#tongue in the game like it’s buffet

[choiwonder]

mark u dont have to lie if u wanna have sex in a kitchen just say so nobody is judging 🤷‍♀️

[we-survive-endlessly]

Love that Mark keeps writing songs with lyrics that he would have trouble explaining in an interview. Very on brand.

[captain-hawks]

“you’re so goddamn predictable,” atsumu barks out a laugh as he looks down at the tray of misshapen onigiri. 

osamu scowls at his twin, whipping his bicep with a rag before lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair, sighing as he glances down at his—admittedly—shoddy work. 

atsumu jumps and lets out an undignified yelp as he grins, “ain’t seen ya make a rice ball that sloppy since you got absolutely wasted and decided to make ‘em at three in the morning back at uni.”

“fuck off, ya unemployed freeloader,” osamu grunts, menacingly clapping a pair of metal tongs in his brother’s direction just as he grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth without asking. 

“just admit you’re a pathetic simp who can’t even focus on shapin’ rice when a pretty girl is in the restaurant,” his brother says around a mouthful of rice, gesturing through the serving hatch toward where you’re currently facing away from them on a stool at the window. 

osamu exhales noisily in annoyance, turning to wash his hands at the sink before stealing another glance over at you. his heart thuds insistently in his chest as you absentmindedly smile at the sight of someone with several excited dogs walking past on the street outside, the late afternoon sun bathing you in a soft, golden glow. 

“i even have to do free labor for your distracted ass,” atsumu calls out from where he’s now stepped out of the kitchen to ring up a customer, if only to rub it in his face even more. 

“s’not free labor when ya treat this place like an open buffet,” osamu grumbles when he walks out a few moments later, hip checking the blonde as he comes to stand beside him. “can ya even count?”

“the register does it for me,” atsumu smugly tells him, handing the customer their change and sticking out his tongue at his brother. “but the real math question here is, do you even know how to ask a girl for her number?”

osamu doesn’t bother to correct his brother on his completely illogical connection between the points. instead, he looks up as you stand from your seat, mouth curving upward as he mirrors the shy wave you offer to him on your way out. 

“it’s a real burden to be the sole twin blessed with all the game,” atsumu sighs wistfully, watching you leave. “bet she likes blondes better.”

osamu could tell him that you’ve been coming to onigiri miya for the past week on your lunch break, and none-too-subtly flirting across the counter in between customers—thank you very much. 

“kiss my ass,” he says instead, delighting in the frown of defeat that crosses his brother’s face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the carefully folded piece of paper you’d insistently handed him after he waved off your money when you tried to pay earlier. 

“hope ya didn’t serve her one of those ugly ass ones back there,” atsumu grins. 

osamu punches him in the shoulder and shoves him aside as the bell above the front door jingles and another customer approaches. 

[natalievoncatte]

Lena tipped back the last of her scotch and savored it, letting the smooth, piquant insistence of it roll across her tongue and sting between her teeth. She’d poured herself three fingers of a thirty year old single malt from the Macallan and had tasted it every drop, letting it stay a while. Indeed she’d indulged so slowly that she was barely buzzed.

A distant memory struck her. The sting of heavy smoke in her mouth, acrid and unpleasant but as rich and complex in flavor as her single malts. The effect was ruined by her idiotic decision to breath it in rather than allow a brief visitation in her mouth before being set free into the night air. She had been thirteen and Lex had given her a puff on a cigar he’d stolen from their father’s humidor while he and Lillian were away.

“This is a Dominican,” he’d told her. “I’ll give you a Cuban when you have enough experience to appreciate it.”

She turned the glass in her hand before setting it in the sink. She thought of Lex almost every day- not the raving, incoherent loon who’d tied her to the chair or the bitter shell of a man he was when she fired five bullets into his chest, but the boy he was, about to go off to college, full of adolescent bravado that matched his genius. She thought of the man he might have been if he hadn’t let his base jealousy consume him, if he’d had enough empathy to follow a better path. Her path.

It was a hard one to walk, but-

There was a tap at her balcony door and she nearly jumped out of her skin, wheeling.

It was Kara.

Lena motioned for her to open the door and she did, stepping inside.

“Can you ever use the inside door like a normal person?”

Kara shrugged. “I went for a fly to clear my head and I ended up here.”

Lena sighed. “I was just heading to bed, darling. It’s late. Too late to watch cartoons on my couch.”

“Will you fly with me?”

Lena quirked a brow. “You know it’s not any fun for me. I really do hate flying.”

“I know but, I was just… would you?”

Lena looked at her. Kara looked back, her eyes soft, expression hopeful and fearful, inviting. It made Lena fight the urges that dogged her. She felt a need to stride across the distance between them and tuck away a few wind-tossed locks of Kara’s hair, cup a warm hand to her cool cheek, soothe the pain that always seemed to hide in her eyes, like the reflection of something dark in the gloss of a family photo.

“Okay.”

She got her jacket first to protect herself against the night chill, then wondered how to do this. She was used to Kara flying her, but it was usually after being caught from a fall or scooped from danger and whisked to safety. Casually flying hadn’t really been their thing.

She settled on looping her arms about Kara’s neck.

She hesitated. “Lena, are you sure? Your heart is beating pretty fast.”

“You won’t drop me?”

“Never.”

Lena nodded and Kara swept her arms under Lena, one arm under her knees, the other curled around her waist. Of course it was effortless- for Kara, raising a cement mixer over her head was effortless. She stepped up to the railing of the balcony and paused when Lena tensed.

Lena closed her eyes as Kara stepped into empty air. She realized that she didn’t know how Kryptonians fly; she suspected Kara didn’t know either. It just happened.

Lena kept her eyes shut. Kara flew, holding her gently but firmly. If not for the wind buffeting her, Lena wouldn’t have known she was hundreds of feet in the air.

Finally she felt the soft impact of Kara’s boots on the ground and opened her eyes as Kara lowered her to her feet.

“Where are we?”

Lena looked around. They were in a baseball diamond, probably for little league games, in a small park.

“The suburbs. No one bothers me at night if I stop here. It’s a good place to think.”

Kara walked over to the bleachers and sat down. She looked so forlorn, so terribly sad, and Lena quickly sat beside her.

Kara didn’t speak. She saw the slight tremor of Lena’s restrained shiver, and without a word unclasped her cape and swept it around Lena.

“Thanks,” said Lena. “This makes a good blanket.”

Kara smiled. “That is a blanket. Kal… Clark’s birth parents, my aunt and uncle, sent it with him to Earth. Martha made it part of his first suit. The one she made.”

Lena stared at her for a moment. She rarely spoke of her cousin, and when she did, it had an odd, detached tone to it. A kind of resentment. She sounded fond now, and familiar. Lena knew who he was, of course; once she knew who Kara was, deducing who her cousin was turned out to be a simple thing. Yet Kara had never dropped his name so casually in conversation. It was intimate. Familiar.

“Speaking of Clark,” said Kara. “He sent me a message today. He’s staying on Argo with Lois and their child. He’s not coming home.”

Kara caught herself, eyes wide. Lena waited, holding a tense breath.

“Kara, what is it?”

“I can’t remember when I started thinking of Earth as home,” said Kara. “Just like I can’t remember when I started thinking in English instead of translating my thoughts.”

Lena poked an arm out of the cape to rest a hand on Kara’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking about joining them.”

Kara looked down. “I almost did before, but I was needed here. I don’t feel needed so much anymore. There’s so many more heroes now- Bruce has a whole team he’s built, and there’s Diana now and of course Barry and Oliver and… they can handle a lot of it. I don’t even put the suit on every day anymore.”

Lena felt a terrible, frigid chill. Colder than the night, colder than death. She looked at Kara, really looked at her, lit by lamplight, a golden beauty in the dark. She was so hauntingly, achingly beautiful. Lena could still remember the feeling when she saw Kara for the first time in her office, how her face must have betrayed her. My God, who is this?

“Are you thinking about going?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do. My people need every Kryptonian to come home and rebuild our culture and way of life. I have a sacred duty.”

Lena met her gaze levelly, feeling undone by it. Kara’s eyes were soft, full of an aching, unasked question.

“You keep talking about being needed, about duty,” Lena said. “The whole time I’ve known you it’s been about oaths and obligations and responsibilities. What do you want, Kara? What is your heart’s desire? Whatever it is, if you ask me, you deserve it. Whatever debt you think you owe the universe, you’ve paid it back in full with interest and gratuities.”

Kara looked away. “I know what I want, but I’m scared to ask for it.”

“I’ve never known you to be scared of anything.”

“I’m scared of being hurt. I’m scared of hurting someone else. What if I’m wrong? I’ve always been wrong about this one thing. I don’t want to lose you by asking the wrong question.”

Me? Lena thought. Why would…

Lena’s heart raced anew. The shock felt like she’d spilled cold water from her heart, racing down her limbs. She felt as heavy as stone and as light as a feather, and the flutter in her belly made her regret the scotch.

“I don’t want to go,” Kara sighed. “This is my home now. Krypton… Krypton is gone and it probably should be. I hope Clark can show the survivors a better way. There were a lot of things my people did wrong.”

“Kara, you can’t go. Okay? You can’t. You are needed here. I need you.”

Kara turned abruptly, eyes wide.

“Why did you wait so long?” Lena whispered.

“After everything I did, I… I was as afraid. I hurt you so much, caused you so much pain. Why would you…”

“Because you get so excited when you land on Park Place,” said Lena. “Because you sing to yourself when no one is looking. Because you’re bored to tears watching documentaries with me but you do it anyway. Because you always flex your muscles when you pop a cork from a bottle. Because you save me and cherish me and treat me like a queen, and you always have. Yes, Kara, you hurt me, but no one is perfect. I’m just as guilty.”

“What do you want, Lena? What’s your hearts desire?”

“I think you already know that and you’re just too scared to admit it.”

Kara swallowed, hard.

“Stay with me. Choose me,” said Lena.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I seriously thought you’d never ask,” said Lena.

Kara tilted in close. Sitting on the old faded wood of the bleachers with a blanket around her, she felt so young. She hadn’t been this giddy about a kiss since middle school. No; she’s never been this giddy ever, not a day in her life. Kara’s lips touched hers and despite the chasteness of it, she let out a soft moan.

Kara took it as an invitation and the kiss deepened, and she slipped under the blanket so they were both wrapped in it and her arms found Lena’s waist. When she tucked her head under Kara’s chin and pressed into her arms, she felt so safe, so sheltered. It was perfect, like finally finding home, and they were still there when the sun found them and Kara carried her into the morning sky.

[redflagshipwriter]

Halfa Cass 8 pt 3

masterpost

“I have a high degree of confidence that the tools are collected from this neighborhood. I have compiled a list of buildings where a workshop might conceivably operate.”

Cass nodded, engaging the locks on her batcycle. Damibat started pulling up the cover and handed it to her to snap into place. “Thank you,” she said, belated. Cass ran her tongue over the backside of her teeth. “Engineering power?”

“No conspicuous consumption,” Damibat reported. Professional for sure. “In light of the unknown power source for the tools themself, my leading theory is that the mechanic uses this unknown material for their workshop.”

She nodded. Made sense. Fit together, puzzle pieces that click together. The hunters both clicked through the belt mechanisms for grapples and then they soared together. Air blew into Black Bat’s face, buffeting her into an embrace. They cut through the air silently, Black Bat a second behind the case lead, Robin. 

His leads were:

Former car shop. Abandoned 4 months.

Basement floor of apartment building owned by mob affiliate.

Store front, shut down after cashier-owner murdered, gun crime.

In the right neighborhood, Black Bat started to feel a certainty. This was the right place. The mechanic was here. Something in her heart told her. It thudded, warm and reassuring, a reminder that she was breathing oxygen and pumping blood. Everything was well. Nothing was ghostly.

One by one, the Bats Black and Small crept in through windows and around blocks, looking for clues. 

Former car shop: Genuinely deserted! Black Bat felt proud of Gotham. It was nice that no one was creeping and crawling. Well. She was creeping and Robin was crawling, but that was different.

Basement floor: occupied, by many rats and still water. Biohazard. Black Bat put her breathing filter on and resigned herself to writing a report and request for cleanup. Very dangerous. Possible Legionnaire’s disease and others. Yuck.

Store front: Gotham fail. In use as a marijuana growing facility. Big sigh.  Do better, friends.

“Hardly a real crime,” Robin scoffed. He snapped his cape behind him and pulled out his grapple, angry with himself. Must have been wrong. Incompetent. I don’t like me when I fail. “Wasted time.”

Cass frowned, hesitating to follow. “No…” she said. The certainty hadn’t left her. Something in her hunting instinct knew. There was at least one trail to follow. She could sense it nearby.

Robin snapped to look at her. He didn’t say anything, but she knew what he was thinking: That’s unusual. Why is she uncertain? What does she perceive?

She cracked a faint smile behind her mouth mask. “Follow,” Cass requested. Robin, sweet and disciplined Robin, switched roles seamlessly. He followed her and she followed a sense that she hadn’t noticed before today.

They went over one block, and then up, up, up. A low income apartment building. Windows were dirty on the outside, smog and birdshit. The residents didn’t care to enjoy the view outside: there were curtains, UV blocking film, and taped up posters. She came to the ledge outside a 7th floor apartment and paused, frowning. 

“Here?” Robin breathed it so quietly that only their shared headsets picked it up. 

Cass nodded. 

The window was obscured. Unfortunate. Cass wiped at filth forlornly, but there was a poster taped on it. There was a small peeking spot to sneak a look through, about two centimeters wide. Black Bat spidered her way across the window to line her face up to look into the apartment.

It was dim, lit by a green glow from a big screen, probably. Video game? Black Bat spied the back of a sofa and a shadow cast by legs hanging over the edge. Someone was sleeping there. Hmm.

She turned her face expectantly to Robin. He was typing into the wrist computer. “Leased by a young woman,” he reported sotto voice. His eyebrows went up. “A civil engineering student at Gotham U. No other residents on the lease.” He tilted to show her a pale young woman with a narrow face and brown hair. Flat color: dyed? Suspicious or fashion choice?

Cass squinted back inside at the sleeping person. Must be Jacqueline. Criminal mechanic was female? Neat. Go girls, go! Go to jail in this case, but still. Neat.

“Shall we enter?” Robin was clearly ready to go.

Black Bat shook her head. “Daylight,” she said practically. Pass to the Signal. It’s only fair. Optimal time to sneak and creep is when school is in session; apartment empty. Nighttime is better for confrontation. “Docks now?”

Comms clicked. “I was waiting for you to ask,” Oracle said, smug, good timing, I have everything under control. “I have what might be Lex Luthor moving something across the bay tonight. Interested in taking a look at what he wants to sneak out of Gotham?”

Hell yeah.

[lookingfts]

Dialogue Game - Prompts #5 and #6

#5 - "I’m pretty much fucked…" (@ottovastra)

Anthony was exhausted. Back-to-back meetings, a hysterical phone call from Hyacinth, plus he’d forgotten to eat all day, so his head was pounding and his energy was sapped. His delivery order arrived only minutes after he did, and he was preparing to tuck in to his Pad Thai when there was a knock on his door.

That wasn’t unexpected – not with his enormous family. But the woman standing on his front steps was decidedly not one of his siblings.

“Hey,” she said sheepishly. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my car broke down and your light was on and the tow truck is taking forever, and I’m pretty much fucked without a car – sorry, that’s not your concern – but I just really need to use your loo if that’s not too much of an imposition?”

