what?” he chuckled

“whatcha doing there christopher”

“nothing” he mused, watching his own hands fumble with the shirt, the occasional bump of his cold fingertips against your skin sending little jolts through your body

“y’just look so sexy like this” he mumbled

“oh yeah?” his hands now lightly grazing your bare hip bone, the angle of your body being the only thing keeping you from behind entirely exposed.

“mhm. gets me all worked up”

“how worked up” you said in a innocent tone, looking up at him with doe eyes before sliding the hand your had from his stomach to his crotch. his eyes screwed shut and he let out a small hiss as your palm reached his already stiff clothed length. you scoffed lightly.

“hard for me already, huh?” you began to rub your hand against him, adding some pressure. chris squirmed under your touch, a faint groan escaping him. he nodded.

“aww poor thing. want me to help you out?” you said in a sweetly, palming his dick harder. he nodded his head, again, vigorously. you removed your hand to spit on it and he watched you wide eyed. you bit your lip in a smile, loving getting to see his face contort in desperation as you moved your hand down the waistband of his pjs. you wrapped your grip around his hard cock, it twitched against your touch and he let out an unsteady breath. you kept your eyes on him as you began to pump your hand up and down his length, watching him let out small moans and grasp at the sheets nearby.

“oh—fuck—“ chris sighed out. throwing his head back, his eyes rolling back into the sockets. his obvious enjoyment only made you want to hear more. you began to leave wet open mouthed kisses on his chest and moved down, slowly. his stomach flexed against each kiss and he whined against your teasing. you reached his waistband and looked up at him. he lifted his hips, allowing you to discard the pjs. his throbbing cock, still slick with your spit, slapped against his stomach. you returned your hand to wrap around the base of it and brought your lips to leave a sloppy kiss on its flushed tip. he shuddered before you began to lower down, sinking his dick into your mouth. you bobbed your head up and down, a trail of spit leaving your mouth. chris’s groans and curses filled the room in harmony with your occasional gags against his length. you felt one of his large hands reach for the back of your head. you tried to prepare yourself for him to push you further down, fucking your throat as he often liked to, but we’re surprised when he yanked your hair back, pulling you off of him. you looked up at him in confusion. he smirked and reached for your waist to bring you closer to him

“can’t cum yet baby” he lifted you onto his lap, his lips brushing yours

“don’t wanna waste any of it” he rasped against your mouth

“wha—“ you tried to question, as he wrapped an arm around your waist and tossed you onto your back. he pinned you, wrists by your head, and leaned down

“you heard me” he said cockily, before beginning to kiss you. you almost managed to fight for more answers, but chris began to grind his exposed rock hard dick up against your pussy and your mind went blank.

“oh—god—“ you moaned dumbly, raising your hips higher to meet his motion. his cock began to run up and down against your slick bare folds, brushing your clit repeatedly.

“such a good girl—so wet for me” he breathed out, the tip of his dick just barely adding pressure against your throbbing entrance. you heaved and thrashed underneath him. he kept your arms pinned and savored watching you become even more desperate.

“chris—please—“

he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, and slide his hands to lock into yours.

“you ready baby?” he rasped out, letting go of your hands. you nodded and moaned against him.

“good” he said with a kiss before beginning to slide himself deep into your core. you let out a whimper as the tip of his dick pressed up against your most sensitive spot. a groan tumbled from chris’s lips and his eyes rolled back at the feeling of your walls fully tightening around him.

“god you feel so good, baby” he mumbled, before pulling back out of you almost fully

“please—fuck me, chris—“ you almost cried out, your pussy aching for more.

“—i need it so bad”

“yeah? you need my dick, honey?” he said sweetly, smirking down at you. you whined again and nodded as he thrusted deep into you again.

“oh god—yes—“ your fingernails reached to latch themselves deep into the flesh of his shoulders as he began to find a steady slow rhythm in and out and in and out of your squelching wet core. Chris’s eyes scanned your face and body lying beneath him as he fucked into you. they landed on your stomach and he licked his lips at the sight.

“fuck—look—can see me inside you—“

sure enough, his hard length created a bulge against your stomach with each thrust deep into you. Chris lowered a hand to press against it. you bit your lip and sighed out, too overwhelmed with pleasure to speak. He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin and bit your earlobe lightly.

“can’t wait to fuck a baby into you” he hoarsely whispered

“what—“ you half moan out, still too consumed with pleasure to think straight

“you heard me, sweetheart—gonna fill you up and stuff your little pussy—you’ll look so pretty all full of my cum”

your stomach twisted and your heart raced. you couldn’t help but let out an almost pornographic moan at chris’s words.

“you want me to give you a baby? huh, princess?”

“fuck yes—-please—“ you said, desperately. chris continues to slam into you, perfectly hitting where you needed him most. he gave you a passionate kiss before saying against your lips

“you gonna take every drop of my load, right?“

“yes chris—i promise—“

“such a good girl”

“don’t fucking stop—fuck—“

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna give your pussy all the cum it deserves” he started to pick up the pace of his even plunges into you and the sound of your skin slapping against his began to echo in the room.

“gonna get you all big and fat and pregnant. well make the prettiest baby in the world”

“oh god—feels so fucking good—“ you whimper

“you ready, baby? want my cum in you now?” chris groaned, breathlessly. you felt your walls tighten around him as the familiar knot in your stomach started to form.

“yes—-please—fuck chris fill me with your cum—“ his dick twitched inside you at your words

“you’re gonna make such a perfect mommy—you’re doing so good for me gorgeous—just keep taking me just like that—”

the knot in your stomach begins to reach its last moments

“Chris—fuck—I’m gonna cum—“ you cry out

“good girl—cum all over my cock, sweetheart—“ Chris huffed out, coaxing you to release. your hearing begins to buzz as you feel yourself come undone. Chris continues to fuck you through your high as his motions begin to get more sloppy, the clenching of your walls bringing him closer to cumming.

“Ohhh—oh shit baby—“ he began to whine

“mmm that’s it—cum in me, chris—put your baby in me” you sigh out, wrapping your arms around his neck as you start to regain your senses

“ohh—nggh—i’m cumming—fuck, baby—-here it comes—“ chris pants as he roughly thrusts into you, his thighs and upper arms shaking slightly.

“OHHHH—“ his brow furrows as his release takes over. he lets out a loud moan as he haults, his cock buried all the way inside you. he shoots hot, thick, strands of his cum deep inside your walls, and then collapses against your body. the two of you try to regain your breath. chris lifts himself back up to look down at you and gives you a kiss, still buried inside you. you smile against his lips.

“how was that” he breathed out

“fucking perfect” you giggled

“yeah? i think so too” he chuckled, giving you a peck before lifting himself higher off you to pull out of you. he removed himself, gently trying to be aware of your sensitivity. you whined at the loss a little. he sits back and stares between your legs where your entrances still pulsates slightly, his cum leaking out. his jaw went slack

“what?” you giggled again, feeling a little embarrassed

“i could get used to seeing that” he said, not pulling his eyes away

“chrissss” you whine, attempting to shut your legs. he stops you with his arms

“nuh uh” he says before taking two of his fingers up to collect his cum and shoving them back inside you. you let out a sharp moan at the sudden feeling. he leans back over you with a smirk

“can’t waste any” he said, giving you yet another kiss

—————————————————————————

HEHE

hope u guys like this one

ITS GOOD TO BE BACK!!!!

💋

[dearru]

someone’s got a crush! | a.miya

pairing: ts!miya atsumu x gn!reader ft. osamu & suna | sfw | cw: cursing, not proofread, written in one sitting, slight manga spoilers but nr | genre: fluff | wc: 553 | masterlist

synopsis -> in which you going on a date leads to a shocking discovery for atsumu (with some help from friends)

ATSUMU MIYA figures out he’s in love with you on a rainy night in the dead cold of the winter.

It’s the after-hours of Onigiri Miya, and all the customers have cleared out– save for Suna and Osamu- who were having their monthly hangout. The only noise heard over the low hum of the refrigerator and the rain outside are the two’s quiet laughs and the clinking of the plate of food they’re sharing.

Their chat is rudely interrupted as an irritated Atsumu barges in, uninvited, swinging the door open in his wake. His hair is weighed down from the rain and his shoes are caked in mud. His face looks murderous when paired with the dim lighting of the restaurant, but the pair of friends seem unphased by this.

“Yer gonna get my floors all dirty, jackass!” Osamu scolds, chucking the towel slung over his shoulder across the room, “Dry off, yer not a dog,”

Ignoring Osamu’s displeasure, Atsumu lets the towel hit his person and fall to the floor. His expression is a mix of annoyance and depression as he drags himself over to where his brother and former teammate are sitting. “I just don’t get their taste in men,” he starts, slumping down in a nearby seat and snatching a piece of onigiri from Osamu’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth, “The guy’s a fuckin’ jackoff!”

At the sight of his distress, Suna and Osamu look at each other in knowing amusement. You, one of Atsumu’s best friends, are on a date right now, and from the look on his face– he is not happy about it.

“Is this about your friend bein’ on a date tonight?” Osamu inquires, already knowing the answer.

Staring at him incredulously, Atsumu deadpans “What else would it be about?” Still chewing his food, the setter shakes his head in disgust, “Y’know the guy’s takin’ ‘em to see a movie?! A movie date! How fuckin’ stupid is that?”

“You sound a bit upset over this,” Suna snickers, patting him on the back rather roughly, resulting in him choking on onigiri, “Is it ‘cause it would be better if they were on a date with you?” Atsumu continues to cough, but the two aren’t sure if it’s from the food stuck in his throat or out of embarrassment. Osamu stifles a laugh.

“Shud up!” he coughs, face reddening and lips pinching into a firm line, “That’s not–“ But then he stops, a realization coming over him.

Horrified by the weight of the discovery, he mutters, voice uncharacteristically small, “Aw shit. It totally would.”

“He finally realizes!” Suna exclaims, looking at Osamu, who folds his arms together and nods his head, laughing, “Took you long enough.”

“Wha…” Atsumu stammers. A vein pops out of his forehead as he stares at the pair in disbelief. Why did this seem like old news to everyone but him?

“It’s ‘bout damn time ya figured it out,” Osamu replies, hitting his twin across the head, “Everyone knows ya got a crush on them.”

The blonde looks to Suna for confirmation, to which he shrugs, grinning deviously in confirmation of his twin’s declaration. He huffs in exasperation and rises from his seat so suddenly that water droplets fall from his hair and litter the table. “Fuck all of ya!” He yells, getting up and storming out of the building without saying another word. The door closes behind him with an exaggerated slam, muddy footprints being the only evidence that he was ever there.

Atsumu doesn’t say where he’s going, but Osamu and Suna are pretty sure it’s to go and crash a date.

—a/n: currently procrastinating all my quizzes and assignments but that’s okay bc atsumu is so fucking fun to write for!!