For a long moment, Anthony didn’t respond, thoroughly distracted as he took her in. He wasn’t exactly starving for pretty women, but someone this gorgeous literally landing on his doorstep still felt like a bolt from the heavens. Tall and lithe, glowing deep skin and diamond-sharp cheekbones. Thick winding curls and eyes that seemed to glitter gold.

She arched a brow, and he realized that his silence was probably reading a bit creepy. “Oh, sorry, of course. Please, come in. Second door on the left, there.”

“Thank you so much.” The woman disappeared down the hallway, and Anthony stood there stupidly, unsure what to do. But in the few minutes it took her to return, he’d resolved. “I won’t trouble you any longer, thank you again for-.”

“Do you like Thai food?”

Super smooth, Anthony. The woman stilled, sinking her teeth into her lip. “Um, yeah. I do.”

“Well, I just had some delivered,” he explained, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “And you’re welcome to wait in here for the tow truck and have some dinner, if you would like.”

She simply stared at him for a moment, and then she smiled, sending a surprisingly strong current through his blood. “I- yeah, that would be nice,” she said. “I’m Kate, by the way.”

“Right,” he laughed. They were standing in his living room, and he hadn’t even thought to introduce himself. “Anthony.”

“Anthony,” she echoed, rolling it around on her tongue, and he quite liked the way that sounded. “Well, maybe I broke down in the right place.”

He grinned, all his earlier exhaustion dissipating. Strange, how quickly his day could change. “Maybe you did.”

#6 - "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that." "I do-- almost as long as I've been waiting to say it." (@mimix007)

She was such an idiot.

Truly, she didn’t know. All this time, she thought it was Edwina. The way he tried to ingratiate himself into her family; sending them flowers, asking Kate questions about them, inviting them to Aubrey Hall. Why else would he do it, but to woo her lovely, sweet, worthy-of-being-a-Viscountess sister?

And so she hadn’t meant to hurt him, hadn’t thought she was hurting him, when she brought her coworker Ian to the Bridgerton holiday party. She thought he would ask Edwina and Kate just didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to be heartbroken and pathetic in the corner. Or at least, she didn’t want everyone to see that she was heartbroken and pathetic. Feeling it was probably inevitable.

She didn’t go home with Ian, of course – he was only a friend, and one who had agreed to accompany her for the legendary buffet and gift bags in addition to friendly loyalty. She had been laying on her sofa, relieved that the night wasn’t a catastrophe, when Ben texted her. Are you dating that guy?

Kate didn’t want to admit anything – even to Ben, who would surely understand but might tell Anthony, and then what was the point? Why are you asking?

Look, I know Anthony is an idiot, and a dick most of the time. But if you didn’t want him, you could have just told him that instead of showing up with someone else. That really hurt him.

She read the text seven times before she could stop believing that she’d read it wrong. What the hell are you talking about? Anthony has been chasing Edwina, not me.

Oh, Christ. I say this with love, but you’re just as stupid as he is.

A few seconds, and then another message. He doesn’t want Edwina.

Something tightened in her stomach. If he wasn’t interested in Edwina, then either he had a thing for older women – Mary was still gorgeous, to be fair – or…

Or she’d really fucked up tonight.

She hadn’t bothered changing out of her red sequined dress, and she threw her coat back on before hopping on the tube. This was absurd, completely absurd, but she knew she had to look Anthony in the eye when she asked him for the truth. Even when he lied, she could always tell. His face betrayed him.

He started a little when he opened the door, clearly not expecting her, and Kate swallowed. “I’m not dating Ian.”

There was a dip in his shoulders as he relaxed. “You’re not?”

Kate shook her head. “You didn’t want Edwina?”

Anthony’s eyes widened, and he closed the distance between them by a step. “No, I never- I never said that, why would you-?”

She shrugged, feeling stupid. It wasn’t hard to puzzle it out, if she really thought about it. “Everyone does.”

“I don’t,” he sighed, and she held her breath. They were standing right on the edge of something, the truth that could consume them whole, and the idea of falling terrified her. But a lifetime on the edge sounded even worse. “Your sister is great, but you were the only one I ever wanted. Ben witnessed a pretty embarrassing meltdown when I saw you with that guy tonight. I just…I’m in love with you, Kate. I thought it was obvious.”

All the tension melted from his body, and he looked…free. Kate pressed her lips together, tears pricking hot at her eyes. Maybe it was obvious, or it would have been, if she hadn’t been so blind. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Anthony said, a wide smile forming on his face at the confirmation that his feelings were reciprocated, or at least welcomed. “Almost as long as I’ve been waiting to say it.”

Feeling bold, Kate stepped through his doorway, and Anthony took a step back to make room for her. “I’m in love with you,” she confessed, and the joy on his face stole all the air from her lungs. “And it’s not too late to take this dress off me tonight.”

Anthony chuckled, low and rich, shutting the door behind her and backing her gently up against it. “That,” he murmured, sliding her coat off her shoulders. “Is a brilliant idea.”

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 22

Prompt: Intercrural (Thighs) Pairing: exboyfriend!Yunho x fem!reader   WC: 1.4k Summary: It’s not cheating. He swears it’s not cheating. Neither of you are cheating. And he’s an expert. This is a work of fiction, it does not represent Yunho or any Ateez member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this. I feel the need especially with “rougher” prompts like this to put the disclaimer - fanfic should NOT ever be used as a guide to relationships or sex. ESPECIALLY SEX. Again, it’s fiction. Stuff gets glossed over for the sake of a good story. Please PLEASE please again, not fact, not a guide, just a fantasy. Additional TW/CW below the cut.

TW/CW: DUBIOUS CONSENT (reader doesn’t say yes but also doesn’t say no). Cheating, bodily fluids, dry humping, wet humping, gets real close to “just the tip” territory. no penetration. cumming in underwear. reader is called “princess” and “babe”. yunho is kinda a shitty person in this.

Once a cheater always a cheater.

 Yunho finds you in the kitchen. It’s an old habit. An old habit he’s willing to exploit. Scrubbing away at the pile of dishes you don’t even look up, the rushing faucet and din from the living room covering his footsteps. The second you were overwhelmed you’d retreat here, a safe place to hide while your boyfriend entertained the guests. Mostly his guests. Not your guests, Yunho makes the careful distinction to himself. You’d even do this at your friend houses if you needed.  “Princess,” he whispers low in your ear.  Silverware clatters against the metal basin as you drop it, spinning, back flat to the tile. A team scores in the background, whoops and hollers covering the lesser chaos in the sink.  “Yunho, you can’t be here, with me, like that.” You lean back and away, nearly toppling into the running water.

 “He hasn’t complimented you enough tonight, Princess,” Yunho’s hushed tone is silky smooth, leaving a trail of goosebumps down your arms. “Not enough for me, anyway. Has he even said anything tonight after all the time you spent getting his little party ready? I know he didn’t do it. He’s not the finger food type, more of a pizza and beer kind of man.”  “No-” you stutter and sigh. The excuses fight over themselves on your tongue, unwilling to be the first to be lamely bleated out from your fumbling lips.  “Someone should say it then.”  You turn your back to him to hide your expression. Yunho knew you too well. You couldn’t look him in the eyes when he pulled this sort of thing. This toxic messy game he liked to play, that you indulged in masochistically. As if your relationship had ever been anything but messy. That’s how you knew the second he started on his promises if you looked him in the eyes it would be all over for you.

 Two long arms wrap around your middle, large hands holding your hips ever so slightly. Your back is buffeted by a fuzzy sweater and wide shoulders. “You can’t do that here!” Your hushed exclamation protests too hard to be real. You were never a good actress.  “Only here?”  “Yunho! I’m-if people see they might think-”  “That you’re cheating? But I’m just helping you with the dishes,” you can almost hear the cheeky grin in his tone as he grinds into the cleft of your ass. “Come on Princess, you know how much I love helping.”  The fabric of your skirt starts hitching higher and higher, exposing the tops of your gartered thigh high stockings. The bulge in his pants bumps against you, still as large as you remember.  A zip, a singular telltale zip. Another cheer from the living room.  “Are you going to fuck me?” You ask half hoping, half dreading.  “That’d be cheating, Princess. As you said you’re spoken for again, for now.” His length brushes against the ridges of your lace panties, the tug of fabric tingling your clit. “And you wouldn’t want to cheat would you? You’re a good girl.”  “You would.”  The puff of air that escapes his nostrils tickles the back of your ear. You squirm. “You’re right. I would.” Yunho replies. Goosebumps cover your arms, it’s wrong. It’s so wrong. You bite the insides of your cheeks as you feel him slip between the soft tops of your inner thighs. The tip of his cock pokes out of the other side of your thighs, cool air contrasting with the heat of your body. Your thighs grow more slick as the leaking precum smears between them, lubricating each drag.

 The water still runs into the sink, thundering louder than your heart.  “I can’t,” you whisper meakly, more to yourself than to him. Knees knocking into eachother the tops of your thighs press into the cupboard doors. Your cunt throbs shamelessly in your panties, slowly soaking through the fabric. The slight bunching of the lace pulling up into your slit only serves to frustrate you.  Yunho curls over you, hot breath fanning over your collarbone as his chin rests on your shoulder. “You really think he’ll care about this matching set you’ve put on? Will he even look at you long enough to notice it? No. I bet he fucks you blindly without a single fucking thought in that empty skull of his.” The snear in his voice is unmistakable. Long fingers pull your panties down just enough to wrap around him, holding him close to your slit as he continues to grind against you. Finally he’s close enough to brush against your clit occasionally with a well angled thrust. “Bet he wouldn’t even notice if your panties were full of cum already.”  “Yuyu,” voice airy and distant, you push your ass back into him. It’s to push him away, you try to rationalize, It’s to give yourself some space. It’s definitely not to encourage him. It’s not to better angle yourself to align with him. “I’m not a cheater.”  Another cheer from the living room goes unnoticed by the both of you.  “Not if it doesn’t go in, Princess.” Yunho chuckles low in his throat. “And you wouldn’t want to ruin that good girl image would you? Not with a guy like me. No matter how much your princess parts might ache for it.”  His mock sympathy has you biting back moans. Knuckles white as you grip the edge of the sink harder, slipping on the metal. Large hands holding you in place as he uses you, sandwiched between your puffy slick heat and the cool damp lace of your underwear. The ridges and veins of his shaft tease your oversensitive pussy. He’s right, it’s been too long since someone else made you cum. Burning need courses in your blood, boiling your insides.

 The tip catches dangerously on your entrance, both of you gasping as he threatens to breach that tiny caveat he’d established. Part of you wishes he would. You want him to press forward, bully his cock that much farther in. Fill you like he used to. Damn the consequences, damn you.  His knowing chuckle, warm breath fanning over your ear, jolts you from your wild fantasy. Yunho knows. He knows he never really could leave you. Hips circling with yours, you’re on the precipice of something neither of you can take back. Or maybe it was already too late. Your heart thuds and head spins. For a second you consider doing it yourself as he leaks a steady stream of precum into your eager walls. Your hips even test it, backing slightly farther against him, the tense ring of muscle flexing just enough to prevent a larger mistake than you were already making.  “I wonder if you still feel like me or if he’s managed to take that from me too.”  You half expect him to end with a long smooth thrust into your walls, stretching you around him while the water in the sink runs cold. Instead he slips down again, hands squeezing your thighs tighter as he chases his high. Its just enough stimulation to tease you, have you hot from more than just the steamy water. The cover of dishes long forgotten you brace yourself on the sink. Hell would be cooler than this. His pace accelerates as his fingers find your clit through the soaked fabric of your underwear. Sticking to you he circles and circles as your thighs clench.   “Can you feel what you do to me princess? Take some responsibility.”  “Fuck you.”   Your breath catches on the last word, cumming quietly as he presses both of your hips into the side of the counter. Shame floods your face as you feel his teeth graze the skin of your neck. It’s not enough to leave a mark but enough to leave a mental impression. An invisible white hot brand burned into the nape of your neck.   Yunho mouths wet open kisses in the same spot as hot sticky cum spills into your underwear, coating the outside of your sex and leaking into the inside of your skirt. Panting, his breath catches with each refractory twitch of his cock. The insides of your thighs clean him as he pulls from you, tucking back into his pants as if nothing had happened.  “BABE! HUN? BEER ME.”  “I gotchu bro,” Yunho yells back, nonchalantly popping the cap off a bottle on the counter. You can barely look him in the face as he turns to leave the kitchen with a wink.

Good god i like writing yunho as actual trash. i feel like the hotter and nicer the guy is as an idol the more i just want to write the polar opposite for them.

I’ve made this into more of a series here:

cheater!yunhoverse:  [9:42PM] | kinktober | [12:39AM] | [10:45PM] if you liked this and wanna see this just get worse and worse....yeah there is the order.

a related ask as well here

[pluralsiffrin]

I Don’t Believe People Ever Change, But I’ve Changed [ISAT SifLoop fanfic]

[Begin fic summary.] Loop’s love for Siffrin is different each time they meet, yet it is, they tell themself, always a type of love. Not like they can remember ever having a model for how to love someone properly. Plural system Siffrin/Loop. Word count: 8555. [End fic summary.]

[Begin authors’ note.] Siffrin is a plural system. “You” refers to Loop and “he/they” to Siffrin. Scene titles are Loop's names for the different alters. Content warning for implied self-harm and suicidal ideation. Spoilers for the entire game. [End authors’ note.]

✦ ✦ ✦

Act 1: The Beginning After The End

“I don’t suppose you remember me. I was the one who set you free. You lived a lie until I was gone, pretending I was the only one. Keep checking up on the things I say, it never worked but we lived it anyway. Put down that blade there and look at me: I see my reflection, what do you see? You made it to the end, I was there with you. I don’t believe people ever change, but I’ve changed.” (Quoted from “We Called It Love” by Stars.)

Scene 1: Scary Face

You shut your eyes for a moment to clear your head and already they’ve desecrated the tree, dragging the curved hook of the blade through the bark with the casual precision of a fisherman whose spent their entire life gutting carcasses in the dim, suffocating bowels of a ship rocked by tempestuous waves.The cut elicits a sharp, unnatural crackling, the young dermis of the tree exclaiming in bewildered agony at how easily its first line of defense is being breached, shucked apart like the shells of an oyster.

You’re always conjuring marine metaphors around them - something about the brine on their tongue, the seafoam curls of their hair, the way their every movement buffets you as a freezing gale would, harbinger of storms that they are; their deceitful shark scale armor, nicking your palms regardless of in which direction you touch; the Hadal Zone of their eye, daring you to dive for the impossible chance of glimpsing a creature no land-dweller ever has; the silhouettes of island cliffs in their laughter lines, as if they are perpetually joking at the site of their own execution, mutiny followed by a brisk walk into the ocean’s guillotine; the gnarled seaweed forest of their words, beautiful from a distance yet swift to hold you hostage if you wander within reach; the unpredictable ebb and flow of their emotional tidepools, leaving you floundering to break surface tension at times and, just a moment later, lodged amidst the rocks in a tiny facsimile of the real world, your own personal aquarium with its translucent walls and endlessly looping scenery -

You’re doing it again. You need to stop. You need to focus. You always need to focus around them. What are they doing now? Are they still tearing up the tree? You already closed your eyes for a moment. You can’t afford to lose track of them again.