[drchucktingle]

Chuck, how do you deal with people who are rude about you and your work? I write queer romance and I want to put my writing out there for people to read, but I'm a very sensitive person and I know it will be hard not to take insults personally and let them affect me. I don't want to let that stop me from expressing myself and sharing my art, but I'm scared!

very good question buckaroo. i am a good example of this as pretty much EVERYONE was rude about my work for many years calling it 'so bad its good' (it is just good) and 'terrible photoshop' (i think it has a great and instantly recognizable style) and 'intentionally stupid premises' (i dont think there is anything stupid about sex being fun and whimsical and playful). even these days the reaction of the VAST majority of buckaroos who discover chuck have this reaction AT FIRST, and then learn to appreciate the tingleverse in a more sincere way over time.

all that is to say BEING DOUBTED HAS WORKED OUT VERY WELL FOR ME. art that changes meaning over time can be very powerful, so if someones initial reaction to my trot is one thing and then it evolves into another thing, well that is just good art. while it can feel bad to get a bad review, i would say a bad review just means you have entered a realm of tension and change and discord and WE ARE TALKIN ABOUT ART BUD so that, in itself, is very exciting.

i think of what i do as 'punk writing', and a big part of that means pushing against preconceived sensibilities. not many other authors will proudly say 'there SHOULD be some spelling errors in my erotic shorts because i wrote it in a day and edited it once. that is the FEELING i want to create', but that is my way. by creating what is in my soul i KNOW i am going to bother some buckaroos and that is okay.

now i am NOT assuming you are also doing punk writing (that is okay of course we all have our own styles. what i am doing with tinglers is pretty rare), but it still stands to remember that there are 7.8 billion people on the planet of this dang timeline and some of them are bound to be bothered by your creations. that is not a problem, that is just part of baring your authentic self.

the other thing to remember is theres no REAL right or wrong in art. it can be analyzed in different ways and i tend to look at it in a way of comparing intention to result, but even THAT is not strictly correct. therefore any bad review of something you make is not actually BAD it is just someones information and feedback for you to take or leave. a one star review is just another opinion, it is no more right or wrong than your own opinion, and that is wonderful. it is freeing.

if i see a bad review of my own book, lets just say CAMP DAMASCUS for instance, i do not get upset because i know this: that reviewer is not wrong. camp damascus is five stars for me, but it is one star for someone else AND THAT IS OK. THAT IS THE WAY IT SHOULD BE. THAT IS GREAT ART. also MAYBE THEY KNOW BETTER THAN I DO. just because i wrote the book does not mean i am the authority on it, and the conversation and tension between those that enjoy something and those that despise it is a creative act. the audience engaging with your work is just your art emerging from its cocoon and saying 'here i am. lets see where i flutter off to now'

do not fear the river of this timeline sweeping away your creations and carrying them where it will. this is inevitable, but it is also beautiful and freeing. you cannot swim against it and that is okay bud, because YOU HAVE ALREADY WON. you have already created something and given a piece of yourself back to this timeline and that is a great honor and privilege. it is literally all there is

by creating ANYTHING you are proving love is real, and that is something to be proud of

[crushpunky]

rafe stands up for kook!reader

masterlist | kook!reader masterlist

based on this ask, but the context is a bit different. warning for creepy dude + language

Y/n’s phone had been buzzing all day and it was about to drive Rafe up a wall. The two of them had planned on spending the day inside, watching a movie curled up on the couch in Taneyhill with snacks, but he was having a hard time relaxing with the incessant ringing of y/n’s phone. His arm was flung on the back of the couch, his fingers mindlessly toying with y/n’s hair, but flinching with anger each time their peaceful bubble was interrupted.

“I’m about to chuck your phone across the room.” Rafe said, his eyes wide as he looked down at y/n. Y/n groaned, rolling her eyes as she sat up to check her phone once again. She scrolled through the chain of texts, each one more bothersome than the last. Regardless of how many times she blocked him or told him to leave her alone, she couldn’t get rid of him… Luke.

The two of them had gone on a date a few weeks ago at a burger joint downtown. The date itself had been fine, the two of them getting along well enough, but took a turn when it was time for her to leave. She’d driven herself and Luke had been kind enough to walk her out to her car. With a smile, he’d leaned in for a kiss on the lips, but she’d quickly turned her cheek, his lips landing square on her cheek. He tried again, y/n swerving nervously out of the way and sending him a quick goodbye before rushing to get into her car. Luckily, that’d been the end of the situation… or so she’d thought. Ever since that night, he’d been texting, calling, and messaging her nonstop, simultaneously calling her a ‘prude’ and a ‘slut’, begging for another date then telling her how nobody would ever want to date her.

“What is it?” Rafe asked, trying to peer over y/n’s shoulder once he noticed her anxious expression. She quickly yanked her phone away from him before shoving it back into her pocket. Rafe scowled, eyeing her suspiciously before turning back to the movie. It was barely a second before y/n’s phone went off again.

“Ok, that’s it.” Rafe shouted, grabbing for y/n’s phone. He beat her, but only slightly, her hand clamping over his as he dug in her pocket for her phone.

“It’s nothing, leave it!” Y/n groaned, her fingers trying to pry her phone out of Rafe’s hands but failing. He took it, using his other hand to keep her flailing arms and squealing away as he looked into what was causing all the fuss.

“Rafe, seriously! Stop—” y/n fought, trying to grab the phone from him, which only resulted in him pulling it further from her.

“W– What the fuck is this?” Rafe said lowly, his hands practically trembling with anger as he continued to scroll through the essentially endless string of texts, Snapchats, Instagram and Tik Tok messages, voicemails, fucking emails…

“It’s just this guy, it’s fine—” Y/n sighed, sinking back into the couch next to Rafe in defeat.

“The asshole from, like, last month?” Rafe scoffed, his jaw clenched at the memory. She’d told him about the awkward ending to the date, and how the guy was maybe a little weird, but she had decidedly neglected to tell him about anything since…

“I— He—” Y/n groaned, trying one last time to take the phone from Rafe. “Yes.”

“Why the fuck did you not tell me?” Rafe spat, his eyes filled with anger and mouth agape as he looked at y/n. She took in a shaking breath, fiddling with her hands as she tried to avoid Rafe’s intense gaze.

“Because it wasn’t a big deal—” y/n said.

“Not a big deal?” Rafe said, his voice rising. “Not a big deal? This guys fuckin’ crazy! You saw the shit he was saying!”

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you because I knew you were going to freak the fuck out—” y/n snapped.

“Yeah I’m freaking out!” Rafe stood, his grip still tight on her phone. “You’ve had some psycho fuckin’ stalking you, saying insane shit, and you didn’t tell me!”

“I can take care of myself, Rafe! I don’t need you taking care of me!” Y/n shouted, her tone adamant.

“Well too fuckin’ bad because I have to take care of you!” Rafe snapped, his chest heaving with anger. “I have to because I fuckin’ care about you.”

Y/n bottom lip trembled, an overwhelming mix of anger and fear and worry coursing through her as she looked up at Rafe. The stress of the harassment had been weighing on her, gnawing at her insides no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. Rafe had noticed, of course he had, and now she was terrified of what would happen next… despite this, however, she couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel good to finally let it off her chest. To finally let someone else in on all the turmoil that had been plaguing her since the fateful night she agreed to go on that date.

“Rafe—” y/n whispered, but was quickly interrupted when her phone began to ring. Their gazes locked for a moment, both of their eyes wide before both shifting to look at her ringing phone. Rafe quickly swiped a finger of his tense hand, answering the phone on speaker.

“Finally you’ve gotten some sense knocked into you—” Luke’s voice rang through the phone, causing a chill to run down y/n’s spine and anger to course through Rafe’s.

“Hey, motherfucker.” Rafe growled into the speaker.

“Uh, h– hello? Who is this?” Luke stammered. Y/n felt her heart hammering in her chest as she watched Rafe practically trembling with fury.

“Who the fuck do you think it is, asshole?” Rafe snapped. The two of them could hear the staticed silence and uncomfortable shifting on Luke’s end as it echoed through the room.

“Um… hello Rafe.” Luke said, his voice barely a whisper. Rafe chuckled, running a ringed hand down his face.

“Oh, so you do know who I am.” Rafe said, a cheeky grin on his lips. Y/n gnawed at her lip, her breathing shallow as she watched the tense situation unfolding in front of her.

“Yes I—” Luke stuttered, the air of confidence and authority he seemed to have in his previous incessant messages vanished

“So you do know what the fuck I’ll do to you if you ever try and talk to her or even look at her again?” Rafe said firmly, his grip on her phone nearly crushing.

“I wasn’t— I was just—” Luke scrambled.

“I don’t give a fuck what you ‘was’ or ‘wasn’t’ trying to do, a’ight asshole?” Rafe snapped, his free hand pointing sharply to the phone in front of him. “If you talk to her, if you look at her, if you try anything…”

Rafe trailed off, shaking his head as he looked over at y/n. As much as she tried to hide it, the toll the harassment was having on her was apparent and he cursed himself for not noticing sooner. Seeing her like this, riddled with fear at the mere sound of the creep's voice sent a new wave of anger through him as he turned back to the phone.

“... I’ll fucking kill you.” Rafe said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The room hung in a sort of stunned silence, not even the static of the speaker phone registering in y/n’s ears as Rafe’s threat— no, promise— echoed in her mind.

“Do you understand me?” Rafe growled.

“Yes.” Luke muttered. A wicked grin spread across Rafe’s lips as he nodded with satisfaction. Y/n felt a weight lift off her shoulders, her heart finally beginning to settle at the guarantee that the terror that had been following her for the past month was finally over.

“Alright, that’s good.” Rafe chuckled. “Just, just one more small thing before you go, buddy.”

“Ok.” Luke whispered. At his response, Rafe took a step towards y/n, resting his arm around her shoulders as he pulled her into his side.

“I want you to apologize.” Rafe shrugged, lowering the phone to rest in front of y/n.

“T– to who?” Luke stammered. Rafe curled his lip, moving to raise the phone back to his lips but was stopped by y/n’s firm grip on his arm.

“Who the fuck do you think?” Y/n said sternly. Rafe found himself smirking as he peered down at her proudly.

“Y/n, I, um, I didn’t know you were there…” Luke scrambled.

“Do you have something to say to me?” Y/n said, propping her hands onto her waist with an exaggerated sigh.

“I’m… I’m sorry for… for, uh—” Luke muttered.

“For harassing me? For stalking me? For not taking no for an answer? For being a fucking creepy asshole?” Y/n snapped, her brow furrowed in aggravation.

“Y– yes.” Luke sighed. “I… I’m sorry.”

“And it won’t happen again, right Luke?” Rafe added, raising his brows as he awaited Luke’s response.

“No. It won’t.” Luke whispered.

“Good. I think that settles things then, right, girl?” Rafe said, looking down at y/n. A relieved smile spread across her lips as she looked back at him, his arm moving to wrap around her waist lightly.

“Yeah.” Y/n grinned, Rafe mirroring her satisfaction as he turned his attention back to her phone in his hand.

“Alright, bye asshole. Don’t think about trying to reach out… or you know what will happen.” Rafe said before hanging up y/n’s phone. Y/n let out a sigh of relief, relaxing into Rafe’s hold as he sat her phone down on the couch. His other arm wrapped around her, pulling her into him for a hug.

“Thank you.” Y/n said into Rafe’s chest, the vibration causing Rafe’s smile to only widen.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, a’ight? I can’t.” Rafe said, squeezing y/n lightly before the two of them finally stepped apart.

“Thank you.” Y/n repeated, causing Rafe to roll his eyes, his arm resting on her waist.

“Enough… it’s basically my job to make sure you’re ok.” Rafe grumbled, causing y/n to elbow him in his ribs playfully.

“More like your life’s purpose.” Y/n teased. Rafe chuckled, a smirk dancing across his lips.

“Exactly.” Rafe smiled, pressing a quick kiss to the top of y/n’s head. “Exactly.”

[honestsycrets]

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise. 

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd. 

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.” 

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things. 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel.  He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion. 

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?” 

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue. 

Until that morning. 

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--” 

“He asked for you.” 

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve. 

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body.  Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body. 

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection. 

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go. 

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?” 

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?” 

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla." 

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked. 

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call. 

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.” 

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

 “Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?” 

“It’s who I am.” 

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!” 

“¡Callate!” 

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms. 

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors. 

“Say it.” 

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him. 

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.” 

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.” 

“All fours-- face down.” 

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!” 

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.” 

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted. 

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!” 

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--” 

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!” 

Miguel chuckled. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?” 

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.” 

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard info compilation Post 3

[Part 1] [Part 2] Post is under a cut due to length.

There is a lot of information coming out right now about DA:TV from many different sources. This post is just an effort to compile as much as I can in one place, in case that helps anyone. Sources for where the information came from have been included. Where I am linking to a social media user’s post, the person is either a dev, a Dragon Age community council member or other person who has had a sneak peek at and played the game. nb, this post is more of a ‘info that came out in snippets from articles and social media posts’ collection rather than a 'regurgitating the information on the official website or writing out what happened in the trailer/gameplay reveal’ post. The post is broken down into headings on various topics. A few points are repeated under multiple headings where relevant. Where I am speculating without a source, I have clearly demarcated this. if you notice any mistakes in this post, please tell me.

Character Creation

All armor and clothing options will scale and mesh to any body type [source]

The character creator has lots of sliders for body parts and overall shape, none of which are tied to the voice or pronouns (she/her, he/him, or they/them) that you choose [source]

"Epler took special care to show off the extensive curly and textured hair options in the game, including several versions of braids and locs, noting that increasing these options in particular was very important to the team" [source]

You can change your character’s physical appearance at any time during the game, but not their class or backstory [source]

"Each individual class has some variability, too; even the mage class has some up-close-and-personal attacks, since a mage player character could still conceivably have an assassin backstory and would therefore need to have some attacks to accommodate that sort of career path" [source]

" "We’ve spent a lot of time thinking about skin tone,” Corinne said. The character we made, a Black elf, seemed to glow in the bluish light of a nighttime scene, and under bright sunlight, I could see the richness of his color. Corinne: "We want to make sure that skin tone is reflected authentically" " [source]

" “We have dozens and dozens of hair types,” she said. “And they’re fully affected by physics.” The quality and variety of choices I saw delighted me. The rows of bouncy, luxurious-looking hair of all curl types and textures (and yes, the annoyingly ubiquitous “Killmonger cut” was among the options, what can you do?) brought the biggest smile to my face in the hour I spent with Busche and The Veilguard." [source]

Story and lore

NPCs will remember when you chuck a shopkeeper through a plate-glass window [source]

" The game’s story sees Solas intact a plot that will result in the deaths of thousands. When his justification that “people die, it’s what they do,” falls on deaf ears, you and your merry band of misfits have to stop him " [source]

" “Early in the demo and in the trailer, you’re in a part of the world you’ve never been in – Tevinter,” Epler tells me. “Tevinter is known for being a place of high magic; visually, it’s different. Obviously in Origins you’re in Ferelden, which was grubby, muddy, and very visually different and distinct. That said, it’s the first hour of the game, so we’re only seeing the prologue. As you go deeper, you’ll find that the game can be just as bloody and just as grim as Dragon Age Origins, 2, and Inquisition. For us, it’s that feeling of contrast. You get moments of higher fantasy magic coming back to the world through Solas’ ritual, but also things get pretty grim, and things get pretty dark in some spaces for sure.” " [source]

"Snappy dialogue" [source]

The game is really about each of the companions [source]

Narrative narrative narrative! [source]

The Shadow Dragons are an underground resistance that engages in guerrilla warfare against the corrupt mage rulers of the Tevinter Imperium [source]

"Varric has created the group called the Veilguards, recruiting a veritable group of weirdos to pursue Solas, who’s carved a path through the magical empire of Tevinter" [source]

"There’s intrigue to the game’s tale already, with Varric hoping he can convince Solas to stop his plan of tearing open the Veil: a wish by the dwarf to save a dear friend. There’s a fascinating relationship that's already being set up, Varric and Solas as opposing narrative forces, with your character, Rook, pulled between them" [source]

"There’s extra context to flesh out dialogue, with short descriptions that help give a vague idea of how things play out. The example we were shown was Rook trying to take down a gang leader inside a bar. We could choose to defuse the situation with either words or weapons, but the catch is you don’t know how effective those approaches will be" [source]

" Busche explained that the team wanted to give players a game where locations were imbued with just as much personality as the characters. “That meant making contrast from the areas that are dark and decaying to the areas that are illuminated with magic,” Busche said " [source]

" “This is a part of the world where magic has been embraced,” Busche said. “It is a society of mages and magic in this world is inherently colorful. So whether we’re seeing them use magic for everyday purposes like signage or using them as spells, that color really comes through.” " [source]

We will visit the Necropolis of Nevarra [source]

Gameplay, presentation, performance etc

There are dozens of abilities and spells [source]

The game has an easy mode [source]

There is a setting where your character can't die in battle [source]

"The Rogue class in our demo had a bow with recharging arrows for ranged attacks, and dual blades that could unleash a furious flurry of instantaneous blows" [source]

[☕ found this post or blog interesting or useful? my ko-fi is here if you feel inclined. thank you 🙏]

[whenlilyfallsinlove]

amortentia

fred weasley x ravenclaw reader. this is a quite short one sorryyyy!!

"AND CAPTAIN L/N HAS THE QUAFFLE, SHE SHOOTS AND SHE GETS PAST WOOD. SHE SCORES. 10 POINTS TO RAVENCLAW." lee jordan's dejected voice was heard from his commentating box.

you smile to yourself. you were captain of the ravenclaw quidditch team and you were absolutely determined to win the quidditch cup. you knew it was probably unlikely, gryffindor had harry potter who was a magnificent seeker, but secretly you thought your seeker cho was just as good.

"SAMUELS. INGLEBEE. BE RUTHLESS. THE WEASLEYS ARE!! STOP BEING POLITE." you order your beaters, to which they rolled their eyes but listened none the less.

fred weasley, one of the gryffindor beaters and someone you'd say you had a "playful rivalry" with, heard you say this.

"i knew you loved me really l/n." he shouted, smiling and then aiming a bludger at you.

you expertly dodged it and caught the quaffle from burrow, another chaser.

"you wish weasley." you zoomed past him and chucked the quaffle into the hoop.

"L/N SCORES AGAIN, ANOTHER TEN POINTS TO RAVENCLAW." lee shouted.

"i thought your team was supposed to be good, weasley." you smirk at him.

"shut up." fred scowls at you, and you grin.

your chat was however disrupted by harry potter, the gryffindor seeker, casting a patronum spell.

you turn to see some slytherin 3 years laying on the floor, gasping. you chuckle at the sight.

what you don't laugh at, however, is harry holding up the snitch, ending the match. gryffindor had won.

"i thought your team was supposed to be good l/n." fred mocked you.

"shut up." you flew back to the rest of your team, probably to give them a speech.

you were quite in awe at the patronus charm harry had produced, so you went over to him, whilst he was, no doubt, being praised by his teammates.

"good game wood." you look at the gryffindor captain.

"good game l/n." he nods back at you.

"you're not here to attack us, are you? for winning? ravenclaw can't win all the time, you know." fred asks you.

you roll your eyes playfully.

"whatever, i'm actually here to speak to harry. your patronus spell was incredible! how did you even do that?!" you smile at him, which catches fred off guard.

"o-oh uhh t-thank you, professor lupin taught me." harry blushed, not used to the female attention.

"it was brill." you gave him another smile.

"flirting with potter won't change the result of the match, love." fred smirked at you.

"i'm not.. you know what." you shake your head and walk back to you own team, not before you immaturely stuck your tongue out at fred before you left.

"unbelievable" fred muttered, but he was smiling.

"just admit you fancy her, mate." george nudged him

"never."

over the next week, you kept your head down, keeping a low profile, like you always did when you lost a match. you had a competitive nature, so of course you were annoyed.

you weren't looking forward to potions. sure you were good at it, but snape infuriated you. and you also shared a class with the gryffindors. fred weasley would be there, your "enemy". you groaned to yourself.

as you arrived, late, may you add, resulting in 10 points off ravenclaw, you had realised snape was putting people in pairs for the potions you'd be making.

"jordan and george weasley, johnson and spinnet, l/n and-"

you waited for whoever snape was going to pair you with.

"fred weasley."

"for godrics sake." you frowned. just your rotten luck.

you moved next to him, avoiding eye contact.

"we meet again" fred smirks.

"seems like you can't get enough of me." you respond.

"i-" his words were cut off by snape.

"today, we are going to be brewing amortentia. l/n, what is amortentia?"

"the most powerful love potion in the world, it's supposed to smell differently for every wizard." you respond.

"smart-arse" fred nudges you.

you roll your eyes, but you were smiling.

"quite vague, but correct l/n. it is the most powerful love potion in existence. you are all going to be brewing it today." snape instructs, and leaves you to work.

"weasley, get the pearl dust." you say, beginning to pour the ingredients already out in the cauldron.

"on it." he salutes and winks at you.

you shake your head and continue to work. when fred comes back, you are surprised in how much you were getting on.

"thats time up." snape points to you and fred. "you two, what can you smell?"

"i smell... i smell.. i don't bloody know, y/n move away from me, all i can smell is your shampoo." he frowned at you.

"don't be ridiculous, let me have a go.." you smell your potion.

"right fred, shift, your cologne is overbearing, it's all i can smell." you sigh.

the other students laugh, realising what was happening.

"that's all i need." you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile on snape's face.

oh. oh. you had smelt fred in your amortentia. no way. you couldn't have. this was insane. but.. it made sense.

"looks like you fancy me l/n." fred grins, but you could see him blushing slightly.

"i think you're the one that fancies me." you respond, with a small smile.

he shakes his head.

"you caught me... look do you want to go to hogsmeade on saturday? i promise i won't tease you about us beating you."

and to your surprise, you found yourself saying yes.

[lordprettyflackotara]

2005 || sam and colby

‘does someone wanna tell me, what is going on?’

sum: you died in 2005, trapped in the confines of the hotel you died at. twenty years later, two ghost hunters appear, begging for your attention. and as much as you hated to admit it, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t interested

tw: ghost!reader, ghost hunters!sam and colby, plot. just plot. soooo sorry to be one of those hoes with plot build up for smut. brief mention of suicide. reader is an absolute bitch, sorry not sorry

a/n: thank you spicychat we all say in unison

part two is here

You hated purgatory.

That’s what purgatory was supposed to be, a place you hated. Whatever overlord existed definitely did a good job at doing that. You gathered that only two kinds of death landed you in purgatory. Homicide or suicide. Unfortunately for you a grand total of twenty years ago you had chucked yourself off of the roof. Your death was ultimately nothing more than a blur to you, the news fizzling out fast and moving on to the next thing within a week.