They are still tearing up the tree. It’s some kind of symbol they’re tracing - you don’t recognize it, but whether that’s because you’ve never seen it before or simply can not remember seeing it before is impossible to ascertain; it might even be one of their own inventions. You’ve always known them to be an artist, disciplined and committed to the craft of searing abstract self-portraits, like fault lines, across the landscapes they stalk. A sort of “I was here,” you imagine, to make up for how they are otherwise nonexistent to this world.

This, at least, the two of you have in common: you exist only in each other’s minds; to everyone else, you are invisible and unaccounted for, an eidolon of someone else - but having things in common has never facilitated your interactions; instead, it’s only made you more at odds with each other, the perpetual disgust of spotting your own dirt on someone else’s hands. You wonder, fleetingly, what’s worse: being understood only by yourself, or being understood by everyone except yourself? In more ways than you dare contemplate, the pair of you have an even worse situation: the worst of both worlds, understanding yourself only through another version of yourself, because just managing that alone was too damn impossible for you.

They’re an artist, yes, and a skilled one no doubt - but you have no taste for their aesthetic, much less their medium, and it’s over this, really, that the pair of you clash most cataclysmically.

A distant scene flashes like the beacon of a lighthouse through the fogged ocean of your memory, a warning to alter your trajectory: the first time you pierced your face; a needle suspended between your index and thumb like the fine brush of a painter about to deliver the finishing stroke on their masterpiece; your grimace reflected in the mirror when the needle lanced through your septum; the hot pain, like a sudden fever, radiating from the center of your face to signal to every nearby cell to prepare for further damage; your strange, dreamlike sense that you had done something utterly incomprehensible to your body, a self-inflicted wound of the most bizarre type, which would forever divide your body from your mind like a dog that has discovered the hand that feeds can also hit. Since then, you’ve become well acquainted with far less sophisticated forms of self-mutilation, and it has never made your body more comfortable with having to rely on such an alien mind for its survival.

“He asked me if I practiced in front of a mirror!” They caw like the albatross circling around your neck, crushing their calloused fist against the tree before effortlessly catching the apple that falls midair with the tip of their dagger. It’s always so easy for them to get the apples - they don’t have to bother to climb, don’t even need to reach out their hand, because they just shake the tree and one always falls, as if it wants to be eaten; as if it wants them to eat it.You envy and fear this power in equal measures, but envying people makes you afraid of how they might use that against you, so it all boils down to the same in the end.

“Can you believe it, Loop? My face! In front of a mirror! Hah!” They exclaim, all crabapple sourness and thistle thorns. It irks you how they don’t bother to at least glance at you when they invoke your name, taking for granted your attention, pretending to have a conversation with another person when really they are monologuing to props upon a stage.

The only protest you can muster is to deny them a reaction, so you harden your features and blur your vision until they are an abstract melange of shades, indistinct from the rest of this dreary, monochrome world.

They pull a second tool out of their pocket - some kind of gardening shears that you pretend to not recognize - and cleave the fruit in two, then kick the half that plops onto the grass aside like it’s the entrails of a fish, a part they don’t deem good enough to eat - always so wasteful, even in the presence of people who are starving.

Fortunately, you are above trying to gather up their scraps.

“Does he need to practice his face in front of a mirror just to remember how to look? Stupid. Doesn’t get this is my face,” They grumble under their breath as they peel the remaining fruit. They examine the single coiled strip on the edge of their blade for a second, then chuck it aside as more garbage.

The soft, juicy flesh is now exposed. You try not to look hungry - you try not to look in its direction at all. Best to not alert them to any more advantages they hold over you.

“You know, Loop, I don’t think you give that fighter enough credit,” they say, nestling the naked apple into their palm like a hook through bait, then maneuvering their dagger across its domed side to etch the same symbol from the tree. You know they will keep scarring and splitting that fruit into smaller and smaller pieces, each successful operation leading them to instantly lose interest in what was previously the complete focus of their attention; and they’ll discard those along with the rest, until, eventually, all that is left is the hard and bitter core - and then, only then, will they open their mouth, and bite down.

You feel sick to your stomach - what kind of weirdo only wants to eat the core of an apple?

“He’s not as oblivious as he acts. After all…”

They pause to consider their handiwork, then scrunch up their face in disgust - at Isabeau for refusing to perceive them? At themself for their sloppy signature?At the fruit for its thick saccharine scent? At you for denying them recreational entertainment by refusing to lash out? With them, you never know exactly why they are upset, only that they are upset.

There’s a swift, deft slice, imperceptible in your eyes except for its outcome - and, just like that, without giving it a single thought, the apple half becomes fourths. One becomes two, becomes four, becomes... How many? Into how many pieces can this apple be bisected until there’s not enough left for more?

How much of you is still waiting to be chopped up like this? Will there ever just not be enough left for more?

You aren’t sure what you fear more: finding out, or never at all.

They stare straight at you as they deliver the punchline. “I did practice in front of a mirror - the ugliest, most cracked funhouse mirror I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing myself in!”

They laugh, a hoarse and razor-sharp noise that rattles in their throat like the echoing of waves in an underground cavern, and you - well, if you had a nose, you'd wrinkle it with distaste; if you had teeth, you’d bare them in warning; but you have given up both of these to become what you are now - a faint gray dot in the vast black sky, indistinguishable from the myriad of others - and the only tool you have left to wield is your light - so you turn away from them, denying them your gaze.

You can’t bear to look at them right now, not with how they’re looking at you: the icebreaker hull of a ship, thrilling in slicing your fragile frigidity apart.

You aren’t certain what you look like, much less certain that you look the same to all of them, and it makes you wonder, however briefly and however woefully, how you look to this one right now: are you a parody of a parody, an elevator comprised only of mirrors, where all you can see is yourself reflected into infinity - and you can not not see it, not rest your gaze somewhere unhaunted by it? Is this a creative way of insulting you, or merely describing reality as they perceive it?

They stab into the apple again, swinging their dagger like an improvised fork, and you realize it’s pointing directly at you. Their stare slid off of you as quickly as it arrived - oil forced by circumstance to mingle with water but chemically incapable of intermixing - but now they are offering you the apple, and you - you -

Your hand extends traitorously in its direction - as disorientated and ashamed as a puppet waiting for the next tug of its strings to permit it to move again - and only a glimpse of your reflection on the the polished surface of the blade, with your body decapitated by the chunk of apple, frightens you enough to save you from climbing right into their trap like an octopus unable to resist the challenge of squeezing into a tiny jar.

Is this what you wish you could be, an apple large and nutritious enough to satisfy your collective hunger? To fill all of your stomachs, so you’ll never want of more, want of anyone else? Or is this an omen of your delusion, this fantasy of yours that you are that apple - already everything every version of you could ever need, singlehandedly capable of unraveling the knot all these loose ends have congealed into?

The dagger swings again - as all boomerangs do - and the fruit is back in the crater of their palm, the gift withdrawn before you ever had a chance to claim it. You feel cheated, though you realize with a fresh flush of shame that you are the one playing with your own feelings: they never intended to offer you anything; you misconstrued their gesture - on purpose, because you want to believe they care enough about your feelings to go this far. But you know you have only ever been a temporary diversion to them, killing time while both of you wait for the intermission to be over and their character to be called back for the next act. You’re less than stage props to this one; you don’t even register as part of the play.

Or maybe that is just more wishful thinking on your part, another of your strange, convoluted attempts at justifying your self-disdain by projecting it onto someone else - you hate being hated, but being nothing at all to them is so much worse.

“Maybe that’s why he still doesn’t recognize me,” they muse, back to lacerating the apple, venting their frustration on it. “I’ve only ever seen my reflection in a broken mirror, so now I just walk around with my features all mixed up.”

You understand what they mean - against your better judgment, you allow yourself to understand how they feel, capture it like a cinder and guard it in the hollow chamber of your heart from being blown out by the wind whipping all around you. Someone born into a realm of dreams must always seem weird to those residents of the waking world, more so when you emphasize what to you is normalcy.

“Smile now. Laugh now. Run now. Stab now. Be silent now. Sleep now. Roll over now. Get up now. Speak now. Apologize now. Walk away now,” they spit mockingly, parroting a voice you know so well you can hear it in your own mind, except the directions it is giving you are different.

Don’t say anything. Stay silent. Don’t let yourself be provoked. Don’t fall for the ruse. Stay silent. Listen. Don’t react. Just listen. Listen to them. Your role is to listen right now.

You hate that voice, too. You hate it because, if you’re not careful, you’ll forget it’s not your own, and start doing exactly as it instructs.

You might have no choice about being a puppet to the Universe, but you refuse to follow the orders of Something that just thinks it’s the Universe.

“I’m tired of all these damn instructions! I’m an artist! I have to improvise my lines sometimes!” They yell, gripping the hilt of their dagger like an egg they are trying to crush and stabbing the apple repeatedly, relentlessly, each gouge another bit of fruit that will never be reunited with the rest of it.

“Besides,” they add with a huff. “If we never practice other lines, we’ll get rusty, and then what’ll we do when we need one of them, when just smiling or laughing doesn’t cut it and what we need - what we need to survive - is to look convincingly scary?”

You risk a glance back at them, disappointed by how their continued disinterest in you threatens to drown you in relief. They’ve succeeded in sloughing off most of the flesh and have moved onto jabbing their fingers into the core to pick out the seeds, each regarded like a parasitic worm that is attempting to stowaway in their core and eat their food.

Your gaze lingers longer on the discarded seeds than the previous parts as you try to convince yourself that these, at least, are worth salvaging, just as soon as the weirdo with the dagger and a fondness for lacerations finally tires of monologuing and leaves.

“I’m looking out for us, making sure we’re ready for when we need to flex those muscles,” they conclude with a gloating smirk, as if they are the strongest link, upon which the entire chain depends to not break under the strain it puts on itself.

This, you realize, is how your interactions normally go: they complain about something one of their party members did; they try to provoke you with an insult, or recruit you as an accomplice in their distaste for other people, or just vent their anger in whatever way they want because they know they can around you (your role is to listen right now); at the end, there’s some kind of resolution for them, a couple of words that make them feel better - but there is nothing for you besides the further dimming of any hope of cooperation.

“Don’t you agree, Loop-The-Loo?” They ask, and this time you are certain they intend to goad you, so you angle your glare to parry theirs, disdainful and defiant like an orca that, though captured and wounded, with no chance of escape, still chooses to take a bite out of its poacher rather than passively accept a future performing in captivity.

“Don’t conscript me in whatever you’re insinuating,” you scoff. “I’m not like you.”

You aren’t sure for whose benefit you add that last part, but it feels indispensable for you to hear yourself state it aloud.

“And you don’t get to call me Loop-The-Loo. So don’t.”

A reminder for yourself that there is someone who can - someone you have allowed to call you that - though it has been a terribly long time since you last heard him say it.

But this means nothing to them - they care not for how you feel about the other ones; they care not for the other ones in general.

They shrug their shoulders, exhibiting neither disappointment nor disagreement, then finally bring the isolated apple core to their mouth and bite down like a baby shark eating its way out of its egg - birth through destruction, sustenance through cannibalism.

“Suit yourself, Siffr -”

You feel the tensing of your muscles as your right arm prepares to swing. You hear the swish of their blade as it cuts through the howling wind.

The rest is gone before it even reaches you.

You never remember how your interactions with this one end.

✦ ✦ ✦

Scene 2: Your Eyes Were Bigger Than Your Stomach

This apple tastes sweet as sugar, or at least the way you imagine sugar must taste to people who experience it as sweet, and not as an acrimonious burn at the back of your throat, like needles that have been boiled in water. It’s a honeysuckle type of sweet, dripping with nectar and fit to lick your fingers over, and then the ground beneath you if you’re clumsy enough to let a single drop slip (and you are clumsy enough, unsuited as your palms are to cupping this much liquid, to receiving the warm shock of its viscous consistency without reflexively recoiling); the type of sweet you imagine only people willing to risk breaking their back and worse by climbing to the very highest branches of an old and bitterly gnarled tree (you’d be bitter, too, if people kept stealing the best parts of you just for a snack) will try reaching for, those privileged and cursed enough to have earned one lick of its sucrose and forever compare all other sweetness to its perfection - a high they can only chase by literally scaling higher and higher; if they’re fortunate, the day they reunite with the ground there’ll be sweetness still simmering on their tongue; if they’re not, there’ll still be a grave waiting for them in the same spot from which they first began to believe they could fly, but a sky as bloated with gray as their stomach will be their only consolation prize.

You are, for better or for worse, one of those people, and if you can not resist staking your life on filling your belly just a little, you have no chance of refusing when such an apple is offered to you free of charge, without you needing to endure any of the agony of authentically reoccuring it. Sure, it feels like cheating, but when have you known yourself to be above cheating your way out of a tough ordeal?

You aren’t hungry for a literal apple, so the apple in question is a metaphorical apple.

Nonetheless, this apple’s flesh is real - and moist on top of it, dappled with sweat like morning dew preserved precariously between the petals of a half-opened bloom, proof of the speed with which his enthusiasm has brought him to your doorstep. This apple’s fumes are real, too, a labyrinth of melodic words, tangible as leaves - and, like the leaves the wind twirls playfully past your body without ever as little as brushing you - impossible for you to catch, even if you did reach out to try to stop one in its path. You feel that flesh and scent, along with the gently peeling skin (he’s taking off his hat; now his cape; now his gloves) and the curved dome of the core (his lips quirk into a shy smile, then his tongue sticks out like a child trying to hide his embarrassment behind a silly face), washes over you like the sticky blood of a tree, and you feel your guilty desire crystalize into an amber pearl, something you won’t be able to forget regardless of how deep you bury it in the mulch that is your memory.

Shoot an arrow and hope it hits the apple on my head, not my heart, you think, marveling at how he bounces up and down excitedly, cradling an actual, and not metaphorical, apple to his chest, like it’s some prized family heirloom he’s come to share.

Apple of my eye, you think, gazing into his.

He is here to see you. He wants to see you. And he would come even closer, if only you would offer him any signal that you would welcome it. Why can’t you just let him in? Why can’t you just forget about yourself for long enough to do this one thing you know would make him happy? Why do you always have to put your own feelings first, as if any of it would matter at all in the eclipse of his gratitude?

You could lose yourself here, in the sweetness of his company, and not care about the not so distant future when the branch you reach for proves too hollow and you plummet from the canopy at the speed of a dying star, each bone in your body rendered shrapnel to adorn the site of your hubris - but then, the problem is, it isn’t inevitable: you can’t be certain the tree that produced this apple will let you fall.

He is the least bitter tree you’ve ever touched, and all it took was that single instant of pyroclastic flow for you to swear off all further contact: you refuse to become an unbearable weight to branches that nobly refuse to release you. You’d be a parasite to him: you’d take and take, and just keep on taking - because you’re always hungry, and, after the sweetness of his apples, all other food would repulse you; and he’d know this, and so he’d give and give, and just continue to give; and you’d both be locked in this arrangement, you unwilling to starve and him unwilling to let you starve, and both of you aware (though you more than him) that you take faster than he can give, and, eventually, you will be the death of him. You know he’d rather sink to the bottom of the ocean with you than kick you overboard so the raft will at least keep him afloat - and so you know you can never put him in a position where he has that option.

You slice through this ridiculous facsimile of an allegory that your self-absorption has scripted. It’s distracting you from interacting with him, which is something you are at least still capable of - just enough to send him off feeling like you were as purely and uncomplicatedly pleased to see him as he is to see you. Too much time alone in your own head has done this to you: you monologue about yourself even when you have the opportunity to have a real conversation, to focus on someone else for a change.