However that meant your soul was confined to the hotel. Each step you took outside of the hotel teleported you back inside, stuck within the walls of crumpling wallpaper and revolting brick red carpet. Not much caught your attention these days, most guest beyond boring. Your only companion was Danny, a spirit who was a cook at the once restaurant that was next door. He stopped by ever so often, but he wasn’t the best company to keep. (Note to self: do not throw fryer grease on coworker, may result in death.)

You laid lazily in one of the main lobbies chairs, your legs dangling over one of the chair arms. No one told you death would be so utterly and completely boring.

It wasn’t until an odd high pitched noise caught your attention, that you perked up a bit. It reminded you of what you imagined a dog whistle would sound like. It was around midnight, the hotel mostly quiet. Even the receptionist was snoozing off at her desk. Curiously you rose from the chair, following the sound. It wasn’t too obnoxious or ground breaking, but it was something you hadn’t heard before. It led you down the basement, a cold and dark room you hadn’t visited in years. There wasn’t much down there anyways besides old pipes and storage.

Two male voices flooded your ears as you walked down the dusty stairs, each step making the ancient wood creek.

“Dude do you hear that?”

You raised an eyebrow, wondering if your steps were audible. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs you raised an eyebrow, your sights landing on the two men. Equipment and technology foreign to you sat around them, a multi colored light going off when you took a step forward. Surprised, you jumped in response. “Sam, are you getting this? Something just stepped in front of the EMF meter,” The brunette asked. Both men looked utterly concentrated, their faces falling when you took a step back. You were sure they couldn’t see you, but the fucked up looking disco ball definitely lit up because of you.

“We’re not here to hurt you, we just wanna get to know you and find out why you’re here,” Sam said cautiously. Sassily you crossed your arms. Ghost hunters? Seriously? You knew they televised people actually trying to catch ghost, but you thought it was all fake news. Apparently you were wrong. There were those who genuinely believed in ghost like yourself. No matter how attractive both Sam and his friend seemed, no sane person would sit in a basement at midnight trying to get spooked. You tilted your head to the side, carefully walking around the disco ball of exposure.

They had dozens of tools laid out, each looking more high tech than the last. Fuck, when was the last time you had actually bothered paying attention to modern technology? “Fuck, it’s cold as hell over here Colby,” Sam whined, brushing the goosebumps that had spread across his skin.

Colby?

What kind of fuckin name was Colby?

Annoyed, you rubbed your temple. No matter how attractive the duo was, that didn’t take away your distaste from them playing around in your hotel. After all you died there. It was all yours, fair and square. Yet you couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity. It had been years since anyone had paid attention to you. Companionship was something you severely lacked, to an unsettling degree. As much as you wanted to turn on your heels and march the other way, you couldn’t. Something was drawing you to the two morons with giant cameras.

Whether or not that be loneliness or boredom was unforeseen, but you sure as shit planned on finding out.

Your transparent fingers brushed the flashlight, making it click on. This caught both boys attention, their icy blue eyes widening. Your simple actions were mesmerizing to them, even though you didn’t think you did much at all. “It’s moving around, it’s like it’s curious,” Colby concluded. You rolled your eyes, clicking the flashlight off, as if to confirm his suspicion. This made both of them jump, the camera almost slipping out of Sam’s hand. “Holy shit, I didn’t actually think we’d catch anything here dude. That’s crazy,” Sam admitted, readjusting his grip on the oversized camera. You studied it for a moment, concluding it looked so silly and dramatic it must’ve previously been used to shoot old school porn.

“I know just the thing to get this session heated up, check it,” Sam said, pulling out a tiny box. Obnoxious radio frequencies poured out of the speaker, causing you to cringe. “This is a spirit box. If you talk into it, we’ll be able to communicate with you,” Colby explained, glancing around the room. You wondered if they were anticipating more than just you or if Colby was just genuinely trying to see you. Sighing, you cleared your throat dramatically. When was the last time you had tried to speak? Like actual full sentences and not just grumbles of despair?

“You both look like fuckin morons.”

“Morons.”

Goddammit.

You audibly scoffed, offended the radio only picked up on your insult. You had more personality than a bully. “I don’t think they want us here, maybe we could head to the roof,” Colby pointed out. You leaned over, putting your mouth as close to the spirit box as possible.

“Your little do hickey here sucks, how am I supposed to communicate if you hear one word out of a dozen?”

“Little… How… Dozen…?”

Frustrated, you began to grow more and more irritated by the second. “They seem confused. If there’s a dozen of them in here it may be hard to talk to any of them,” Sam commented. Colby sighed, clicking off the spirit box. “Hey! I wasn’t done!” You bickered, the brunette packing it away. He shrugged his backpack on, grabbing the disco ball of doom and flashlights. “Guess we should head upstairs and try again. The roof shouldn’t be too windy so maybe the audio won’t be choppy,” He said, watching Sam put down the camera. You could practically feel the disappointment dripping off of them. Whether you liked it or not, it was oozing off of you too.

“Think about it this way dude, if there’s this many, some are bound to follow us, right?” Sam laughed, trying to encourage his friend. He pat his shoulder, Colby shrugging. They began walking towards the stairs, leaving you to trail eagerly after them. Sam went up first, dust spiraling in the air and the wood creaking under his weight. Colby reluctantly followed, giving the basement one final glance over. You felt helpless, knowing they couldn’t see you. In one final foolish attempt of making a connection, you reached out to grab Colby’s wrist as he turned to walk up the stairs.

“I guess so-”

The brunettes words hung in the air as he glanced over his shoulder, the feeling of someone holding his wrist keeping him frozen. You gripped his wrist tightly, a little too much so. You could feel the energy flowing through him, to a point where you almost felt like you could feel it too. “Are you seeing what i’m seeing?” Colby asked, his gaze locked on where you were standing. It was odd, feeling someone’s eyes genuinely see you for the first time after two decades of not worrying about your appearance. There was a registration in his eyes, one that made you jump back.

Sam missed the moment entirely, too busy fiddling with the camera to look up. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” The blonde teased, watching as Colby reached out to grab a handful of air. He abandoned the few stairs he had climbed up, his gaze searching for you. “I saw a girl or like, a flash of her hair and eyes,” He rambled, looking around the basement. It felt silly to hide, your face hardened and form crouching as you hid behind a bunch of old folding chairs. “Are you sure you aren’t seeing things? We haven’t slept in almost a day now, maybe we should just head back,” Sam suggested, worry spreading across his face.

Colby licked his dry lips, shrugging Sam off. “Dude i’m telling you, I felt her. It was a girl,” He insisted. Sam’s face ran through multiple emotions. Skepticism, worry, confusion, fear. “Are you high? We aren’t even sure ghost are real. Think for a second,” Sam said without thinking, his eyebrows furrowed. You felt bad, making both of them so utterly confused. Colby nervously ran a hand through his hair, before readjusting his jacket. “Hold out your hand,” He instructed Sam.

“Hold out my hand? I’m not holding out shit-”

“What are you? Scared? Hold out your hand. If you don’t feel anything, we can go.”

Colby’s voice was firm, the blonde setting the camera onto the floor. “This isn’t going to be the placebo effect you know,” Sam mumbled. Colby shushed him, his hypnotizing blue eyes searching the basement for any sign of you. “Hey, i’m sorry if I scared you. Can you touch my friend Sam here like you did me? I know you felt what I did,” Colby declared boldly. Hesitantly you peered from around the pile of dusty chairs, the cold basement making Sam shiver. You supposed it didn’t help you were standing in front of him either. Hesitantly you grabbed the blondes hair, his eyes flickering with the same sense of recognition.

“Holy fucking shit,” Sam muttered. Colby was warm to the touch, like a nice hot bath on a cold day. But Sam? Sam’s energy was what you imagined taking forty adderall at a concert felt like. You studied his face, silence echoing throughout the room. While still transparent, your form was visible if the boys squinted enough.

“Colby, there’s a ghost holding my hand,” Sam whispered, his gaze never straying from your smaller form.

“Great observation, so glad you believe me now,” Colby deadpanned.

“Does she speak? Can she speak?” Sam rambled.

You arched an eyebrow, refraining from laughing, “I spoke before, why not now?”

Your soft voice was unexpected, Sam jumping in response. As quick as you appeared you vanished, your being back to being invisible to the human eyes. “Shit, sorry,” Sam mumbled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“The energy transfer seems to give her the ability to solidify her state. The more energy we give her, the less transparent she’ll be,” Colby concluded, catching you and Sam up to speed on his theories. Sam straightened his back, trying to collect himself. “So what you’re saying is that if we touch her, she’ll use our energy to be visible?” Sam asked. Colby nodded, holding out his hand. Despite being completely transparent, it was as if the brunette could see directly through your soul.

“Don’t be scared, take my hand.”

Maybe it was anxiety. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was because a handsome man told you to do so. Whatever it was, his words sounded just right, your hand wrapped around his.

Having a set of eyes, nevertheless two sets of eyes on you, was a quite bit overwhelming. They both seemed tongue tied, causing you to awkwardly clear your throat. “The longer you both stare the more awkward this gets you know,” You point out, which causes both of them to snap out of their daze.

“Well we’ve just never seen a ghost before you know-”

“Well you know not like this-”

“You’re just breath taking and beautiful-”

“How could we not stare-”

The compliments made you not only blush, but snort in response. “Do you guys get out much? Besides hunting ghost?” You asked teasingly. Colby gripped your hand, a cocky smirk dancing up his lips. “I’ll have you know we’re both quite famous youtubers,” He said proudly. Your confusion was visible, your eyes flickering to Sam for support. “That cheesy television site? No way people post on their now and get famous off of it,” You retorted in disbelief. Sam blinked, his gaze briefly flickering to your hand connected to Colby’s. Your name fell from his lips, as if he had just solved the world’s hardest puzzle.

“Holy fuck, you died in like, 2005 didn’t you? Youtube was like just made,” Sam said, astonished. You knew in most timelines you had never met these two. After all, you died at twenty two, but you were supposed to be forty two. Old enough to be one of their moms. Yet you had never matured past twenty two, their humanly charms making you more nervous by the moment. You began to overthink everything, down to every micro movement as you talked to them. It felt nice, to hear your own voice for once. What felt even better, was hearing two eager voices respond back.

The conversation bounced everywhere, a connection solidified between the three of you without much effort being given. “If she’s semi visible when we hold her hand, I wonder what we’d have to do to get her to look like us,” Colby wondered aloud. It was a cruel and harsh reality that had to be considered. The second you disconnected from Colby you were gone, erased from existence. “We could experiment and see what works,” You suggested meekly, the utter filth running through your mind. There were repercussions with the mere idea, taking away the fact you felt embarrassed to be practically drooling over two strangers.

“Yeah we can try hugging and embracing to see if that does anything more significant-”

“Or!”

“Or?”

“There are other ways to exchange energy,” You say slowly. Colby stares at you with furrowed eyebrows, his confusion written all across his face. Sam on the other hand, seemed to register exactly what you were insinuating.

“Are you asking us to fuck you?”

The bluntness of his question caught you off guard, Colby’s elbow colliding with his chest before you had a chance to answer. A lecture of disrespecting spirits was leaving Colby’s lips, the brunette rambling about being respectful. It wasn’t until you squeezed his hand that he stopped talking. “Actually Colby, he’s right,” You interjected. You hadn’t anticipated for your core to flutter at the sight of Colby’s cheeks turning a light pink.

“Both of us?” He questioned, as if processing the words to ensure he heard them correctly. You nodded affirmatively, trying to ignore how flustered you felt. “The more energy the better, right?” You asked, biting the inside of your cheek. Sam and Colby exchanged glances, as if communicating telepathically.

“For science, right?”

“Of course, for science.”

There was a brief moment of silence, the tension thicker than you could comprehend. A sick smile curled up Sam’s lips, the blonde met your gaze, cockiness practically oozing off of him.

“I can record this then, right?”

[cherriestears]

req: Hi I really liked your fic with Athena and I would like the same fic with Hades if you don't mind. Thanks in advance!

yandere PJO! Hades x demigod! darling 💀🐺👑 - general hcs

I would like to start off by establishing that I truly and firmly believe that Hades would NEVER hurt you or torture you like some of the other gods and goddesses *agressive coughing* Athena, Ares and Hera *more aggresive coughing*

Well and truly he is too in love with you to even THINK about that

I mean have you seen how he reacted to Persephone hating him at the start of their relationship???

Anyways, I believe that the way you would meet is if you were a mother figure to Nico

Nico was immediately drawn to you, an older camper who had stayed back to help Chiron as a counsellor

You weren't afraid of him like most other councellors, rather, like Percy and Annabeth, you saw him as more of what he was; a child who just needed love and affection, a neglected and abandoned child who had to grow up too soon

He's rightfully suspicious and offstanding to you at first but if you act the correct way around him, he definitely takes to you

He starts opening up to you about different things, how he felt about his sister's death, how he felt about Jason's death and how he was struggling to see the point in anything

Comforting him at any time late in the night because he's anxious and depressed and being the one to introduce him to Will also helps :)

I think after he starts dating Will is when he takes you to introduce you to his dad because he finally feels like he has a mother

And that is when you, unfortunately, catch the attention of the Lord of the Dead himself

It's very very hard to gain Nico's trust, considering what he's been through, Hades knew you must have a heart of gold or atleast cared about Nico to have one around him

He finds you intriguing, the way you stand tall to him and only give him a stiff bow, how you roam about and talk to his ghoul servants with ease and of course, how well you're able to take care of and calm down Nico

So his inner stalker starts acting up and he starts sending his servants to spy on you, following you around in the darkness, watching you in the shadows, showing up in your dreams, resulting in them melting into nightmares

Waking up trembling and sweating because of the horrifying creatures and distant memories tormenting you :(

Hades hates tormenting (traumatizing) you but he can't really help it since he needs to know your routine to kidnap you

Actually, I don't know why I censored that, he does kidnap you

He basically sets his furies on your ass which sucks for you but he had no choice

Like imagine just having a quiet, comfortable time in your cabin, all alone with just a nice book and your favourite drink

And then screeching she-demons descend on you and literally drag you all the way to the underworld

Of course, you were having absolutely NONE of that, kicking and screaming

But he gets you eventually

As soon as they deposited you in your bedroom, the man himself comes to see you

Hades confesses to you immediately and tells you he loves you

You immediately remember the story of Persephone and shove him away in horror

From then on, it's just a never ending cycle of him trying to win you over with his wealth and confessions of undying love

Visiting your bedroom everyday with flowers from Persephone's garden

They're beautiful of course but that doesn't mean you'll forgive him

Chucking things from your incredibly expensive bedroom at him while he just stands there and stares at you sadly before leaving

Yelling at him and begging for him to take you back home but he just shakes his head no and apologizes to you over and over

This could go either of two ways, depending on the kind of person you are

1. You keep fighting against him until you finally give in, accepting your situation and deciding to make the most of it

2. You accept his love, thinking that it's better to have undying love than mortal love

He'll be delighted when you finally storm out of your room and go to his throne room, calmly informing him that you accept his proposal

He ADORES you

He's very clingy and he wants you in the throne room with him at all times

He's the kind of person to stare at you for hours and get completely distracted from his job

Like most of the times, you're gonna have to be the one to interview the souls who come to meet him because he's too busy gazing at you

He loves being romantic and will wake you up every day with flowers

He isn't very touchy-feely, he's more of a gift giver kind of person

I mean, he's the god of wealth for god's sake

He will literally get you ANYTHING you want

Even if it's sold out EVERYWHERE, he will personally commission Hephaestus to make it for you

Literally dream of anything, anything that you could possibly want and boom, the next morning, you wake up with it on your bedside table

All he wants in return is a little kiss every day and you telling him you love him

He's one of the gods who will let you roam the above world

He knows that he treats you so well, you'll come back to him anyways

He loves taking you on romantic dates to literally any place you want

Renting out the Eiffel tower just for the two of you is quite the common occurrence, it's his favourite place for a date <3

Complete gentleman, notices everything about you and will literally just chuck money at people, gods, ghosts and monsters alike to make whatever you want happen

Even the slightest show of affection from you is enough to make this poor god pass OUT

Like imagine picking a pretty flower from the above world for him and presenting it to him in the throne room??

He almost fainted of happiness and immediately ordered it to be planted in the royal garden so he could go and gaze at it for eternity

He's in the seventh heaven when you tell him you love him

For everyone wondering what's going on on the Persephone aspect of things, I think she'd be pretty damn pissed at first

Not only because he kidnapped ANOTHER girl

But also because that's her husband??

But unlike Minthe, he actually defends you and refuses to let her hurt you or turn you into a plant and crush you

Eventually, depending on your behaviour and attitude towards her, Persephone will either hate you but not do anything about it, learn to tolerate you OR she'll love you <3

Maybe a little too much....

I mean, you caught her husband's eye....so surely there's something about you that intrigues her too....

But that's a good thing!.....right?

Good luck to you if she ends up turning yandere for you because she is definitely not as soft-hearted and non-violent as Hades

Either way, living in the underworld turns out not to be so bad, especially when you can wander around in your choice of clothes all day, throw money around on things you want, living in a gigantic palace decorated to your design and basically do whatever you like in return for loving an actually really sweet god

Y'know, even if it IS completely filled with spirits and zombies

But that's just minor details in exchange for literally anything in the world....right?

Also, Cerberus ADORES you

Even if you have dog allergies, since he isn't technically a real dog, his 'fur' doesn't affect you

Will follow you around everywhere, begging for pets with all 6 of those cute puppy eyes

Also loves playing fetch :3

Once Nico found out that his father kidnapped you, his reaction was something along the lines of silent, shocked staring

"Nico...I can expla-"

"What. The. Fu-"

He gets used to it pretty fast, he's used to his father's weird, obsessive antics by now

And besides, it just means he gets to spend more time with you <3

I have this irrelevant hc that he likes dragging you with him to his father's throne room and giving him a forceful makeover, just to embarrass him

Hades puts up with it, mostly because he's a softie

In terms of punishments and such, the only time he'd really get pissed is if you tried cheating on him

Like he is so whipped for you that he is willing to let anything slide...except for disloyalty

Even then, the most he'll do is isolate you

He really can't keep himself away from you either

Mostly, he'll just send his minions to guard you a lot more

Which is just more inconvenient and annoying than anything mentally damaging

Overall, he's one of the tamest yanderes in terms of Greek gods

He really doesn't want to hurt you, he just wants you to stay with him forever

He's just clingy :)

[elodieunderglass]

Your jockeyposting has enthralled me (certified non-horse girl) and made me curious—how much familiarity do jockeys have with the horses they’re riding? Is it normal for a given horse to have a Long Term Jockey or are the jockeys like. Called up a week before and asked to race a horse they’ve never met? (& interested to hear any Killy lore related to this)

Thank you so much! (In reference to Killie the jockey OC and random posting about horse racing more generally.)

In general, racehorses never have a long-term or even a repeat jockey, and vice-versa! Jockeys usually aren’t familiar with the horses at all.

There are three main situations where they might be, though; if they’re retained, if they’re nepo babies generational and have a trainer in the family, or if they’re amateurs having fun. So with apologies for making a really long post, I’ve structured this as a writing reference.

Retained Jockeys

Killie’s a retained jockey for a stable (very unusual - not many jockeys are good enough, and not many stables have the resource to employ one) and he and Thunder share an especially eccentric owner who likes to watch them paired up.

And hey, if we were unbelievably ultra-rich people with no moral compass, “putting Killie and Thunder in a jar and shaking them together, briskly, to see what happens” would be a fairly legitimate hobby.

I’m not an expert or personally involved in the industry, so if you were thinking of doing some writing in the setting yourself, a starting point for a retained jockey’s life is this “day in the life” video, of champion flat jockey William Buick, TW for discussion of weight.

Generational

Jockeys may handle horses as family businesses. In real life, “racing dynasties” are influential. A very lucky jockey, retiring in middle age with piles of winnings, often wishes to become a trainer; especially prosperous ones buy a stable operation, move in their family, use their reputation and connections to get owners to send them horses, and start chucking their own children on the horses as a source of labour. The children grow up, stick around home, and naturally keep getting chucked on horses for their day job. Next thing you know, you have a lot of grandkids and horses around the place, so you might as well keep going with it. Everyone pretty much lives at Grandad’s stable together, and then you get cousins scuffling on the day job like this:

That’s how Killie grew up, as the result of several generations of jockeys becoming trainers producing jockeys. but moving to a retained post was both a) the only logical move if it’s offered, and b) an escape from his parents, who are astonishingly awful. and if you are that kind of nepo baby, like Killie, it makes so much sense to flee the country (move to the uk and constantly pretend you’ve just dropped your phone in a horse’s water bucket, glubglubglub, BYE MA.)

Press “keep reading” for the amateurs and then what everyone else is doing.

Generational steeplechase jockey Jonjo O’Neill Jr does a day in his life here. he knows the horses and is doing admin, management and stable work … at his family’s massive operation.

Amateurs

Finally, in the UK, you can ride as an amateur jockey - usually in types of lowkey local steeplechases, like “point to point” - and basically anyone can do this. horse racing is fun, but you need a license to do it with other people, and the license remains incompatible with owning a registered racehorse. So technically your best friend could share a horse with you, in all but paperwork, and they could be the trainer and you could be the amateur jockey, and you could wrangle your way into actual races with a horse that you knew. It wouldn’t work very well as a day job (the horse would only race like 2x a month, netting you like £300 a month out of your friend’s pocket, plus the absurd costs of transporting/entering everyone) but if you were writing a crazy story in which some good friends and their pet racehorse decide to make it rich, that’s how you could do it.

Everyone else

Everyone else (including generational jockeys whose grandfathers didn’t have the foresight to establish a proper dynasty) just scrabbles around.

Most races aren’t high-stakes! There are a lot of basic boring races every day. (though, if you ask jockeys, there is apparently never quite enough work.)

horses might live at the stable of their owner but more commonly their trainer (some owners are both).

Jockeys cannot own racehorses themselves.

In the UK racecourses are randomly scattered around the country, usually hours away from each other. They all usually have several races every day.

Jockeys in the UK are paid £157.90 for Flat jockeys and £214.63 for jumps riders per race. They get this flat rate for everyone, whether they’re experienced or not! Their expenses are fairly high, and as freelancers they have to cover them all. The real attraction pay-wise is that they get a “cut of the purse” (percentage of prize money) if they win first, second or third place in a race. It’s a small percentage that they have to share with their agent, but there are sometimes some super-big stakes, where you can earn your year’s wages all at once.