“You should eat as much as you want, stardust,” You say, your eyes narrowing - at the glare of the sun, envoy extraordinary to the Universe, who can’t let you forget whose directions you follow; at the dust that blows into your face, as gray as the rest of this botanical graveyard; at the jealous ache in your chest over his shameless enjoyment of something you balk at the mere thought of. “It’s not good to go hungry for so long.”

His lips have barely parted when his eye widens - a star, in the midst of its death throes, swelling to the size that will force it to collapse under the unsustainability of its own weight; a sharpened pin piercing through your abdomen, affixing you to the trunk of the tree like a dissected specimen to a museum of ancient history.

You fail to curb a flinch, but then force yourself to not look like you know you’ve just made a mistake. You blunder like this every time you meet him, saying words like hunger and eating and does it hurt, having such an empty stomach all of the time? because you are fated, as if by some self-destructive compulsion, to remind him you know what his problem is - and therefore could, hypothetically, name it for him; name that strange, discomfiting ache in his abdomen, that restless need to always be in motion, always be doing, always be helping others, always be seeking, but without ever attaining satisfaction. You know he knows there is something off about him, but lacks the language to discern it, to explain him to himself - and you could change all of that. But you won’t, because you believe he is better this way: living with a disembodied unease, rather than an accurate map of the emptiness inside of him.

And you, selfish that you always will be, don’t want him to know you are withholding anything from him, because then he might be upset with you, then he might accuse you of lying to him, or - worse - controlling him. You aren’t controlling anyone here - you’re following the script like everybody else, as powerless as everybody else to diverge from it. And your script says - your scrip says -

Remain calm. Remain happy. Listen to him. Tell him what he wants to hear. Make him happy. Your role is to -

Stop. Stop thinking like that - like that - thing - that Something that murmurs in your head as if it belongs there, as if it knows anything about you and what you want. It doesn’t. It’s a parasite, trying to feed you its own wants so you’ll lead it straight to them, all while thinking you’re doing yourself a favor. You may have lost your original sense of self a long time ago, but you still know yourself and what you want better than some parasitoid wasp.

You dare to peer deeper into his eye, past the rift of cosmic dust that obfuscates the surface, and feel that familiar glare studying you from the other side of the telescope lens. It’s only for an instant, but it’s enough for you to be certain - a thing, Something, is there, inside of him. Of course it’s inside of him. It was inside you long before the looping began, and, if you ever escape this (you won’t), you won’t have escaped it. Something carved its hive in your head before you had the strength to craft a mind of your own, so Something will always be in here, murmuring its directions to actors that never learned to perform without it.

You wish you could have saved him from it - saved all of them from it, and from themselves. You’re always finding new ways in which you were careless with how you made your Wish, and here’s one of the most damaging: you thought it was fine to let another you run around trying to clean up the mess you made, but it isn’t just you that’s been duplicated. And while you know how to deal with some things, you’re losing your grip with all of these other ones. 

Even you can’t say what doors these keys have shaped themselves into to keep locked shut. Your own shape is too bent to be of any use to them anymore, so you can only try to point them in novel directions, hoping they’ll discover new uses for themselves. And maybe - just maybe - each new key will prove fine enough to cut the ever shrinking apple pieces, again and again, into infinity.

After all (and you have been through it all already), eternity can only be withstood if you’re aware for bite-sized slices, with plenty of sleeping in between.

Back to your real script. You need to focus here, and you will. You’re consulting your script, and it says here you can’t let him know you are hiding something from him. It says here he must trust you completely, and the only way anyone can ever trust you completely is if they never have any reason to suspect you are keeping something from them. You have to keep secrets - that’s in your script, too - but you can’t ever be found out by the people you are keeping them from.

It sounds hard, but it’s easy as long as you follow your script: it’s all been laid out for you, just like everything else about you. You’ve only ever failed when you’ve been too yourself.

The script says to give him the next best thing from the truth he seeks, and so you reach for him - not in the way he wants, not in the way he needs, but in the only way you have ever known to give: by providing a distraction; by changing the topic. You’re only made of smoke and mirrors, but, to this one at least, not knowing the trick has kept the show from spoiling.

Your role is to be a distraction.

“Is it good?” You ask, ruffling his cloudy wisps of hair with the cautious desire of a bear dismantling a beehive and pointing at the apple still balanced precariously across the tightrope of his hands.

He’s a grazing animal, too attuned to every change around him to not be startled into sprinting away if he registers a sudden movement or loud noise, but you’ve learned to mirror his body language, emanating calm so he’ll continue to think this is a safe place for him; continue to think you’re a safe person for him.

Your role is to be the idea of a safe person.

As his eye relaxes to its previous size, you register - in rapid succession - recognition, resignation, and, finally, relief. And you know - you know he knows you are hiding something from him, you are keeping a secret from him, possibly many secrets. This is a choice you are making, and he is aware of it - has, perhaps, always been aware of it, aware of how you keep having a chance to make a different choice, but never do. And, even if he does not know what it is or why you are keeping it from him, he accepts your judgment, and forgives you for hurting him.

And this, you think, is so much worse than anger and resentment - he’s letting you get away with lying, and you’re letting him get away with letting you. No one is holding anyone accountable.

But you’d lose your mind if you started accounting for things so late in the play, so you better stick to digging the grave you’ve already made all this progress on, not start a new one.

Your role is to be a convenient excuse.

Your role is to be a convenient excuse. You take responsibility for choosing to withhold the truth from him, so he only has to claim responsibility for not confronting you about it. You’re both to blame, in your own ways, but you’re obviously the more culpable party.

And that’s fine with you, as long as it means he can keep visiting - keeps wanting to visit. As long as you can keep seeing him, keep hearing him, keep confirming he is no worse off than you, no worse than you. You need someone - anyone - to be better than you. You need someone - anyone - to still be worth believing in.

A memory surfaces, glittering a dull ash like the sun from behind a transient cloud, and you think of him - not the one standing in front of you right now, but the one that also comes eagerly to visit you, and always stays, for hours at a time, to - to -

Your role is not to be Loop-The-Loop right now.

You know that. You don’t need anyone - or any thing - to remind you. You are not “Loop-The-Loop” ever, really, but you can pretend, you can tweak your crooked key of a self - perform any sleight of hand that’s required - for just long enough to be the person he likes. For him to like you - for him to want you - you would -

A twinkle in the periphery of your vision draws it away from the one standing with you under the tree, and onto the silver circle nestled in the palm of your hand. You don’t remember picking it up, but then you never do when you find it in your possession.

It’s just a coin, indistinguishable from every other coin in the world.

But it’s your coins, and, therefore, unique in all of the world to you. You are certain there is no other like it.

Don’t think about Your Coin right now.

You immediately stop thinking about him, telling yourself it doesn’t count as doing what a parasite wants if it just happens to also be what you want to do. Correlation does not signal causation; wanting one thing in common does not mean the two of you are the same.

You believe this.

You believe this.

“Here, why don’t you try some of it, too?” He says - the one here with you now, the one you so cruelly keep neglecting - taking a big, unselfconscious bite out of the apple before extending his arm towards you.

He’s smiling encouragingly at you, yet you feel like a lion that’s being asked by a gazelle to eat a mouthful of grass - either you refuse and reveal you are a dangerous carnivore, or you agree and choke on your own inability to digest it.

You know you should be encouraging him to eat as much as possible while he’s willing, not stealing his rations like some kind of rat in a grain silo, but you remain - for better and for worse - one of those people who can’t resist an apple this sweet.

As your hand swoops down towards the fruit - the wings of a raptor descending on a rabbit that can’t scurry underground fast enough - you wonder what drives you most: empathy, pity, or just plain greed?

If you could be certain he would not let you drag him down, if you could be sure he would cut you loose to save himself from you - would you, then, let him come closer, allow him to place his hand (which he so deliberately removes his gloves from when he visits you) on yours, and finally - finally - taste his sweet apple flesh with your own mouth?

But he’s too good for you, and, next to him, you’d be too bad for him - so your verdict remains: you can not permit him hope of anything more than what you’ve shown him so far.

This apple isn’t for the likes of you to enjoy.

“Okay,” you say, your eyes squinting to radiate pure and uncomplicated gratitude, and none of the shame you feel over his sacrifice. You know it will allow both of you to fill your stomachs a little, but at the price of neither of you eating enough to survive the rest of this barren autumn.

Kindness can be a cruelty, both when you let yourself give it and when you allow yourself to receive it.

But he’s beaming at you with such a sweet and savory delight, so, for just this moment, you grant yourself the privilege of brushing his naked hand as you grab the apple, then you recite the magic spell to make his wish come true: “We can share this one.”

You never have the heart to tell him you gave up a mouth to eat with when you made sure to condemn him to this misery.

✦ ✦ ✦

Scene 3: Mal Du Pays

They talk and talk but you can not understand a word they say, not today and not yesterday and probably not tomorrow, either - you have never understood anything they have said, so your only working hypothesis is that you never will. This should make it possible to simply zone out during their impromptu visits, but somehow it’s easier for you to ignore someone when you have the choice than when you don’t (it’s, you know, something to do with your entitlement, with how you take for granted the tool of speech, with how reckless you are with your words and how unaccountable you hold yourself for the effects of them on others). You like having the option to ignore others - to ignore yourself - but you hate having that privilege revoked from you - it feels like being cut off from a world, like waking up inside a featureless white room where every move you make doesn’t alter your position in any direction, like running your fingers across your palm and no longer recognizing your life lines.

You know there’s a radio in your head with a transformer that was designed to pick up the signals they are broadcasting, but it’s rusted from water damage (too much time at the bottom of the sea; too much salt lacquered to its wires; to many waves buffeting its finely fashioned circuits) and shocked you the one time you tried to touch it, so you consider it a lost cause, just another piece of useless flotsam you’re forced to lug around like a beachcomber that can’t throw anything away. Occasionally, the oscillator will twitch and ferry a weak electrical current through the smattering of transistors that aren’t entirely fried, but this only leads to a sequence of misfirings and crossed wires, the properly operational parts of your mind momentarily discombobulated by the influx of incomprehensible information and false positives.

You perceive strange and impossible things during these events, which layer over reality like a colored filter or an image cut out of a magazine and pasted onto a collage: a white bird of impossibly wide wingspans eclipsing the morning sun; coal-black sand falling from your lap when you stand, as if you’d buried yourself in it; a bracelet of seashells with a shark’s tooth pendant hugging your wrist, dinging gently with each step you take; a crown of peach coral growing like a fungus from a branch; an intricately patterned fish darting in the stream; the scent of burnt pineapple in the middle of a landlocked boulangerie; a strange, visceral shade splattered across your chest; white hair tickling your shoulders like it’s yours.

You’ve learned to identify and ignore these hallucinations, and you’ve always chalked them up to your brain trying to make sense of sensations without sources, the way dreams are stories you tell yourself to explain the random firing of neurons. When you are sailing, lost between your departure and your destination, you can’t let every storm that nature conjures out of your control to catch you off guard and distract you from your course - you can’t let any storm distract you, in fact: you have to keep to the only path you know, because the alternative at that stage of the game is to never reach shore again.

You theorize that if only you could decipher what they are saying to you, you’d discover it’s something best ignored, something that remains at its safest while peripherally but not centered in your awareness; but because you can not understand any of it, you are caught in the tweezers of uncertainty, panicked like a child that doesn’t trust they’ll feel solid sand beneath their feet if they stop flailing against the ocean tide. It’s precisely the breed of anxiety that kept you going for the long and draining bulk of your looping days, the tantalizing hope that if only you paid enough attention you’d discover something new that changed everything for you, that finally let you understand how to escape your bizarre and inscrutable labyrinth - but you are, for obvious reasons, no longer that type of person, so all this anxiety does for you now is make you want to bash your head against the wall until you lose consciousness.

You don’t ever bash your head against a wall until you lose consciousness when they are around, though. Part of you wants to, but part of you is still a textbook Pavlovian dog, salivating at the sound of a bell that signals a new clue on the quest you’ve labored so strenuously to extricate yourself from, to hand that baton to someone else so you don’t have to be the one running and fighting and hoping and then crushed by disappointment every single time it seems there might actually be a way out of this - if this story ever had a hero (and you doubt this more with every passing loop), you are no longer them, so why do you still dismiss everything you know about its futility and scramble back into the costume of a fool that just can’t let it go?

It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. It’s disappointing - in yourself.

Another reason to hate yourself added to your list.

When they talk - which is the entire time they’re around - the broken radio in your head hums to life with bursts of static, like a cicada nymph crawling out of its shell, blissfully unaware that, for all its exuberant cries, it is still destined to a swift and meaningless demise.

Against your better judgment (which, despite its usual formidability, has gradually been grated down to a flimsy sandcastle of a will, poised to be crushed and dragged away by the next wave to crash through it), you lift your eyes from the rain-splattered ground and look at them, where a different type of storm has been steadily shaking your world.

They’re crying - fat, glistening tears like the pearls oysters build to quarantine toxins they can not remove from their shells - and their hands haphazardly cup their face, their fingers like bars partitioning it into a triptych: their eyes, vanitas of grief; their mouth, a surrealist splash of innocence; their nose, still life with homesickness.

Next to them, you must look like a sleep paralysis demon: terrifying to behold and impossible to make any sense of; impossible to move away from.

You have tried talking to them, in the past, but that has only ever upset them further, your words being as nonsensical to them as theirs are to you. Like you, they want to communicate, but the reminder that the pair of you can not - that neither of you can understand the other - proves more devastating than even your silence.

So, even if leaving their pleas unanswered makes you cruel in their eyes, you make sure to sew your nonexistent mouth shut and just listen. This may not feel like a mercy to them, either, but it is, from your own warped perspective, the only kindness you can offer them: to witness their pain, to not block out their existence, even if you are incapable of comprehending any of it.

But comprehension is all they want - all they need - so you are, ultimately, no comfort to them; and they are no comfort to you, either, so your time together remains, like an anchor that’s grown too heavy under the pressure of the ocean above it to be freed from it, a miserable affair.

You wonder, on evenings like this, with this immense tree shielding the two of you from the downpour, if you have ever succeeded in shielding yourself from anything. The apples rotting on their branches because no one will eat them; the seeds desiccated amidst the blades of grass because no one will plant them; the leaves like a burial mound because no one will sweep them away - their problem is the same as the person sitting next to you: they’re right there, yet you can not reach them.

You once heard someone describe this phenomenon as “forgetting your mother’s tongue,” but this isn’t your mother tongue - it’s just your tongue. Your mother (you assume) must have taught it to you at some point, but the person whose tongue learned it was yours. Is yours. You have to remind yourself that, even if you no longer can, you are still the same person that once could.

But maybe that’s also a case of miscommunication; perhaps you have misunderstood what constitutes you. If every cell that comprised your tongue and throat and lips and brain when you learned to speak this language is already dead and replaced by cells that have never understood anything about this language, then can you still claim it’s in any way yours? Beyond your fleeting, flayed memories of something you can no longer do, is this language part of you at all?

Apparently, it is - and you’re staring at the proof of it.

Such a cruel and sick irony, to be the only one who can understand your language - and nothing else; to only be able to speak in your language - with no one else to make sense of a single word of it, and no chance of ever learning the languages others speak in.

It’s enough to make you want to end it all, if only you had just figured out how to, instead of making it all worse by selfishly conscripting other versions of yourself to suffer alongside you.

There are never any winners in the plays the Universe stages, but you certainly added to the losers count by about a dozen (you don’t want to think about how large that count might actually be).

Perhaps this, too, is your fault: you wished so fervently for someone, anyone, to remember your language, and wished so across so many loops, that your collective desire reached whatever inscrutable force is responsible for granting Wishes, and you were given the means to make that wish real as well - except, like with the other wish, the means you were dealt proved impossible to utilize: you got something wrong, or you’re still missing something crucial, or you’re just doomed from start to end because it’s you that lacks something, and while the Universe can give you the power to rewind time, it can not rewind your personal flaws.

You wished for someone, anyone, to remember your language - and someone did; someone does. But it is someone who will never, ever be able to communicate using it; and, because of this, they are more isolated and wretched than even those of you crushed by the loss of it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, failing yet again at damage control. They look at you, as if for the first time - your presence once more registering in their lonely, wandering realm - and the grip of your hands around your lower face tightens; you’ve been mirroring their body language this entire time, without even realizing it.

But they seem to realize, because, while your words are clearly meaningless to them, a semblance of recognition ripples across their complexion, like those amorphous blurs in the night sky that were once constellations to you.

They say something to you, but of course you can not understand it - you can’t even hear it, outside of the howl of static that your mind orchestrates to fill the void of its absence.

Right on cue, they know you have not understood them - and their expression, like a fresh bruise, unravels into agony.

You ask yourself, yet again, why you can’t just stop causing them more pain?

Surrendering all semblance of composure, tears like daggers slash free of your eyes and scrape down your cheeks, tracing intersecting trails like smoke signals through the canopies of trees. They watch you in silence for a smattering of heartbeats (which you experience as violent bangs propagating through your whole nervous system), then oddly, inexplicably, reach for your face - and touch you.

It makes sense: words may only thicken the barriers between you, but tears, alone and unfiltered, are a universal language, a building block of human expression that even babies deploy and recognize in others.

They’re crying, so you cry in response - does this count as communication?

Maybe it does, or maybe it could, but you’re so shocked and distraught by their touch that you instantly scramble to get away from it, backing away from them with such speed and ferocity of intent that leaves no doubt about your answer to their gesture.

You know you’ve made it worse (so much worse) and only keep making it worse (so unforgivingly worse), and you should just make yourself disappear already, so this other version of you can just be wracked by grief in peace, without you adding to it - but your eyes detects a glint of fool’s gold as you glance around in a panic. Before you can think this through, you reach for one of the seeds on the ground that someone else discarded like trash only hours ago.

The apple seed has turned pitch black in the time it’s been exposed to the elements, and you realize it’s probably started to rot from the inside out, but perhaps it can still serve your purpose - perhaps its darkened shade can even be the key.

They are watching you with confusion, but also interest, and you move fast before it has a chance to dissipate, miming the movement of ocean waves with your hands, then the opening and closing of two shells; finally, you trace the collar of your neck with a finger, as if you can still feel the necklace you just hallucinated - pictographs from a forgotten familytale, but could they still somehow understand?

They stare at the tiny black seed, fat and glistening as it catches a wisp of your starlight, then slowly - miraculously - spread open their palm to accept it.

You nestle it right in the center, miming - to yourself this time - the act of burying a seed in the soil with hope for its growth; with faith in its growth.

A smile graces their face, pleased and perhaps even grateful, and you - you feel, for the first time, the radio in your head, that has hopelessly produced static, transition from nonsensical to harmonious, as if the disjointed noise has suddenly woven into music.

And music has meaning, even if it is different to each person who hears it.

You watch them watch the seed in their hand, and you wonder what they wonder about - something has definitely transpired between you, something has been understood, but did you share a single, identical understanding, or is this merely the illusion of understanding, two misunderstandings cancelling each other out because neither of you can compare them?

That’s probably all this is - all there’ll ever be between the pair of you - but you remain, through it all, a fool masquerading as a hero, and so you permit yourself to hope.

To hope that somehow, in some way, when they look down at that apple seed in their hand, they are reminded, like you, of a pearl on the ocean floor; a pearl that once washed in with the new moon tide, onto the shore of an island that no longer exists.

✦ ✦ ✦

[Begin authors’ note.] We don’t know if there are any plural Siffrin fans on this site, but, having experienced the entirety of ISAT as being about Siffrin's plurality, we feel an Autistic Plural need to find out. We're only posting the first act for now, but we have seven acts planned for the whole fanfic, including an epilogue of sorts set after the events of the game. We've never posted on this website, but we’re happy to share with other plural Siffrin fans if they're out there. Shout out to our pal Jonah “read Paranatural NOW” jonahmagnus.tumblr.com for enjoying and encouraging our entire live reading of ISAT as Siffrin’s plural adventure. [End authors’ note.]

[strawberryforks]

focus // finnick odair x reader

summary: it’s the 65th hunger games and district 4’s tributes are best friends. what’s unfortunate is that everyone knows there can only be one winner…

warnings: violence, suicide, underaged drinking (which i do not condone), no happy ending

word count: 2099

author’s note: this is my first fic and as i’m new to writing for “reader” or “y/n” the format may be different on others! but hopefully this is angsty enough <3 ALSO, REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!

sitting on the train, in a booth, beside your best friend finnick you were the furthest thing from present. you paid more attention the the blur of trees and buildings than him and your mentor, mags. your cheek was pressed against the glass and your hot breath was causing it to steam up.

was dragging your finger overtop it and making various smiley-faces more interesting than whatever finnick and mags were discussing? well, yes. still you couldn’t delude yourself into thinking it was the best use of your time. just like you couldn’t be surprised when finnick’s elbow found purchase in your side. it wouldn’t bruise but it didn’t feel nice. “focus,” he scolded. “you have to listen to what mags is saying. she’s been through this already. she won. she can help us.”

finnick, with his hopefulness, blonde hair, blue eyes and fourteen years worth of boyish charm was perfect. sometimes too perfect because you would catch yourself staring. eyes stuck and cheeks turned redder than a tomato whenever he caught you. embarassing, really, because it’s common sense. you just don’t look at your best friend like that.

“sure. sorry mags. i’ll pay attention.” the victor nodded and continued her explanation—told you and finnick that your best bet would be getting away from the cornucopia as soon as possible. you nodded and though you did your best to listen, you just hoped finnick had, because wherever he went, you would follow.

—

“what are you doing?”

you were doing something you shouldn’t have–but caught, the sounds that spilled from your lips weren’t hurried explanations. you just giggled. “uhm,” you held one hand out in front of your face like a shield and sat the cup of bubbling liquid down on the dresser.

drinking. you were drinking. you moved in front of the dresser hiding the evidence with your body. finnick stepped forward quickly, crossing the room and making it to you in no time at all. he was frowning, he saw the drinks and he wasn’t happy which you didn’t understand because you were overflowing with the stuff. everything was greater than it had been, you were smiling, laughing at things that weren’t funny, and felt a bit like you were floating. “that’s not allowed—where did you even get that?”

“there was a buffet table and,” you burped, “they had drinks. y’wanna try?”

he didn’t. finnick shook his head–didn’t understand why you weren’t taking this seriously. usually he loved your attitude and outlook on things, ‘whatever happens, happens’ was usually said on your adventures but this wasn’t that. this was serious. now was not the time. he just wanted you to focus. “we’re almost at the capital. you can’t do this again, you understand?”

you bite your tongue so your inner monologue doesn’t get out. because yeah, you wouldn’t ever get to do this again (drink, legally or not). you wouldn’t get to do much of anything ever again. your days were numbered. in your last ones you would smile and wave, play pretend with your best friend at your side.

finnick was quite possibly the best and worst person to be in this situation with. on one hand, you’d be with someone you loved in your last moments, on the other… there was no world in which you won this.

finnick swapped your drink with a tall glass of water. sat by you while you sipped at it and helped you to bed. morning came and he was still there. your eyes cracked open, narrowed by bright light and confusion. “you’re good now, yeah?” he asked.

your head hurt but you nodded it anyways. there were purple bags below his eyes. “did you sleep?” you asked despite the answer being obvious.

“someone had to make sure you didn’t choke on your vomit and i didn’t want to tell mags.” lest you disappoint another person. is what he was nice enough to omit.

you weren’t fast enough with thanking him and he left you alone with the myriad of thoughts you just wanted to ignore.

—

“i know what you’re doing.” it was mags.

you turned around to face her—had just finished being interviewed by a loser in an extravagant suit, and felt like a loser, dressed in a blue frilly dress. you kind of looked like a loser too, one late for tea time.

“i don’t know what you mean.”

mags sighed and shook her head lightly. “it’s honourable but he’ll hate you for it.”

you shrug. you don’t care, your mind is more than made up, and has been since you heard his name called alongside your own. “if he’s alive to hate i’m okay with that. you know there can only be one winner.”

mags knew more than most. “i won’t tell him. don’t worry.”

“Tell him,” you made her promise, “that i’m sorry. you know, tributes are vicious but the capitol is worse. keep an eye on him for me please?”

“of course.”

—

then you trained.

“come help,” he called. finnick was practising tying knots, all which he was excellent at. “sure,” you said, allowing him to interrupt your people-watching. you were worried about the careers but figured that together you and finnick could handle them. they were adults but… most of the others were. it was fine, would be fine.

“think you should try something else? you’re pretty good at this.”

finnick laughed and you tucked the sound away in your mind. “thanks, but you? You’re not.” He gestured to the mess of rope on your end before scooting closer. his hands overtop yours, he moved them and showed you the right way to do what you had been failing at. “and there’s no way you’re telling me to train something else. have you even picked up a weapon?”

you shrugged. “i’ve just been watching. i know how to shoot a bow and use knives, i get either of those and i’ll be just fine. a few days of preparation with either won’t change much. i've used them since i could walk, y’know?”

“i just want us to be prepared.” he said.

you smiled and stood, you held his hands and pulled him up with you. “the arena’s usually have tridents, right? you’re great with those.”

and he was. you didn’t care about impressing the judges but finnick did so effortlessly.

“we’ll stick together in the arena, right?” you blurted once the two of you were alone and resting.

“until the end,” he said with a sad smile.

then, almost out of nowhere, his smile brightened. “sleepover?”

that was something you did a lot. Sleepovers under the stars, in your bed, on your father’s boat. it was your thing and somehow the idea of one last sleepover was enough to make everything okay, even just for a little while.

you crawled into the big bed the capitol provided, finnick at your side. you pulled up a blanket at the same time he pulled you into him. he held tight. so tight, for a second you forgot to breath. it meant so much. so, so much. your back was pressed against his chest and his arms were around you–hours later, you were grateful he was such a heavy sleeper. finnick was warm and safe. he was home. you were thankful he was a heavy sleeper because otherwise the way you shook as wet trailed down your cheeks would’ve woke him.

–

finnick’s knots came in handy. you stuck to higher ground, perching in trees and climbing cliffs, and managed to booby trap most of the area around us. after tributes were caught in a net finnick made, you would take turns finishing them off. you, who’d been preparing to kill since your name was called, went first.

a teen who killed without issue was concerning but so was a civilization that made their people fight to the death for glory and entertainment so what could you do?

you killed the first one with an arrow—having got both the weapons you wanted, and finnick took the second, ending a thirty year old man who had more muscles than brains with a trident that had been gifted to him by a sponsor.

two days later and you both were still kicking. In the final four.

you knew what had to be done. your plan only solidified when the other two–also allied, found you. the fight was fast. finnick went up against the remaining tribute from district ten and you fought against the tribute from district two

you were uncomfortable with the distance between the two of you. you both had stuck together like glue the entire time and now fighting and separated? you hated it. if something– “shit,” the man swung the axe and you barely threw yourself out of the way in time. you list some hair and some skin off your shoulder but nothing you really needed. the axe buried itself in the ground behind you and before your opponent could yank it back you struck. you buried a dagger in his stomach and twisted it. his hands found your throat and black dotted your vision but you kept slicing and he went limp.

you rolled the man off of you and immediately ran to help finnick.

another minute and his opponent was dead. you was down a dagger but one was enough. you smiled so wide my cheeks hurt and flung yourself into finnick’s arms. he hugged you hesitantly at first–like he was wary of you. like he expected you to bury a dagger into his back. you would never. besides, your last one was… occupied. “we did it, finn. we did it.”

“only one of us can win…”

you pulled back. both of your hands–both shaky, both covered in blood, cupped his cheeks. “i know, i know. it’s okay. you did… you did great.”

“what? y/n what are you–what do you mean?”

your legs picked that moment to give out. you dropped, knees slamming into the rock. still, you wore that lazy smile. you were losing blood quick and lots of it. you saw the drone that recorded everything begin to inch closer, zooming in as terror finally flooded finnick’s face. he fell to his knees beside you. “no, no, no, no.” his hands pressed on either side of the dagger you had yet to pull out. “what did you do?” his voice broke and his eyes glistened with moisture. you wanted to wipe them away. it was okay. it would be okay. you made sure of it.

“i helped you win...” you assured.

finnick pushed harder on your stomach and you sobbed. he pulled his shirt and pressed it around the blade. pushed again. “finnick. finn, no,” you told him—pleaded with him. you moved your hands… wanted to move his but was too weak. “you didn’t–this isn’t helping. ” he shook his head and more tears fell. “why? you can’t leave me. friends forever, remember? what about that?”

“you-you’ll be okay.”

“not after this. not without you.” agony, finnick was in agony. an ugly sound tore it’s way out of his chest. you couldn’t leave him, not like this.

“c’mere,” you begged. he did, how could he argue with you now? the damage, the irreversible damage, had been done. you pulled his head closer to yours as he choked on more tears. the capitol had taken many things from both of you—and you decided that they could have your life, your future, your finn (you hated that most, but at least he would get to live. get to have his shot at happiness) but they couldn’t have your last words. those… well, they were only for him. “i love you finn. focus… on that.”

“no. no! focus on me, on my eyes—dammit, don’t close yours. no, no, no.”

then your eyes closed again for the last time. he called your name over an over like a prayer, one that went unanswered. but you tried, you swear you did… you just couldn’t get them open again. not as finnick sobbed, not as he stood up and faced the drone. “help her!” he cried, “help her dammit!”

“kill me instead, take me instead. i’ll die, i will! just bring her back, help her! you can’t—you can’t do this!” he begged and when that didn’t work he screamed at the cameras, cursing the capital until the footage stopped being streamed.

when your heart stopped, he refused to let go. clinging to your corpse, to his best friend, he hugged you for the last time.

finnick had won, but he didn’t feel like a winner.

[jarofstyles]

FICTOBER DAY 11- Smile

FICTOBER Prompts/Masterlist

Patreon

1.3k

Warnings- incubus/succubus, smut, threesome mention/ sex w other people mention, mmf/ffm mention, demons, blood, halloween etc

“It’s never a good thing when you smile like that…” Y/N whispered as she tugged her partner’s arm towards her, eyes narrowed in humorous speculation as she watched his smirk grow. The club was dark and foggy from that god awful fog machine the hired DJ had brought, the scents mixing in the room making her want to plug her nose. 