Of course, you need to be piloting a pretty good horse in a high-stakes race to have a shot at that.

jockeys are a rare professional athlete that work every day, and they want (but are never guaranteed to get) a few rides every day. This usually means travelling across the UK constantly every day.

Racehorses usually only race once a week or less. They definitely don’t “work” as often! Their schedules rarely match up to jockeys. Driving them around the place is also a huge pain.

Jockeys live all over, and most of them are known to spend several times more hours driving between jobs than they ever spend sitting on horses. They get up very early each day, often “riding out” (doing early morning horse exercise) for trainers before hitting the road, often driving for several hours between races. This has been flagged in many sports medicine papers as one of their many wellbeing risks.

At any rate, with hundreds of jockeys travelling randomly around the country, getting injured and suspended and with stats fluctuating constantly, trainers work through agents to book jockeys - often not getting the one they want.

There are also considerations like trainer suddenly deciding they want to get a different (better) rider instead, leading to the one they booked getting “jocked off”.

All of everyone’s stats, from horses to jockeys, are publicly available, and everyone can study them obsessively. Trainers will request jockeys who have attractive stats - that’s not just “winning” stats, but weight/strategy/experience that might match the horse (+ terrain + conditions, etc). In their turn, jockeys with better options may turn down an offer of a horse with terrible form (I.e. a big loser, or a dangerous animal, or one that looks incredibly dodgy in race videos.)

Often trainers try to get the same jockey for their horse, but in all this chaos it’s not always possible, and everyone has to constantly pursue their own best interests.

Particularly winning jockeys and particularly influential trainers may gradually come together in working relationships, and as a horse gradually emerges as a favourite and the stakes rise, you’ll start to see it working more often with the same people. For example, in the Grand National, the jockeys will probably know the horses.

In conclusion, it’s common for the first time the jockey touches the horse to be when they’re thrown on top of it, prior to the race.

They get around this by studying form (race statistics), watching videos of the horse, and of course speaking to the trainer about their desires/instructions/strategy.

OKAY that is the MOST information that I could possibly have given!! I don’t know why I know all this!!! Thanks!!

[drchucktingle]

space raptor butt experiment

when conservative ideas are put to the test they basically always fail. specifically ruminating on how very early in my career conservative goofs tried to force me into an award for ONE specific reason: irony. in their mind, as a queer artist, i OBVIOUSLY didnt belong there

that is premise RABID PUPPIES had at hugo awards, that CHUCK TINGLE was least likely person to be taken seriously and therefore would delegitimize something serious. to them it was unfathomable that i could be making REAL art because i was too strange, queer, and UNTRADITIONAL

conservatives in literary space believe TRADITIONAL is RIGHT and everything else is distraction. now we have a literal TEST OF THIS THEORY. they GOT TO PICK THEIR FIGHTER in the arena, to see my art and whisper amongst themselves 'this is epitome of progressive artistic failure'

this test has been running for nearly ten years now, not in a lab but ON THIS TIMELINE OF REALITY. and look at the results, look how much tinglers resonate, how many buckaroos have gathered to support my art. CAMP DAMASCUS was a best seller. BURY YOUR GAYS COMIN IN HOT

this is not a moment to just sit around and pat myself on the back, but i think it is worth recognizing something. RABID PUPPIES and all of those conservative literary goofs were unequivocally WRONG about me and my art. because they are philosophically wrong about EVERYTHING

they have joined a long line of lonesome whining goofs who will say ‘let the market decide’ and when the market decides that their work is slop they will CONVENIENTLY forget what they initially stood for. more sad lonely devils moaning in their basements while we trot in the sun

i will end this observation with this: THANK YOU for being a part of this experiment with me, for seeing my unique expression and trotting along beside me. for as much as i have proven love to you on this path, YOU HAVE PROVEN LOVE TO ME. HERES TO TROTTING INTO THE FUTURE

[osamucide]

FLAVOR PROFILE—afab+gn!reader, angst and comfort??? smoking, alcohol, established friendship, feelings, f!masturbation, loss of virginity, body worship, biting, scratching, tiniest hint of corruption (there should've been more I’m sorry) and possessive aku, praise, fingering, penetration, creampie

ABV—6.1k

BAR OSAMUCIDE IS STRICTLY AN 18+ ESTABLISHMENT. FAILURE TO PROVIDE VALID ID/AGE IN BIO UPON INTERACTING WILL RESULT IN REMOVAL FROM THE PREMISES. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

"Really?"

He can't believe you're laughing at him. You swear you're not—you've sworn twice now. He just sighs and snatches your cigarette from you.

"I just kind of can't believe it, Ryuu," you rationalize, pressing your shoulder against his. "I'm not, I promise. I'm not laughing because it's funny. Just surprised, that's all."

Surprised, sure, alright. Look at me, he wants to spit at you, but he's hacking from holding the smoke in his lungs just a moment too long and so you work the dart from his fingers and tuck it back between your lips as he rights himself.

Akutagawa crosses his arms, not unlike a pouting child, and fixes his eyes on the brick wall across from you both and the one you lean back on as you're sat atop some wooden crate, one long discarded after a weapons shipment or whatever else. He can't help but feel a little small beneath your reaction, but you resume issuing soft kicks to the gravel beneath your feet like it was nothing—like you hadn't just drawn probably one of the most humiliating confessions out of him. He never really gave a second thought to all that before you came around, but now that he's beside you, elbows crossed over his knees as he draws them closer to himself, he suddenly feels like he should've before.

You finish your cigarette in silence, pointedly not moving away from him.

"I'm sorry," you say softly, sincerely as you chuck the butt to the ground in front of you. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable." But he still doesn't look at you. Akutagawa's dealing with more than one predicament at the present moment and he needs to sort them before he can turn his attention back to you.

One—he doesn't know if it would've been more or less attractive, or maybe repulsive, if he could've said, yeah, I've fucked plenty of people before, or at least I've fucked someone, and Akutagawa's aware he's a lot of filthy things, but apparently he's neither a liar nor a whore, and it leads him right to his second predicament, which is this: why does he care whether you find him attractive or repulsive?

How long has he care what you think of him at all? And last: what does it mean, that he does?

It's that last one that his thoughts get snagged on.

You tap your foot beneath you. This alleyway is where you always drag him off to when you feel like getting away from work. He can hardly remember the last time he said no to you when it came to escaping Mori's iron rule for an hour or so. But he wishes he would've today, kind of like he wishes he would've skipped the only other time he can recall wishing to have skipped—the day you let him smoke one of your cigarettes.

It's funny how your conversation from that day parallels the exchange from minutes ago. It sticks in his mind right now. You, at least two years younger and having known him on a much more superficial level than you do now, had laughed a little; it makes him feel only marginally better about you laughing now. Even then you were reassuring him, not because it's funny, but just because—I don't know, that's what I do when I’m surprised, I guess. He's always envied your ability to find joy in small things like that, after all.

You didn't make him feel small just now. He finds ways to do that all on his own; he knows that. He must've been weak back then because he'd inhaled less tar than you, and he hated that, so he did it when you offered. But now, here he was. You know he's never even kissed anyone, let alone fucked. The sensical pattern, thinking back to that day when you tapped a cigarette out of your pack for him, lit it off your own, good-naturedly patted his back as the coughs raged out of him because he inhaled it all down way too fast for someone with clean lungs—

Where exactly would that lead now, logically?

It's not like he's never thought about it. But you don't need to know that.

Akutagawa turns his his head away from you, chin on his arms. He can feel his face burn. He won't let you see.

But he knows you now, and you know him. And he knows you'll offer anyway.

You sit in silence, maybe ten minutes more, kicking the ground and letting your eyes flutter open and shut, before you pull another smoke out of your pack and stick it in your mouth.

“Well,” you mumble as your lighter flicks, “If you wanna change that…”

He doesn’t move. He can still feel the crate trembling from how you tap your foot, which is good, because he’s a little restless himself. You draw off your cigarette; he sees the smoke dissipate in his peripheral as your head falls back to rest on the brick. What he doesn’t see is your little half-smirk, but he knows it’s there.

It’s not that Akutagawa doesn’t like you. Anyone that knows him well can probably see he likes you, or at least tolerates you—he lets you drag him here week after week, shift after shift, after all. He gives you grace, even if it’s small, when you fuck up on jobs—something he never gives to anyone else, hardly even Chuuya. He doesn’t flinch or swat you away when you absentmindedly pull him in some direction by his elbow or his wrist; he doesn’t scoff at you when you lean up against him, like you are right now, and shift away from you or push you off like he might even with Gin. To someone who doesn’t know him, he probably looks indifferent to you at worst, and indifference and tolerance, and maybe even liking, tend to go hand-in-hand when it comes to the wielder of Rashoumon. He’s not outright evil to you, and that’s enough—if for no one else, for you. But you know him by now.

And because you know him, you know what he’ll say next.

“No.”

And it’s not because he doesn’t like you, which is why you’ll do what you do next, and he knows you will because he knows you, too, by now—enough to maybe like you—you’ll press him.

“Aw, why not?” It drawls out of you lightheartedly, almost jokingly.

It might have something to do with the fact that you’ve never looked at him with fear, disgust, or hatred in your eyes—not even before you knew one another so well and he would regularly, in response to your antics, threaten to beat you to a pulp with his black beast. It might have something to do with how you seem to look right through him like that, and then inadvertently boost his ego by telling him you think he totally has the capacity to be cool, or even normal, doing things like fucking and smoking cigarettes. He wants to laugh at how silly it all sounds to him. Akutagawa’s never been good at letting himself understand why you make him feel the way you do. Why he deserves your kindness or companionship. Why you can’t see him for what he is: a war machine, configured from birth, far beyond—or maybe beneath—any sort of semblance of a normal destiny that includes indulgence. Love. It would make him respect you less, hate you, maybe, if it wasn’t so secretly pleasant, the fact that you don’t look at him like that. The fact that you seem to think he does deserve something more than misery.

I have a feeling this is gonna be a long partnership, so it’d be a lot more fun if you smoked! You said that the day you were assigned to each other, before you knew about his lung condition, and he knew he shouldn’t have ever accepted your offer that day in this very alleyway because he ended up liking the head high cigarettes gave him, even if it was horrible for him.

The same way he likes you, and it makes him unbearably soft. The same way he’d probably like kissing you. Fucking you. Another thing that’ll kill him one day, one way or another. He knows if he gets any closer than he is, and then for some reason you leave—die, run away, decide your relationship is awkward now and he’s horrible and you hate him, whatever—it’d kill him, undoubtedly. Better not to smoke the cigarette. Better not to fuck the only real friend he thinks he’s had since he was watching his back every moment he lived in the slums. Anything that felt good was almost certainly a trap laid to hurt him.

“Because,” he huffs.

If for sole annoyance or disgust, he would’ve bitched you out. But he doesn’t. You note this. So, you let it go. Because you know him.

“Alright,” you sigh. Not disappointed, not dismissive. Just affirming and understanding. It blows his mind all over again. He doesn't move, doesn't look at you. "Well, I suppose we should get back." Your eyes flick to your wristwatch. "Kouyou wanted us for something in about a half hour."