Halloween made it much easier for them to be their authentic selves. Harry and Y/N often had to hide their eyes, curtain them with human presenting ones when they went out to search for trouble. Tonight, Halloween night, had to be the best of the year. Mischief and sex, costumes galore, sin city personified. Their black eyes were assumed contacts, Y/N’s sharp black nails dragging over the front of Harry’s chest. A short black skirt barely covered her thighs and a lacy black corset top was doing little to hide her swirls of black markings down her neck and back. Harry’s were slightly more hidden, but his form always got attention. It’s what made them so good at what they did. 

Succubus and Incubus. 

“It’s a good thing you love to be bad, isn’t it my love?”

Y/N chuckled, trailing her fingers up his bare skin and catching his jaw, nails digging into the skin as she turned it back towards him. “What’s the point of wearing a shirt if you’re barely going to button it, hm?” She squeezed his face, her own saucy smile rising on her lips. “Who’s caught your eye, darling? Someone pretty that we can feed on?” Her eyes met his, reading that he had done exactly that. 

When they normally went on the prowl, they’d take their time- but it was like a buffet tonight. People ready and willing, eyeing both of them up. They were made for pure sexual attraction, humans being drawn to them like a magic spell as their energy infiltrated a space. To be chosen by both of them? The human would have stories for days. Being in a threesome with two of the best looking people they’d ever seen, bragging rights for days. They wouldn’t miss the blood that either of them took, nor would they mind their sexual energy being feasted on. For humans, it was a magical experience. No loss, no hurt, only one of the most pleasurable and euphoric experiences of their lives. The haze would follow them for days and they’d feel their touches for weeks on end, but it wasn’t harmful. Wistful, perhaps.

 The only drawback? No one would ever compare. 

They’d search the world for a human who’s cock was able to press right into that spot like Harry’s had, someone’s tongue that swirled around their most sensitive bit the way Y/N’s did, desperate for a taste of either of them, but they wouldn’t. Not unless they came about another of their kind. 

Their routine varied, as Harry claimed that ‘Variety is the spice of the afterlife’. Sometimes her chose, sometimes she did. It wasn’t like there was a lack of interested participants who approached them either. But Halloween was a night that all sorts of guidelines were lifted, and their rule for only having one encounter a day was lifted. With the ability to keep the spread of diseases, they didn’t have to wait to leave from one club to another, working on their third now. The high was lifting them up, their first two playmates safely tucked in cabs to get back home and surely sleeping off the exhaustion they had given them. 

“Show me, H. I chose last time, so it’s your turn now.” She watched his eyes flutter shut as she dragged her nails back down his throat to rest at his chest, a subtle growl leaving his throat. He loved pain, loved her nails, and his one and only soul mate. The sex with others was fun and games, a way to provide energy, but his real lifeforce was loving his sweet goddess. No one would ever compare to her, to the way she made him feel both inside and out of the bedroom. 

There was a difference between fucking for fun and for their needs, versus the love they made to one another. Their lovemaking varied between soft, soppy morning sex to bloody, rough, primal sex. There was no doubting what they preferred, and it was always each other. His arm wrapped around her waist, swinging her swiftly in front of him as he dipped his face to press cheek to cheek. “The one in the little devil costume.” He murmured, brushing his cock against her ass. “We did an angel earlier, but I’d like to see what the little devil has in store. Bet it’ll be a lot of fun, don’t you think?” He brushed his lips against her cheek, pecking it lightly. “Messy girl. Still have a bit of blood on you.” Swiftly, his tongue licked against the corner of her lips and hummed before tightening his grip on her. “We’re only halfway through the night. Already getting messy for me?” He clicked his tongue at her, feeling her eye roll despite knowing her arousal was at the top. 

“It’s the one day we can be. I can get blood all over my outfit and no one will blink an eye, think m’just a sexy creature.” She laughed, turning in his strong arms to peer up at him. “You know how much I love a mess, but you’re worse than me, aren’t you?” Her thumb was gentle now, brushing his bottom lip. It was still swollen and some of her lipstick stained them a cherry red, enhancing his pale skin even more. His clean shaven jaw was sharp as a tack and his white teeth tried to nip at the pad of her thumb playfully, but she was too quick. Her man was too handsome for his own good. “Mm… I know you love to bury your tongue in holes, any of them, and get all wet.” She had seen it firsthand just 30 minutes ago, the woman writhing under them as Y/N sat pretty on her face and watched Harry lose himself in the taste of their new friend.  “I can still smell that girl on you. She was a fun one, wasn’t she? Had to revoke those wings as soon as you touched her.” She purred, wrapping an arm over his neck. “And you love when they choke on your cock. The other boy I chose did such a nice job taking you into his throat, hm? Amazed him a little with how much you can cum… All over his face, and his ass too.  So don’t tease when you’re just as bad as me.” Her voice floated to him, making him groan. His cock was against her tummy this time, perpetually hard and her words only made it worse. “And if you want to take care of the hard time you’re currently having, throbbing against me, you better go pick up our playmate and bring them back to me.” Her hand slipped rom his neck, dow between them and cupping his erection. 

His cock was her favorite and alway would be. Perfectly thick and curved, she’d never met a person who didn’t like it, but to her it was perfection. Her prized possession. Having a soulbond with someone who pressed right where she needed, that filled her up to the brim and fucked her good enough to have her growling was all she needed.  Leaning up, her lips pressed against his own with a soft ‘pop’ as she pulled away, not getting too carried away yet. “Go on, pretty boy. Since you know how much I love to be bad… get us a slice of our trouble for the night. We’ve got so many more friends to meet.”

[mikazuki1709]

Just a game | Ratiorine Fic

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Ship: Dr. Ratio/Aventurine, Ratiorine

Rating: G

Words: 16.270

Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Aventurine is a menace, Dancing, Insecurity, Guilt, POV alternating, Other additional tags to be added

Summary: On a whim, Aventurine offers to play Ratio's “partner” at a party. However, when the doctor actually accepts the offer, the whole affair quickly takes on unexpected proportions - and forces both men to ask themselves some uncomfortable questions about themselves and how they actually see each other.

Preview:

If there is anything Aventurine detests about being a man in a high social position it is the occasional requirement to take part in official ‘parties’. The need to wear his stuffy, formal IPC attire, the forced friendly small talk with incredibly dull but important people - it is nothing but boring to him. However, there are different sub-categories of those events, and the one he finds himself a part of right now must be the worst of them all. He does not mind the speeches about topics he has no idea about and no interest in - after all, it is easy to just not listen and take a discreet close look at the people around instead. He does not mind the unfriendly gazes on him - he is used to them. No, what really rubs him the wrong way is the “plus-one” character of the event. It is for those with friends and family and not for those who get avoided by the people around them like they carried some sort of infectious disease. Tonight, it feels like a place for everyone but him. 

When checking the guest list before his arrival, Aventurine had placed most of his hopes in one of the names on there. ‘Dr. Veritas Ratio, scientist’  it had read, and seeing that name had made him quite happy. He liked Ratio. He was one of the very few people that did not make him feel like he was not welcome to even talk to them, and he had a refreshingly sharp tongue and never minced his words. It made it interesting to talk to him. Plus, he was handsome. Very much so, even. And since he was a pretty solitary man, he was one of the very few people which usually showed up alone during occasions like this.

Unfortunately, tonight turns out to be an exception from this rule. Ratio is in fact not alone. He is with a woman Aventurine does not know. This leaves him alone with his ennui and a glass of champagne which constantly gets refilled by observant employees as soon as it is threatening to go empty. It is not the healthiest of combinations, and probably the main reason for the fateful decision he is about to take right now.

Aventurine takes a look around. Ratio and the woman are standing a little bit away from him. From his angle, he can almost only see Ratio’s broad back. He looks good in his formal suit, even from behind. Firm and determined. Unfortunately, his frame covers the woman almost completely. The only thing Aventurine can see is that she is wearing a very classic, but high quality dress, and that she has long and dark hair which she wears open. He is also too far away to hear them speak, so he decides that it is time for a little change in perspective. 

There is a buffet table close to them, and although Aventurine is not hungry, he takes the excuse to get a better look and heads over. At the table, he unwillingly picks out the smallest bit of food he can find there and slowly starts nibbling on it. At the same time, he discreetly turns around again. 

Much better, he thinks. He is still a little too far away to hear them, but at least he can now get a proper look. The first thing he notices is that the woman is significantly older than Ratio. She looks well-maintained and confident about herself. Aventurine does not have an eye for women, but he assumes she could be considered beautiful. 

He lets his gaze wander to Ratio, and interesting enough, the doctor looks pretty annoyed. It might make him a bad person, but Aventurine feels a little relieved, although he is not even really sure as to why this is the case. 

As usual, Ratio’s voice is loud and his intonation is very pronounced, so Aventurine is lucky enough to catch a tiny part of what he is saying: 

“How many more times do I have to tell you that I am not interested in consulting a dating agency?”

Now, that is intriguing , Aventurine thinks. So the woman is not his date? He takes another close look. There is something familiar about her looks. Is it the way her dark hair curls? Is it the look of steadfast determination in her intelligent eyes? Could it be? 

Almost unintentionally, he steps even closer to be able to hear the woman's reply:

“Your father and I are just worried about you, Veritas! You cannot just live for your career. You need a partner. You're not getting younger, and with that stubborn personality of yours… well. So if you cannot give me any valuable arguments against it, I expect to see you at that dating party next week, and I expect you to treat the young ladies you meet there with the utmost courtesy and respect!”

“I…” Aventurine has never seen the honourable Doctor Veritas Ratio at a loss for words before, and the sight is priceless. He can almost hear his thoughts, the way he desperately looks for something the woman - his mother , quite obviously - might accept as a ‘valuable argument’, but the look in his eyes tells him that he fails. Turns out even eight doctoral degrees are not enough against the power of a worried mother.

It is quite fascinating. Intriguing, even. Like one of those TV dramas which you initially think would be completely irrelevant to you, only for them to turn out to be too good to want to miss the continuation. Aventurine wants to be a part of this, and his mind, which is by now undoubtedly more than just a little clouded by the alcohol he has had, throws caution to the wind and just lets him get into action. 

[...]

Read the full fic on ao3

[choiwonder]

mark is such a liar that song is not abt cooking eggs why does he do this

[nb-octopus-writes]

once you're in the hive, the other bees assume you're supposed to be there

[masterpost]