Some silly meeting in some bar. Chuuya's not there to keep her from getting off topic, so Akutagawa sits beneath the low light (on the edge of the booth, thank god), you next to him, while your superior's ordering another round of whisky sodas for the table.

When Kouyou distributes the drinks, Akutagawa slides his toward you, which you then slide to the man on your other side. His name's Shota—one of Chuuya's subordinates—and he takes it off your hands happily. You nestle your own between your hands on the tabletop.

"But as I was saying," the scarlet-haired woman continues, "it's going to have to happen over the weekend. I don't think it's wise to do anything until Nakahara's back from Tokyo, which will be Friday at the earliest, and the tracking number for the Makarov shipment on its way in got thrown in the trash so Hirotsu's going to have to..."

Akutagawa's gaze trains steadily on your hands; his own are busy, one propping his chin up, the other circling rings over the rim of his first and only glass, now empty. It's not out of the ordinary for him to tune out of Kouyou's tipsy ramblings, especially when Chuuya will be back in a few days to explain the game plan concisely and soberly. What is out of the ordinary is that he's still stiff, thinking about your conversation from the alleyway and the tone in which you so nonchalantly cooed aw, why not? Almost as if you'd been a little disappointed when he said no, he wouldn't take you up on your offer. Were you? He has to doubt it. You've always been a little too eager to get him fucked up on Chuuya's wine, drag him out of work, pull him out of his comfort zone—he'd seen the unmistakable excitement on your face the first time you'd jammed a cigarette between his lips. But that is way too far out of his wheelhouse, and he's pretty sure you both know it.

Even if he does keep thinking about it.

You, well—you sip your second whisky and take note of his fidgeting. Although your drink’s only half gone, you tap your foot against his, glancing between him and the door; he looks at you, then back down at his empty glass, clears his throat and nods ever so subtly. Code exhcange for I'm bored, wanna leave? Of course. So when the conversation lulls, you both stand.

"Kazuha has us at eight-thirty," you explain, bidding everyone good evening and seeing yourselves out the door before anyone has the chance to ask what for.

"Kazuha? That was the best lie you could come up with?"

"Are we still sitting in there or not?" you refute, cigarette dangling from your mouth as you walk with your hands behind your head in the direction of headquarters. "Can't wait to get home."

"Yeah, after your hard day," Akutagawa mutters.

"Hey, watch it," you poke. "I moved shit all morning. Need a shower bad."

Which is exactly what you do after you depart from your partner and scamper up to your apartment. But first you take the liberty of lighting a few candles, cracking your bathroom window for a breeze, dancing around to a little music as a bath full of lavender salts warms, and rubbing out your sore knees with that pain relief oil Higuchi recommended to you. It's true, you did spend all morning getting shipments from the port; the less luxurious side of the life and work of a mafioso moving their way up the ladder isn't something you're unfamiliar with, although you do it less now.

You settle in, sighing. Maybe it's wrong to still be thinking about it, but you had sort of hoped Akutagawa would take to your little quip earlier with at least a hint of curiosity, or bring it up on your walk home even if just to tell you how absurd it was that you'd even think such a thing; perhaps you should've been more deliberate, you think. Or maybe it's a good thing that you weren't. He's one of the last people you'd want to make things weird with—outside of being the (rather oblivious) object of your affection, he's still your coworker and, as of recent years, very best friend. Somewhat of a literal partner in crime. You snicker at that as your shoulders dip below the water. You momentarily debate trying to dismiss your little feelings for the night, and you will, for the most part—but while you're relieving physical tension under the soft flicker of your candles and the hum of the city below you, you figure you might as well dispel your disappointment, too, and you trace your fingers down the curve of your hip to find yourself wet in a way that has nothing to do with the water.

Meanwhile, Akutagawa is pacing his living quarters. He's already taken a cold shower to stave off what has only become more difficult not to think about now that you're gone—he doesn't have to hold it together for you or anyone, and he finds himself trying to sit still on the edge of his bed as his phone sits a few feet away on the nightstand. Should he text you about it? Call you? Fuck that—you do a fine job of flustering him when you're barely trying, but if he let you know—god, if he let you know, he'd never hear the end of it. Text or call you to talk about anything else, even if just to hear your voice and have your presence? No, he has a feeling that would drive him even further up the tree he's chased himself up; he's sitting, tapping his foot like you were earlier when he should've been able to answer you normally, his apartment is dead silent, his dick's half-hard in his sweatpants and he doesn't know what to do.

You probably weren't even serious. If he was smart, he would've jacked off in the shower and called it a night.

But he likes you. More than you realize—more than you can realize, because he's always stone-faced, no-bullshit, hard-ass Akutagawa and he doesn't know how to be anything else, even when you're around and ecouraging him to loosen up. You can't possibly realize how much you've done for him in terms of easing his anxiety over always being good enough, in terms of helping him understand his humanity, in terms of making him feel like a real person.

He suddenly feels like he's on a tightrope of keeping you close and messing it all up, and whichever way he decides to fall will inevitably bring unending frustration that he could've done something different, something better.

And maybe this is an opening. Or a pinnacle that his relationship with you was doomed to come to. Either way, he can't sit in his apartment. Marching forward, like he always does—no matter how hesitantly—he slips his jacket on and shoves his keys in his pocket before he's heading for the elevator.

It's not until he's staring at the interface of buttons that he decides between launching himself to the ground for a long walk along the port or punching in your floor.

And you're so close—your back's arching, your jaw hangs slack, you're spilling water down the side of the tub that pools on the floor, but you'll worry about it later—when you hear manic pounding coming from your hallway. Maybe it's not yours, you think, screwing your eyes shut and working your fingers back and forth in tight circles around your clit because you want it, damn it, but your apartment's so damn big that it's almost impossible to conceive of it being for anyone else.

"One minute!" you shout, rising out of the water with grumbling breath to wrap yourself in a towel and blow all your candles out in one swipe. But whoever it is doesn't hear you, or doesn't care—the harsh knocking pattern booms again, and you almost trip over your pile of discarded work clothes as you fumble out of the bathroom wondering what could possibly be so important, and on account of who, that they had to interrupt your first hour of alone time all day, not to mention when you were so deliciously close to an orgasm you'd been working yourself up to with painstaking care. You'd even edged yourself a little, just because you figured you had time; you would've gotten it over with if you'd have known you were on call, but here you are, unsatisfied and stomping to your door, about to crack it open and take whatever orders were about to be unloaded onto you with a smile and can-do attitude.

You fling the door open.

“What?”

Akutagawa’s fist is still raised to knock. You watch his eyes behind his sunglasses as they flit down to you—you in nothing but a towel—and his face breaks out in a blush you’ve never seen on him before.

If you were any less annoyed, you would’ve smirked.

“Ryuu, what?” you snap again as his hand falls to his side. Whatever it is, if someone needs backup, if it’s urgent, you wish he’d tell you already—it’s so unlike him to stand speechless that you almost want to ask if something else is going on. “Can you spit it out so I know if I should get dressed, please?”

No, he wants to croak out, but you’ll just keep barraging him with questions—all he does is fumble his way inside your apartment with please don’t get dressed on the back of his tongue and that really strange, dazed look behind his glasses. He can't even blame the alcohol from earlier—he only had one, and it's had ample time to wear off.

“Ryuunosuke—”

He freezes where he is, steely eyes locking onto yours, and his voice leaves him, hoarse. “Say that again, please.”

You look at him incredulously, scrunching your towel up beneath your fist that holds it up. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Akutagawa feels small again. This was the wrong decision. He should’ve gone for that walk. He should’ve jerked off in the shower and then went to bed and tossed and turned until he finally fell into an erratic sleep and he should not be here, he should wake up tomorrow morning, sleep-deprived and full of regret but knowing he’s safe because he didn’t go to your apartment to find you in nothing but a towel and he spared your relationship, he didn’t make it weird, and he’d look at you longingly for the rest of however long, only when you weren’t looking just so you’d never know how much agony your stupid little joke from earlier today put him in.

But you’re expecting an answer, and out of all the filthy things Akutagawa is convinced he is, he is not a liar.

His eyes fly to the ground. Your legs, knocking together from the chill of the water droplets that still cling to them.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about earlier,” he forces out. “What you said.”

You hesitate. “What I said…?” Had you said something wrong?

Great, he thinks, mouth falling open. So you weren’t serious.

“You know what, nevermind.” He shouldn’t be here. He goes to push past you, toward your still-open door, but you stop him, shutting the door and pushing a palm against his chest.

“Tell me,” you mean to say, but it sounds more like a question; his pale face flushes again, and you search him with your gaze. He seems to shrink a little more before he sighs and looks to you once more.

“If I wanted to change that I’ve never…”

You wait.

“Kissed.”

You blink, cock your head.

“Or fucked anyone.”

Your hand lets up on his chest, and you find yourself taking a step back—little, but it sends your partner reeling into self-doubt all over again.

“You want…” You speak, quietly, with less urgency than you have thus far. “You wanna fuck me?”

And Akutagawa’s nodding, more frantically than his pride would prefer. But he’s nodding. Not looking at you. Waiting for you to laugh and clap him on the shoulder with a yeah, as if and tell him to go home.

But your fingers slide up to curl along the side of his neck. When his eyes are still downcast, you cup his jaw in your palm.

“Ryuu, look at me.”

Here it comes. The big rejection. He’s ready. He’ll go home and punch a hole in his wall, but he’s ready to hold it together right now.

His eyes drift to yours again, still cold and nervous, like a dog’s when it’s about to bite.

But you smile, trace your thumb along his bottom lip, and whisper.

He has no idea how much you mean what you're saying next.

“I wish you would’ve just led with that.”

It’s like bombs are about to detonate in his brain. He knows what he should do next—he should kiss you, he should throw himself at you and let your tongue between his lips, but part of the reason why he’s here is because he never has, and he trusts you to show him—just what kind of weak has he become, trusting someone with their teeth so close to his throat? It doesn’t matter because he wants it, he just wants you to—

“Show me, please.”

To his displeasure, you don't latch onto him like a hungry animal. Instead, your fingers drift down to his and wind between them; you lead him past the couch to your bedroom, sit him down, and pull your towel a little tighter around you. He wants it off, he wants to see you—even if the thought of sitting naked himself, in front of you, makes his stomach flip, he wants nothing more than to tear the towel away, get to exploring the ways you like to be touched, hear sounds from you he's never heard before.

"Ryuu," you say, one hand on his shoulder. "Be sure you want this."

"I do," he squeaks out, hardly ever having heard his own voice so meek.

"Tell me. Say it."

"I want it," his words follow yours seamlessly, without another thought. He's already established in his mind that he trusts you. But he's still sort of waiting for you to start chuckling and tell him this is a big joke; his hands tremble as you stare, digging for uncertainty, but you don't find any. So as you hold your towel against you, you crawl carefully onto his lap, astride his waist.

And now, he has you. Between his fingers. They find the curve of your waist as you curl an arm around the back of his neck after you work the jacket off from around his shoulders, tear his glasses off, push his soft bangs from his face. Akutagawa looks at you with so much wonder, so much need; you set your weight on him, and you feel him, and his nails grip your ass through the towel.

"Please, don't be gentle," he whispers when your lips hover immediately over his. He can feel your breath, warm and inviting, as the tip of your nose brushes past his.

You smile into his mouth and wrap your other arm around him.

You let the towel fall as you kiss him.

Hot, slow.

And the bombs go off all at once. Before the towel can pool over his hands he's batting it to the floor, scooting back onto your mattress to accomodate you; he wants to shut his eyes but you grind down against him through his pants as your lips mold against his and he’s probably never felt so alert in his life. Akutagawa gasps in a certain way, another sound he's never heard himself make; when your fingers tangle into the hair at the back of his head, he groans, grips your waist, and his eyes melt shut, finally.

You kiss him until he's putty, and he follows your lead; you grab his wrists and guide his hands to your chest, which has his eyes flying open all over again as he feels his fingerpads twitch over your nipples. You work him onto his back, easing him down with your tongue against his, so warm, so wet; your teeth, harsh in his bottom lip, where your thumb stroked so tenderly before, force his hips in a circle, and, oh, god, you have him losing it already, completely helpless, completely breathless.

You pull back, grinning, before grabbing for the buttons on his shirt.

"This okay?"

It's not okay, it's insane. His pants are too tight. He's never needed someone like this. And you look so angelic above him waiting for him to nod, give you a small yes, before you work him out of his shirt next, taking care to trace every ridge and valley of his ribs and abdomen as you do. He shivers when it's gone, discarded with his jacket and glasses; his arms come to cover himself but you trace those, too, the dips in his lean muscle and severities of his shoulders, collarbones, elbows, wrists. Just as he thinks he might feel too vulnerable, you start mapping him out with a softness he's never felt before; he wants to sink into it, keep it forever. If he wasn't so painfully hard, he might not even need to fuck you; just laying, relaxing into the sheets beneath him as you look at him like he's beautiful, is a heaven of its own.

"You're so pretty, Ryuu," you mutter. You hunch to bite the juncture of his throat and shoulder, then soothe it with a kiss. "So, so fucking pretty. You know that?"

Akutagawa shudders again. "I told you not to be gentle."

You bite him once more, grinding your bare cunt along his clothed cock, and a groan throttles from his chest. After doing the same to the opposite side of his neck, your lips meet his again, and he forgets about shielding himself in favor of letting his hands rock you back and forth against him.

You feel him twitch below you as you work him into nothing but impatient breath and swollen lips; your irritation from not reaching your climax earlier doubles back on you in a wave of arousal, and you’re guiding him out of his pants and boxers at the same time, and thank god that’s all that’s left and that you’re so turned on already because when the tip of his pale cock hits his abs, all you can think about is sinking down onto it, feeling it fill you up and pulse inside you.

But you wait, looking at him low-lidded and asking him, “You want me on top, or you?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses, twisting a leg into the bend of your knee at his side; you’re not weak by any means, but in one smooth movement he’s got you on your back, pinned down by your wrists. “If you’re going to be gentle, then I won’t.”

Wasting no time. You almost giggle but you’re gasping, his eagerness streamlining into a searing kiss to your mouth and one of his rough hands snaking down to collect the wetness pooling between your thighs.

He knows he should touch you. He knows that much. He wants to know—

“Where? Tell me where,” he growls into your mouth, and you guide him by his wrist and fingers once again to draw tight circles over your clit—ones that make you arch, and after feeling how you do it he burns it into his brain, the movement you’re guiding him through that sends your head lolling onto the pillow. Akutagawa’s eyes widen. He could watch your expression replay for hours.

“That’s it,” you encourage him, breathy, letting him go as he memorizes your rhythm. “Feels so good.”

You bring your two wet fingers up to his mouth, which he accepts without hesitance; his tongue swirls around them and you realize how serious he is—he doesn’t want it slow and you’re losing your resolve against him and you think you need him in you, right now.

He stills when you reach for his cock, dark hair swaying as his gaze trails your hand; he sits back, heaving, as he rubs you, as you stroke him and smear a pathetically large bead of precum across his tip and down his length. Trying desperately not to stop, to keep making you feel good, he throws his head back when you squeeze just beneath the head of his cock and pull him back toward you by his shoulder.

“Wan’ you to fuck me, Ryuu,” you whine, lining him up with your weeping hole. He’s pushing in with hardly a second thought, and, oh—he’s groaning in yet another way he’s never heard before, watching himself disappear into you, bracing himself on your forearms until he fills you up to hilt. So wet, so warm. He hardly realizes how ragged his breath is until he hears your own.

You squirm, and after he presses another series of messy kisses to your lips to stifle the noises of pleasure leaving him that would be so humiliating if he wasn’t so drunk on you, you hold him by his chin and look so deeply into his eyes that he’s afraid for a second you’re doing that thing where you look right through him into his very soul, but your mouth is forming around words that he must hear, he must hang onto, you have to tell him what to do, and you do—

“Don’t be gentle.”

So he isn’t. He moves, on nothing but your words and intuition and the way you clench around him; there’s virtually no resistance when he pulls out, slams back in, pulls out, slams back in—and he loses himself in it so quickly, so noisily.

“Unh—fuck—” Your name leaves his lips like a song that has you linking your ankles behind his back as he writhes, pounds into you—and you understand all over again, he wasn’t kidding. He doesn’t want it slow. And neither do you, you realize, now that he’s dragging his perfect cock along your insides so deliciously.

He realizes something too, as he falls to his elbows and buries his open mouth into your neck; that he never wants anyone else to hear the sounds either of you are making ever again. He doesn't care that you're more experienced than him, or that your relationship is irrevocably changed now that this is happening; you're going to be the first and last person that ever hears him moaning like this, that ever has him blushing from face to chest at the lewd sounds that your bodies emit where they meet and then part each time he pistons in and out of you. You’re clawing at him, raking tracks down his back and biceps that spur him to a pace he didn’t know he was capable of—he can’t wait to see them in the mirror tomorrow when the rawness has left and they’re angry red, a testament to how quickly he’s learning you, how quickly you’re both falling apart, how much he thinks he loves you.

Yeah, he thinks he loves you—it’s muffled by your skin, but he’s saying it, he can’t help it, he can’t keep it in his lungs if he’s going to keep this pace up.

“Love you, Ryuu,” you echo, and he echoes you right back like he didn’t start it.

“Love you.” Thrust. “Love you.” Thrust. “Love you—mmh!”

"My good boy," you croon when he reaches down to touch you, to feel you squeezing him down on him. Your good boy. You could turn him into a whore if you kept saying that.

"My name, please," he breathes, high-pitched, almost wheezing; you hold him as close to your body as you can, shortening his unstoppable thrusts against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl, pushes rhythmic moans from your throat, and his hands are all over you, begging for it in his rough grips that undulate into soft caresses back to harsh nails back to gentle strokes.

"Ryuunosuke—" you choke out, "Don't—" Gasp. "—fucking—" Gasp. "—stop!"

The most gorgeous strand of strained moans, gasps, and growls leave him as his head batters insatiably against your cervix; he’s falling off that tightrope, and you’re catching him, all his shaking fingers and trembling thighs that still momentarily before he can warn you, before he can tell you—

"Cum in me," you sigh as you feel him, feel yourself breaking, coming undone as he forces his sounds down your throat; you swallow them all, crying out against his lips as he bites you, furrows his brow, pulls back to bore into your clouded gaze—he's sure he looks the same if not worse, more unraveled, mouth open, lips wet, when you arch back and pull him flush against you and he's cumming, taking you for every last bit you'll give him until you're hypersensitive, fluttering around him, helping him make a sticky mess beneath the both of you as his head falls forward again, into your shoulder, restless, groaning with aftershock, until his lips meet yours and he kisses you, kisses you, kisses you, neither of you ready to come down yet.

But soon enough you're reduced to exhausted writhing, slow bites, fingers through his hair and he's spent—pleasantly so. Weak, not in the way he feels after he's been brought to his knees by a formidable foe but in a way he will not be content to part with; a comfortable resignation that he could make a home in.

Akutagawa wraps himself around you, and you kick the blanket at your feet up until you can pull it over his shoulders and tuck your nose into his forehead.

"Still kind of don't believe you've never done that before," you think out loud, voice a little absent from how you’ve been sobbing for him.

And Akutagawa finds himself smiling into your skin. He sounds just as much of a wreck. "Never. Not until now."

It was good. Not only was it good, but you can feel him softening inside you, and you want him to stay.

"Meant it, by the way."

Then he looks up at you, quizzically. That strange, dazed look is in his eyes again.

But you just look back at him. Push his bangs back, mirror his tired smile. Wipe the drying sheen of sweat from across his brow.

When it clicks, he's buried in your neck again. Grumbling. "I meant it, too."

You hug yourself impossibly tighter around him, muttering his name, rolling you both to your sides where you cup his face once more, pressing smooches all over him, less heated and more playful, and Akutagawa scrunches his nose as you pepper him and start mumbling in between—

"Love you. Love you. Love you."

He catches you in your tirade and kisses you like you first kissed him—slow, deep. His own love you whispered, almost imperceptible. He'll stay. "Thank you. Love you."

Like he never knew he was capable of loving. He’s not uncomfortable. For once. For real. You caught him when he was falling. He hopes you’ll keep doing it.

But right now, he only has one more question.

"Do you have any cigarettes?"

You reach across him, over to your nightstand. “Who do you think I am?”

My angel, he thinks in response as you nudge the filter between his lips to light it. You, in control, let him puff before you steal it for yourself.

And he’s yours. The Port Mafia’s ferocious Hellhound is your good boy, your angel.

You’ll love him until he believes it.

[ace-spades-1]

Orange Peel Theory

Clarisse La Rue x fem!reader

Summary: A daughter of Aphrodite wanted to see if an Ares girl reciprocated her sister’s love for her.

a/n: Sorry for any grammar mistakes and please correct me if I’m wrong about the orange peel theory. This is my first fic so please be nice. Also, credits to @marvelsmylife for the inspiration and to @star-girl69 for giving me confidence. Sorry that it's short.

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The orange peel theory is a test a person does to see how much their partner loves them by doing something as small as peeling an orange for them. A test that Faith had tried with her boyfriend but failed. When given the orange he gave her a confused look and refused resulting in the orange getting chucked at his head and being ignored for the rest of the day.

However, the test prompted an idea in her head. Earlier that week she had found out that her dear sister Y/N had been crushing on a certain Ares girl but afraid of telling her how she feels in fear of rejection. For a daughter of Aphrodite, she sure is dense.

Making her way to the Dining Pavilion her eyes spotted her sister and Clarisse, who was also making her way over there. Faith quickly ran to the Dining Pavilion grabbing an orange and plopping herself next to Y/N.

“Hey, sis! Want an orange?”

She stretched her hand towards Y/N, orange in hand. Y/N smiled and nodded, grabbing the orange and right on queue Clarisse entered the Dining Pavilion. Just as Y/N started to peel the fruit Clarisse walked up to the Aphrodite table hand stretching out towards Y/N.

“Give it here, Y/N”

She was met with a curious look.

“The orange, give it.”

Y/N sighed and gave Clarisse the orange who started to peel it. Once done the Ares girl gave the orange back,

“I know you don’t like the smell of orange on your fingers.”

Y/N smiled and thanked the girl, eating a slice of orange missing the small tint of pink that formed on Clarisse’s cheek. Watching the girl walking to the Ares table a mischievous smile started to form on Faith’s face. Her eyes went back and forth to her sister and Clarisse. The girl was definitely in love.

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Thank you for reading!!!