Chapter 9: Come for the Bike, Stay for the Game Night

wordcount: 3.5K

~~~~~

An indeterminable amount of time later, after they’ve watched multiple episodes, Lemony Snicket’s expository monologue is once more interrupted by the theater door slamming open.

“I come bearing booze and board games!” Remus announces at roughly the volume of an explosion, or perhaps a fire truck’s siren. “Turn off the television and come socialize.”

“C’mon, Remus, we’re at a good part,” Roman complains without looking in his direction.

“It’ll still be there tomorrow,” Remus says, coming into the room. He doesn’t turn the lights up or anything though, just heads toward them. “Your favoritest twinsie, however, might not be, and the alcohol certainly won’t.”

“Mleh,” Roman says, sticking his tongue out at said twin.

“Also, if you aren’t there to stop me, I’m going to eat all of whatever dessert Patton made and not leave you any!” Remus announces cheerfully. He takes Roman’s right armrest and folds it up into the back of the seat so that there’s nothing separating them when Remus plops down beside him and stretches out across Roman’s lap.

“Rude,” Roman complains, drawing the word out in a playful manner. “Mean to me, specifically.” He pats Remus on the head, then begins to run his fingers through his hair. Remus goes boneless and gives off the impression that if he could, he’d be purring. Loud, obnoxious, chainsaw purrs.

“You’re a menace,” Roman tells him affectionately. Remus hums and doesn’t move.

He continues to not move for the rest of the episode, other than to become an even more boneless puddle under Roman’s absent scritching. Well. And once to grab Roman’s hand and bring it back to his scalp when Roman makes the mistake of trying to gesture excitedly at the screen with it while commenting on the characters’ antics.

When the episode concludes, Roman gives Remus a couple of pats. “Well, shall we go up and see everyone else, or have you trapped me here forever?” he asks.

Remus answers with an indistinct mumble that doesn’t sound like he wants to get up. Roman chuckles and continues to stroke his hair for a few moments longer, then puts his hand on Remus’s shoulder and rolls him off his lap.

Remus lands on the floor with a thump. “Oww,” he whines, sitting up. He sounds more petulant than injured, though, and considering that Remus is quite capable of being an immovable deadweight when he wants to be, Virgil doesn’t think he’s probably actually very upset about being dumped on the floor, or he wouldn’t have let it happen. Still, he pouts up at Roman. “Rude,” he complains.

Roman appears to be of the same opinion as Virgil, because he just stands up and stretches, popping in multiple places. “Okay, let’s go upstairs then,” he says.

Virgil gets up too, which draws Remus’s gaze. “Oh hey!” he says with a grin. “I didn’t see you there, Tickle-Me-Emo. You been here since the party?”

“No, I went home,” Virgil says, shrugging. He folds himself into his hoodie a bit more. “A couple times, actually.”

Remus’s grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

Virgil shrugs again. “What can I say? They keep enticing me back.”

“Patton’s seducing him with food,” Roman jokes to Remus, who nods seriously.

“It’s like a fairy hill in here,” he says. “One bite of Patton’s magically delicious cooking, and you’re stuck forever.”

“That’s how he got me,” Roman agrees, and starts to herd them toward the door.

“You might have warned me,” Virgil says.

“You were already elbow-deep in the buffet when I first saw you,” Roman answers, though Virgil had been speaking to Remus, considering that Remus was the one who had brought him to the party in the first place.

Remus slings his arm around Virgil. “Aw, it’s not so bad, being kidnapped by the fae,” he says. “They’ll keep feeding you, and sure, they throw more parties than you personally enjoy, but at least they won’t make you dance till your feet fall off for their own amusement, so there’s that.”

“Thanks, Remus, that’s very comforting,” Virgil says dryly. 

Remus gives him a squeeze. “Anytime!”

Upstairs, they find not only Janus, Logan, and Patton, but also Remy, who brightens when he sees them.

“Hey babes,” he greets enthusiastically. “Here you are, I missed you, it's been ages.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Virgil reminds him.

“That was a whole day ago,” Remy says, “and we barely got to chat, so it hardly counts.”

“I am not responsible for your terrible timing,” Virgil informs him. Remy had shown up during one of their busiest times, of course they hadn't been able to exchange more than a few words.

“You guys didn't peek, did you?” Remus says, brushing past them in the direction of the kitchen.

“No, Remus, your mysterious parcel has remained undisturbed,” Janus responds dryly, with just a bit of sarcasm on the mysterious. Remus is already gone, and doesn't respond.

“Oh,” Logan says abruptly, and gestures between Janus and Virgil. “I almost forgot, are the two of you acquainted?”

Virgil exchanges a glance with his best friend's husband, whose lips twitch minutely. “We've met, yes,” Janus answers coolly. “How are you, Virgil? Staying out of trouble? I don't believe I've seen you since the party.”

“I'm good,” Virgil says with a thumbs-up. “You?”

Janus inclines his head. “I am doing well, thank you.”

Remus returns then, carrying a large unmarked paper bag. He sets it on the table with a heavy glass-sounding thunk, and shimmies his shoulders excitedly. “Show and tell time!”

“Considering that you announced the contents of that bag the moment you walked in the door, I fail to see the purpose of this procedure,” Logan says as Remus reaches into the bag and extracts another, considerably smaller, paper bag, which he puts down with another glassy thunk.

“The purpose is that you don't know the specifics,” Remus says, pulling a second small bag out. He sets it beside the first one. “Also, I enjoy being dramatic as fuck, and this is as good an opportunity as any.”

“Very well,” Logan says, amused. “Proceed.”

“I will,” Remus says, and continues his self-appointed task. There are five bags in all, of varying sizes, and he lines them up in no particular order. “Okay! Who wants to go first? Logie?”

“Sure,” says Logan. “Why not.” He takes the center bag and opens it, drawing out the square glass bottle it contains. “Vodka,” he announces, setting it back on the table.

“Ooh,” Patton says. “I think we have pineapple juice in the pantry. We should get it and mix them, that's real good.”

“Me next!” Roman says eagerly, and grabs one of the taller bags before anyone can stop him. “Oh, it's a funky shape!” He pulls the bottle out and examines it delightedly. “It's all twisty, I love that.”

“Yeah!” Remus says, wiggling more energetically. “Isn't it just a gorgeous bottle!?”

“Yeah!!”

“What’s in it?” Logan asks.

“Hm?” Roman says, and turns the bottle to find the label. “Oh, it’s whiskey,” he says, and resumes his admiration of the spiral-shaped bottle.

Logan sighs. “I assume that you will be wanting to keep it as decoration.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Roman agrees.

“Only if I don't manage to take it home first,” Remus says. “Remy, you wanna go next?”

Remy considers the remaining bags, then selects the one which is square in shape all the way up, rather than folding in around its contents. This, it turns out, is because its contents are inside a cardboard display box.

“Is that a giant chocolate truffle?” Virgil asks, leaning in. The bottle is round, and wrapped in gold foil.

“Looks like,” Remy says. He tilts the box back to read the label. “Chocolate cream. So, yes.”

“It also comes with its own cup!” Remus adds. “Very fancy!” Indeed, in the top half of the box is a spherical cup nearly the size of the bottle. Remy starts unpackaging it.

“Can I pick next?” Patton asks, and actually waits for their nods before he takes one of the remaining two bags and opens it. This alcohol is much darker than the others, almost black. “Kuh…” Patton reads. “Kahlúa?”

“Coffee liqueur!” Remus says. “It's made of coffee, or maybe meant to go in coffee, I'm not sure. Got it cause we were gonna pick up Remy next, and he likes coffee, so I thought he might like this.”

“Aw, I'm touched,” Remy says. “I do enjoy the occasional spiked coffee.”

“Okay, one bag left!” Remus says. “Who wants to open it?”

“Would you like to?” Janus offers to Virgil. “I’ve already seen it.”

Remus gasps dramatically. “You peeked!? Janus, you promised.”

Janus raises one eyebrow. “I watched you pick it out,” he says, and slides the bag across the table to Virgil. “In fact, I believe you used my card to pay for it.”

The final alcohol is a red wine with a stylized picture of raspberries on the label. Reading the word directly underneath them, Virgil thinks he knows why this bottle in particular caught Remus's eye. “Loganberry wine,” he says.

Logan leans forward. “Color me intrigued,” he says, and extends his hand in a silent request. Virgil passes him the bottle.

Remus bounces, grinning widely. “I’m gonna get the cups,” he announces, spinning on his heel and dashing back into the kitchen. Patton gets up and follows him at a more reasonable pace.

Remus rushes back in with a double handful of glassware, plonks them hastily onto the table, and whirls around again. In the doorway, he nearly collides with Patton, who is returning with the pineapple juice and a jug of milk. “Oops!” Remus says. He grabs Patton by the hips, and spins them both around to trade places. Patton giggles a little, stumbling a bit as he’s spun, but doesn’t fall or drop anything.

“Would you like help,” Janus offers, already getting up to assist.

After multiple trips back and forth, what they have on the table is this: the spherical cup that had come with the chocolate liqueur, five goblets of various shapes and sizes, one of which is made of green glass and decorated with the raised images of curling grape vines, several shot glasses of the larger variety, one of those triangular martini glasses, a large mug that Virgil’s pretty sure is intended for drinking beer from, a plastic cup with a cartoon butterfly on the side and a sillystraw, two short, squat cups, and a tall narrow vessel that Virgil isn’t convinced isn’t actually a vase.

For drinks, they have the alcohol Remus had brought, the pineapple juice, milk, a bottle of sparkling cider, orange juice, and cans of sprite, ginger ale, and dr. pepper. Also, a jar of maraschino cherries. Patton has also located both cocktail swords and tiny umbrella toothpicks, and is busily opening up several of the latter and placing them around the rim of the beer mug. Logan, meanwhile, retrieves a package of crackers and a stack of small plates, and begins to portion them out.

“Ooh, cheese too,” Roman says, and goes to get it. He brings back a whole block, along with a knife and a cutting board, and starts to cut it up. Once he has a decently sized pile of cheese slices, he takes two of the crackers and makes a sandwich, which he devours cheerfully and messily.

Virgil’s not sure how to extricate himself from what is clearly rapidly approaching Getting Drunk Together. It’s one thing to only serve himself from the Non-Spiked punch bowl and avoid the other one, but if they actually pour him a glass, how does he politely turn it down? He does not have a good social script for this. Maybe he should just leave? Leaving before they open the alcohol would probably work. Though of course then he has to find an opening to tell them he's going to go home now, and hope they don't get offended by him spurning the social intoxication.

“Did you clear out the whole cabinet, Remus?” Remy asks, eyeing the eclectic collection of drinkware, which Remus is now shuffling around into a very particular configuration that Virgil doesn't see the underlying logic to.

“No, there’s some left,” Remus says distractedly. “Why, I forget your favorite shape?”

Remy hums thoughtfully. “Weeell,” he drawls, “I might like a coffee cup. Also, coffee.”

Remus squints at him. “Didn’t we get you some on the way over?”

Remy shrugs. “Oh, that’s long gone. I finished it while you were downstairs.”

“I’ll start some brewing,” Patton offers.

Remy smiles at him. “Thanks, babes, I’d appreciate that,” he says, and as Patton circles around him to get to the kitchen, Remy gives him a quick pat on the butt.

“Scamp,” Patton says, and ruffles Remy’s hair.

“In front of my salad?” Roman gasps. Remy sticks his tongue out at him playfully, and Patton giggles, vanishing into the kitchen.

“Before we begin drinking, is anyone intending to drive home tonight, or have any other reason to wish to remain sober?” Logan asks. Oh thank God. Virgil raises his hand. Logan nods seriously at him. “Noted,” he says, and doesn’t even ask for more details. “The cider is non-alcoholic, as of course are the juice and soda.”

“Ooh, we can make you a mocktail!” Remus chimes in. He appears to be satisfied with his arrangement of the glasses, at least for now. “Do you want a Virgin Mary? It’s like a Bloody Mary, but instead of vodka we use ginger ale. I will need tomato juice, worcestershire sauce, olives–”

Virgil cuts him off firmly. “No thank you, Remus.” He does not want to drink the weirdest tomato soup, even if it is a widely recognized beverage. 

“Okay,” Remus says with a nonchalant shrug. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Virgil is not going to change his mind. Even without the alcohol, that sounds gross. Who even likes drinking tomato juice, anyway? And worcestershire sauce!? No. No thank you, no.

“How bout a Shirley Temple?” Roman suggests, reaching across the table to grab the maraschino cherries. He pops the lid off and reaches into the jar with two fingers to fish around for a cherry.

“Hey, no,” scolds Patton, which startles Virgil because he hadn't seen him come back from the kitchen. “Have you washed your hands? No? Then fingers out of the jar.” 

Roman pouts, but retracts his fingers. “Well then how else am I supposed to get one out?” he asks.

“You could use a spoon, or perhaps one of the toothpicks.” Patton hands him one of the swords. “Here.”

“If you intend to make a shirley temple, you may wish to use a spoon anyway,” Logan says, as Roman impales a cherry on his tiny plastic sword. “We do not currently have grenadine, so you will need to make the version where you substitute cherry juice.”

“Fair enough,” Roman says, and pops the cherry into his mouth. With the hilt of the sword sticking out from between his lips, he wanders off in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to fetch a spoon.

“What's in a shirley temple?” Virgil asks, because it seems that Roman is pretty intent on making him one, and if he needs to stop him it'd be better to do it before ingredients are actually getting mixed.

“It is mostly soda,” Logan tells him. “Traditionally ginger ale or ginger beer, though you can substitute either sprite or seven-up—or could, except that we do not have the latter. Then grenadine, here substituted with cherry juice, and garnished also with a maraschino cherry.”

That doesn't sound too bad. A little weird, maybe, but he's willing to do the experiment. “Okay,” Virgil says.

Roman returns with a spoon and makes Virgil the sprite-and-cherry-juice variation of a shirley temple in the martini glass. “Here you go!” he says cheerfully, sliding it over to Virgil.

Virgil eyes it suspiciously for a few moments, then takes a cautious sip. Yeah, okay, not bad. “Thanks,” he says, and Roman beams.

“You're welcome!” he says, and pours the rest of the can of sprite into one of the goblets to make himself a matching drink. “So, Remus, you mentioned board games?”

Remus perks up. “Yeah!” he says, and rushes off. He returns with a game box, which he slams down onto the table hard enough to make the glassware rattle. “Look what we found!”

Patton leans in to look. “Parcheesi?”

“Six-player parcheesi!” Remus corrects. “You know, since we can never all fit around a normal ’cheesy board.” He glances over at Virgil, then Remy, and adds, “Unfortunately we still can't all play, since there's seven of us now. So, oops, we're gonna need to find an even bigger game board for next time.”

“I was not aware there existed six-player parcheesi,” Logan says. “How does it differ from the typical four-player setup?”

“It's a hexagon,” Remus says, opening the box. He takes the board out and unfolds it for them to see. “Also, gay.”

By which he clearly means the fact that the six colors the game makers used for the six players are the colors of the rainbow, though they're not in rainbow order.

“Dibs on red,” Roman says quickly.

The pieces are currently separated into little baggies, and Remus digs through the pile for the red ones. “Here you go, little red foxes,” he says, tossing them to Roman.

“Ooh, they're animals?” Patton asks.

“Yep! I bet I know which one you want,” Remus says, and passes him the orange packet. “Oh, or wait, blue is frogs. Do you want orange cats or blue frogs?”

“Oh!” Patton says, brow furrowing. “Oh, that's a hard choice.” Remus passes him blue as well, and Patton takes one of each color out, deliberating between them.

“I'm surprised the frogs aren't green,” Logan says.

“Nope, green is turtles,” Remus says, tossing them over and almost hitting Logan in the face. “And bananacondas for you, dear,” he adds, handing Janus a packet of coiled yellow snakes.

“I think the frogs are cuter,” Patton decides finally.

“Can I have the cats, then?” Remy asks, and Patton passes them to him.

“Then that leaves Virgil with the purple octopussies,” Remus says. He tries to hand them to Virgil, who doesn't take them.

“Wait, what about you, don't you want to play?” Virgil asks.

Remus grins. “Oh, don't you worry, I have an idea,” he says, pressing the octopods into Virgil's hand. “Patton, I am going to raid your craft supplies.”

“Oh! Okay,” Patton says, sounding surprised, and Remus runs off with no further explanation. “Don't make a mess!” Patton calls after him.

“I have never played parcheesi before,” Virgil admits.

“I believe that is your cue for nerdy exposition,” Roman says without looking up from where he is lining his foxes up in front of him, and Logan nods and adjusts his glasses.

“The objective is to move all your pawns from their starting location—” He places one finger on the purple diamond in one corner of the board— “to here.” With his other hand, he points to the purple segment of the hexagon at the center of the board. “To do so, you progress along this outer path based on your dice rolls.”

Logan continues to explain the rules, about movement and blockades and knocking other pawns back and rolling doubles and special cases. It's kind of a lot, but Virgil thinks he can probably manage a game if they're willing to re-explain things as they come up. Especially the special cases. There seem to be a lot of those.

“And of course, whoever gets all six of their pawns to Home first wins,” Logan concludes just as Remus returns.

“Ta-da!” Remus announces, dumping a colorful handful of fancy buttons onto the board.

There's a pause. Then, Logan says, “Explain.”

Remus grins. “I will be playing as the Nest Parasite,” he says, and begins to rearrange his buttons. There are six of them, one in each color of the rainbow, and Remus slides them each over to the corresponding starting diamond. “I'm on a team with everyone, but also no-one.” He shrugs a little. “Basically, it's like I get to control one of each of your pieces. If we're the same color, we can team up for blockades, but I owe no allegiance to anyone, and I'll absolutely take you out with my other pieces if I get a chance.”

“Any chance to sow chaos,” Virgil surmises, and Remus grins and wiggles.

“That sounds like an acceptable adjustment to the rules,” Logan says. “Any objections?”

No-one appears to have any, so Logan says, “Alright. Let's get the board set up and roll to see who goes first.”

[stuffing-seattle]

Bunni’s Stuffing pt. 1

Bunni was nervous, and he saw this as she squirmed in the passenger seat. “What is it, baby?” He asked her. She pouted because she didn’t know exactly how to put it into words. She was nervous, but the good kind of nervous. Excited nervous, the way you get when you are in line for a roller coaster. “I asked you a question.” He said, a color of sharp discipline in his voice. “I don’t know where you are taking me, Daddy.” This was. A half-truth. She knew what she had done, and was sure they were on the way for him to deliver punishment. “Do you remember Daddy’s lunch in the fridge?”

“No.” She fibbed. He scoffed. “I bet you are it too fast to remember.” He scolded, eyeing her swollen tummy peaking out from her character-themed tank top. Bunni blushed and tried to pull the top further down to hide her belly, but it was no use. Even on an empty tummy, her naval now sat exposed by the shirt, and the rabbit that had once adjourned the chest looked more like a panda bear, due to the stretching. “Whether you remember or not,” Daddy’s words cut into her thoughts like a knife. “I had to go to work with no lunch yesterday. That must mean I’m not feeding you enough, so I wanted to make sure you got your fill.” There was a sadistic edge to his voice, and Bunni gulped as they pulled into the parking lot of the towns cheapest all-you-can-eat buffet.

As they stepped out of the car, he got to drink in her full figure. When they had first met she was a petite little thing. Rail-thin and no tits or ass to speak of. Bunni was a glutton for punishment though, and always found excuse after excuse to act up. Her Daddy, of course had to discipline her, and his constant discipline was apparent for the whole world to see now. Her Daddy’s dominance sat around her waist in a a beach ball sized slab of fat. Her thighs had pudged up and her tits and ass had simply exploded from the results of her bad behavior. This was evidenced by her ass cheeks comfortably hanging halfway out of her many-sized too small shorts, and the fact that her tits looked like a popped can of Pillsbury grands in virtually any top shelf wore.he had to restrain himself from bending her over in that parking lot and putting a baby in her right then and there. *Patience* He told himself. *That part comes later*

She could feel the stares of the other patrons as they entered the buffet. White hot shame rushed to her cheeks as she knew they were all thinking what a pig she was. An equally white hot sensation travelled from her over-plump belly and in between her thighs. God she couldn’t wait for her punishment. “Sit down.” Daddy commanded. She obeyed. “Now, you are going to sit here and eat every single plate I bring you. Hear me? Every. Single. One.” Bunni smirked at him, trying not to betray the fact that she was absolutely sopping wet under the table just at his words. “And what if I don’t?” She asked smugly. He didn’t answer. He only left to collect plates. Fuck. He didn’t take the bait. She knew that meant he was serious and not here to play games.

Daddy was not gone long, but even so, Bunni’s belly began to gurgle and groan. She laid a hand on her belly and tried to shush it. Just then, Daddy returned. He had a plate of every cut of fried chicken, three slices of pizza, and a half rack of ribs. “I heard your greedy belly gurgling from across the restaurant.” He teased. “This should be a good start.” She gulped at the word *start* but dutifully dug in to begin her meal.

She tore through the chicken like an animal, and finished off the pizzas in short order. It was only by the time reached the ribs that she began to slow down. Already her mouth was covered in grease, and the ghosts of fullness were beginning to press at her belly, though it still did not show through all her extra padding. “You need a bib little girl.” Daddy said to her. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Not too full to be sassy, I see. Well then I’m off for round two. I expect those ribs to be finished off by the time I get back.”

“Finish those ribs before I get back.” She mocked. She saw a twinge of annoyance in Daddy’s eyes, but still he said nothing and left to other more food. As soon as he was gone she dropped the act and rubbed her full tummy. He was going to absolutely destroy her later, and she just hoped she was able to cash the check that her smart ass kept writing.

Either way she got back to work and went at the ribs. Daddy had not gotten her any utensils, almost certainly as another small punishment. So he gnawed at the ribs, getting barbecue sauce and chunks of meat all over her mouth and dripping onto her ample chest. She had just taken her last bite when Daddy returned with her second round of food. This time a mountain of mashed potatoes, a roll of sushi, and two hamburgers with fries. As if reading her mind, he also brought with him two tall glasses of soda. “This is it?” She smiled weakly. “Not by a long shot baby girl. Now dig in.”

She tried not to let on how much that comment both shook her and made her legs quiver. Instead she drowned her feelings in the closest glass of soda. In less than ten seconds, she had guzzled down the drink. Lost for a moment in the ecstasy of the stuffing, and basking in her bloated belly, she forgot where she was for a moment. *BWWWOOOORRRRPPP* Bunni opened her eyes in horror as she realized that the whole restaurant had gone silent and everyone was looking at her with quizzical expressions. She apologized meekly, and Daddy smirked at her.

“You really want this whole restaurant to know how much of a hopeless pig you are, don’t you?” He said. She blushed even harder and the fire forming in her belly was getting harder to ignore. “Why don’t you go get my next course and make yourself useful?” She snapped in a bratty tone. “Hope your eyes aren’t bigger than your stomach he said ominously, as he sauntered off to find more food. Finally she was alone with her food. She tucked in and lost herself to the pleasure and pain of stuffing her gut. Was this the mashed potatoes? The sushi? She was eating too fast to taste and it tasted too good to care. Before Daddy returned she had crammed every last bite of food into her overgrown tummy and polished off her soda to boot. She reclined back in her chair and groaned, this time managing to stifle a second burp. Her belly groaned and burbled audibly. It was as tight as a drum and she couldn’t even put a hand on it to soothe it without it sending a painful quiver through her midsection. Fuck, she had over done it so bad. And she had asked for another helping, what was she thinking? She was done for. As these thoughts swirled through her almost comatose mind, Daddy returned.

When he returned it was with two large slices of cake and a small mountain of ice cream. Bunni whimpered audibly at the thought of having to stuff it all inside her. She might really blow up. “You’ve been such a good girl for me, I thought you could use dessert.” Daddy said. Bunni still sat slumped in the booth and weakly opened her mouth, but all she could muster was a sick “Ooorrrp”. Daddy could see that she was slipping into a food coma, and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. He had one way to check. “I’m very proud of you, baby girl, you’ve been doing so so good. Can you finish all of this for Daddy?” Jesus he knew how to push her buttons. The praise managed to short circuit her brain, and the pain in her belly seemed to melt away. She sat up as straight as her belly would allow, and began to dig in. Daddy could see that it was taking all her concentration to keep the food down, so he just watched, enraptured by her gluttony. She finished off the ice cream and the first slice of cake. But once the time came for the final slice, it seemed as if Bunni’s hands were filled with lead. She couldn’t even bring herself to pick them up. She moaned which transformed into a burp halfway through.

“I can’t do it, Daddy.” She whined, tears welling up in her eyes. “You have to.” Daddy said gently. “You’ve been misbehaving too much lately, and it wouldn’t exactly be a punishment if it was pleasant would it.”

“Please my tummy’s gonna *uuuurrrp* pop.” She begged. Daddy was unwavering. “You have to finish baby girl. That was the deal. But I’ll help you finish this last piece.” He picked up the last slice of cake and held it in front of her mouth. Bunni clamped it tightly shut. “Open.” Daddy commanded. Bunni shook her head even as her cheeks ballooned out from another burp trying to force its way out. “Open or I’ll make you open.” He repeated. Once again, Bunni shook her head. “Fine.” Said Daddy. “But I tried to warn you.”

Daddy took his free hand and layed it on top of Bunni’s massively swollen tummy. Usually, it looked like a wad of raw pizza dough hanging around her waist, rather formless and blob like, but still sticking out. At this point though, it looked and felt as if she had swallowed a bowling ball. She could be mistaken for being 8 months pregnant from the stretch marks that were already starting to form near her back. She was so tightly packed with food, that the skin around her naval was beginning to turn pink even through her dark skin from all the pressure. This belly was a bomb just waiting to blow. So Daddy did what he had to do.

He placed his hand over her belly button, and gave it a jiggle. So many feelings washed over Bunni at the same moment. The disturbance of her belly caused a massive air bubble to come loose and travel up her throat. The feeling of Daddy’s hand on her bare skin after all this teasing with the food and his words felt like bolts of lightening traveling directly from her belly to her pussy. The monstrous burp that erupted from her caused her a sort of sexy embarrassment that she was only half-conscious of due to her almost comatose state. As soon as the burp was done, Daddy shoved the last piece of cake fully into her mouth, and the way it felt expanding in her throat felt like a cock. As it traveled down she could physically feel the cake stretch and warp her tummy, finding any last available space left. Each swallow that landed in her gut she could trace where it was coming to lie in her horribly overpacked tummy.

All of these feeling combined were simply too much for her little food-impaired brain to handle and she had one of the largest orgasms of her life. There were several earth shattering contractions of her cunt. The first one soaked her panties. The second one soaked her shorts. The third one left her dripping and drooling into the tile floor below them. It was a good thing she had cake shoved down her throat or she would have let out an ear piercing scream.

Daddy saw Bunni quivering and shaking and was at first afraid she was having a seizure, until he heard the splashing on the floor, and smelled the unmistakable smell of her cum. He looked under the table at the small puddle forming below her and looked back at her in awe.

She was beautiful. Her mouth and tits were absolutely smeared in food. It looked as if she had been hit with a water gun of icecream and sauces. Her belly was taut and red, and visibly quivered under the excessive pressure it was holding. Even to Daddy, across the table, it audibly gurgled and groaned in an angry way. Bunni’s pants were ruined. Somewhere in the mayhem her button had popped off, and her belly had surged forward, pushing the zipper down. On top of that, her pants were soaked and she looked like she had pissed herself.

“Are you ok?” Daddy whispered, legitimately concerned. Bunni was slumped in the back of the booth, eyes glazed over, looking at nothing in particularly, and her mouth hanging limply open. All she could muster was a tiny “Burrrrrrrp,” that sounded like air being let out of a tire. “We gotta get you out of here, baby girl.” Said Daddy.

He stood up and put one of Bunni’s arms around his shoulder. He hefted her to her feet, and the jostling elicited a roar from her belly, and a barrage of burps from Bunni. Luckily they had been there so long that they were the only two left in the place other than the employees, who were doing all they could to give the noisy couple a wide berth. Daddy helped Bunni waddle her way to the car, her one free hand trying in vain to rub and soothe her churning belly. Once Daddy had her strapped in he said, “You did so good today baby, I’m proud of you.” He gave her stuffed gut a small pat. “BRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!” Bunni moaned after the explosive release of gas Daddy had dislodged barreled out of her throat. “I just hope you are ready for the rest of your punishment at home.”

Bunni looked at him, horrified. “What?” Said Daddy. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easy did you? After all the back talk you gave me today? And basically shouting out to the whole restaurant what a slutty pig you are?” Daddy scoffed. “No one came to the buffet today to see a whale beach themselves, but they got a show anyway.” Bunni could only rub her poor overworked tummy and try to keep everything where it was. She hoped her next punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

[heartfullofleeches]

Who's the best at giving head out of your ocs?

Liu. I'm not even just being a simp anymore. Ok I am, but A their tongue is highly sensitive B there's two of them and they're really long. There's also that thing about them being able to split open their cheeks thinking about sticking it in from the side makes me absolutely weak

Orion has the most skill but he's using his hand mouth so that's kinda cheating

C.C and Baron go at it like starving man at a buffet. C.C has more game than his big brother and piercings. The aphrodisiac in his spit can be transferred through this type of contact as well

Calliope has zero idea what to do when she actually gets down there, but she will use all the skills she learn from watching videos for "research" and not let you up until cum at least twice on her tongue. Hopefully that's before she passes out as she begs you to choke her with your thighs

The crown of best head giver out of our strictly human yans is Spencer. For the cows it's Peach. Cafe Hybrid.... Honey

Host is also has multiple tongue. As many as you desire.

As with their dicks, D.kay can change their tongue to your liking. I miss D.kay. Lemon and Lime are also good but who cares about them

[cuffmeinblack]

Azkaban. A fortress to hold the foulest of wizardkind, meant to keep us safe from their wrath. Yet for all we know of Azkaban, there is much more that remains hidden—a deep well of corruption rooted in government to hide the true horrors of the prison and its nightmarish keepers. Garreth Weasley is the first prisoner to walk free from its walls in centuries. As he tries to pick up his life from where he left off, he soon realises that his imprisonment has reshaped the man he once was. Battered and broken, he draws on the strength of a friend to right the wrongs he's suffered. In matters of justice and those of the heart, will truth finally out?

Garreth Weasley x f!OC (Adanna Egwe)

Tags: explicit | friends to lovers | dark themes | trauma

Prologue

Garreth took a tentative step towards his salvation, one foot in front of the other on quaking legs. They shook with fear, both inflicted and for what awaited him outside the towering stone walls. Malnourishment had set in months ago, withering his muscles and the spritely step he once held. Gone was the layer of healthy fat from years of Hogwarts’ delicious fare, and long had faded the glow of his skin, leaving only a palid complexion and freckles that looked more grey than golden. He didn't know this, of course—Azkaban didn't have mirrors, or bathrooms for that matter, only buckets and hard walls and harder floors—but he felt it in his bones and the way the woman now looked at him.

The first person to see him after the long nine months was not his mother, father or various siblings—it was a Ministry worker, unnamed and uncaring. The stout woman looked at him blandly without so much as a sympathetic nod, her lip curling faintly in what looked like disgust. Didn't she know? He was innocent! Garreth supposed she might not be privy to the details, assumed he'd been released on some technicality. A murderer walking free deserved no sympathy, no kindness. She kept her distance and waved him forward, the blazing white of her deer patronus keeping the foul creatures that had tormented him at bay. The cloaked figures of his nightmares lashed out, displeased to be losing their sustenance, only to be buffeted away by the powerful magic. The closer he walked towards her, the lighter he felt. A heavy blanket of despair was gradually peeled away and memories seeped through the edges. Smiles, laughter, a kiss, the smell of apple pie and the freshness of Spring. And then the air shimmered as he entered the deer's embrace, emotions he thought long buried flooded back in one great tidal wave that almost knocked him flat on his back. He remembered hope, once a constant companion that had been suffocated within a few weeks of entering the great fortress behind him.

“Steady, now.” The woman watched him stumble but made no attempt to help him. Garreth thought she moved to offer a steadying hand, instead it plunged into her pocket. He stood within arm's length of her now, could see every line of her face and the hint of warmth in her eyes that she didn't offer to Garreth. He felt suddenly self-conscious—a rarity for him—as he became more aware of his unwashed hair and filthy nails. He must have smelled vile. So distracted with his own dismal appearance, he almost missed her hand hovering between them. Atop her palm, a square of chocolate sat. He could smell the rich aroma permeating the damp and salty sea air, and he salivated. “Take it. It will take the edge off.” She jerked her head towards the dementors still straining against the patronus’ shield. “The portkey leaves in thirty seconds.”

Garreth took the chocolate and shoved it in his mouth with little decorum, savouring the rich cocoa as it melted on his tongue and coated his mouth. He'd not tasted anything so delectable, though he knew it was likely the cheapest the Ministry could source. A far cry from the gruel that had barely kept him alive. The woman bent to pick up what Garreth assumed was his ticket out of this hellhole—a small gold pocketwatch of which the hands twitched back and forth with no progress. The time read one o’clock or thereabouts, yet judging by the stormy grey sky and waning light, Garreth put it closer to six. He was pretty sure it was now Autumn, though there were no trees with their copper hued leaves to confirm his suspicions. All he saw now was grey rock, grey sky and turbulent waves, all desaturated as if the dementors were not only capable of sucking the happiness from the landscape but the colour too.

“Ten seconds.”

Garreth placed his hand over the pocketwatch and the woman clasped him firmly, the cold metal warming between their palms. She herself was warm, her skin soft against his own calloused and clammy fingers. With a jolt, Garreth realised that this was the first human contact he'd had since entering the prison all that time ago. The last had been his mother desperately reaching for him as he was dragged by chains from the courtroom deep below the Ministry. She'd stroked his cheek and told him not to worry before he slipped into darkness, her tear-streaked face etched into memory.

“Five, four, three, two…”

On one, Garreth felt a pull behind his navel and he lurched forward with dizzying speed into the abyss, only to emerge and fall promptly to his knees. His bones hit cobblestones strewn with leaves and he doubled over, retching and gasping for air. Whilst his head swam, he heard voices, cries and screams. He thought this was a cruel trick, that he'd been taunted with the promise of freedom only to be deposited back in Azkaban for some sick amusement. They grew louder as the black spots cleared in his vision and he realised that they weren't cries of pain and hopeless wails—these were shouts of excitement, relief. They called his name and he managed to peer up into the sunset to find familiar faces crowding him. He was home at last, surrounded by countless copper manes and freckled grins, and two figures that hung back, different from the rest. Natty, he recognised by her flawless dark complexion and glittering smile, and the woman next to her by the way his heart leapt at the sight of her. She was here. She'd not forgotten.

He was barely aware of anything the woman from the Ministry was saying as hands pulled him inside the cottage and Charlotte—his dear little sister—was babbling on about such nonsense that Garreth couldn't help but laugh. The sound was strange to him and his voice was weak, so weak. His vocal chords seemed to struggle and creak like something old and long-abandoned, groaning back to life. “You're all here…,” he managed to say before a wave of exhaustion crashed into him.

“Give him some room. Charlotte, Hector, enough. He needs to rest. Oh welcome home, Garreth…”

Mum. She wrapped him up in his arms and he felt ten years old again. Here he was finally safe and loved, though almost inexplicably as if he didn't deserve it. His brother clutched an arm and helped him up the stairs that creaked less noticeably under his newly lithe form. More chocolate found its way into his hand, this square much silkier with chunks of honeycomb that stuck to his teeth. As soon as his head hit the pillow—his pillow—he drifted off to sleep and had his first nightmare-free slumber in months. He didn't dream at all, only surrendered to the sweet silence and infinite dark.