#trying to make up a bit for lost time here

[entitled-fangirl]

Little Doe (P2).

Cregan Stark x Velaryon!reader

Warnings: making out, dom!Cregan, talks of death and ptsd, etc

A/n: This is short and sweet and a cliffhanger but- there will be a part 3, don't you fret

Part 1

Masterlist

..............................................

Cregan entered his solar. And the moment the door closed, his hands rubbed over his face and into his hair. His fingers tugged at the long strands as he forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Is everything alright?" Her soft voice called.

He'd almost forgotten about the small settee he had moved in here specifically for her. After doing so, she hardly ever left it. Especially on days she knew he'd be here. 

He stretched his shoulders back as his eyes took her in. He loved her in this relaxed state. It had taken a few weeks to get her there, but this was bliss. She was blissful. No need to keep up with the royal looks of tight dresses and intricate hair- not when she was with him. She was comfortable with him, trading it all for more relaxed dresses and hair loose from braids. He loved her just like this.

But the current concerned wrinkle in her brow as she looked at him ruined it. "'M fine. Just a disagreement at petitions today."

She abandoned the Stark History book to give him her full attention. "A disagreement?"

He sighed again at the thought of it, interlocking his fingers over his head. "There is a lord that simply does not know his place."

She hummed, choosing to say nothing to make him fill the space.

"He's j-" Cregan bit back his words, the anger turning into crude amusement. "He's both vial and vain and… much too blunt for my standards." He aimed his words at her, "I appreciate a disagreement. I will not tolerate disrespect." He wanted to make a point. But more than that, he just wanted her to agree with him.

"You do not deserve disrespect," she breathed. She was beginning to find her voice with him. Though, it was still soft.

"No, I do not."

"Nor should you have to tolerate it-"

"-I shouldn't!" He huffed, throwing his hands up. "I shouldn't. Perhaps a public example must be made of him." His voice quieted as he thought. "What would your mother do, hm? What did she do with disrespect? Or your father?"

They didn't speak much of her parents. Rhaenyra was long gone, her remains stuck in King's Landing. It loomed over the silver-headed few that survived like a dark storm cloud.

What would Rhaenyra have done?

"I'm unsure," she finally answered. "I was… kept from those parts of the kingdom."

A small chuckle left Cregan as his angered gaze turned admiring. "I know that, doe. But surely your brother talked."

Jace did. He was the finest gossiper she knew. That's how she always got her information during the war.

And Cregan knew that. He knew the two eldest Velaryons better than he knew himself at this point.

She dared to think that Cregan missed Jace.

As for her father dealing with disrespect? Which one?

Harwin would fulfill his name of 'Breakbones'. Laenor would have a strong talking to. Daemon… well. He fought a war for his wife's name, didn't he? 

"Perhaps he spoke a few times," she spoke, deeply in thought, seemingly lost in the memories of Dragonstone. Those warm days in the sun. Jace letting her ride with him on Vermax. Teaching Joffrey how to swim. 

The death of Luke. 

The death of Jace.

She physically blinked as the thoughts turned more and more sinister. "I try not to think of those things anymore."

He watched her face turn more convoluted and lost. He wanted to hit himself with how easily he'd brought back the horrid remembrance. She had been so comfortable and he had to come in and ruin the little peace she had.

"Don't tire yourself over it, sweet girl. Was only curious." He sat next to her on the settee, almost comedically with how large Cregan's body was on the small sofa. His shoulders slumped as the weight of his life set it- like it did every time he was comfortable. "I never quite know what to do," he admitted softly, keeping his eyes glued to his hands. "When your actions affect all of the North, they have to be right."

She shimmied into his side, resting her head against his shoulder. "What does a Stark wolf do?"

His lips quirked up. His sweet doe is telling him to give into his wolfish instincts. "Suppose I should banish him then?"

She wrapped her hand around his bicep, heaving a soft sigh and shrugging.

"Can I kiss you, doe?" He asked softly. 

He'd asked it before. That first time. And he'd been denied.

He said he could be patient. But that was proving itself to be a lot harder than he originally thought. 

He was her husband already. A man of his stature wouldn't have waited this long. He didn't care. It just made the rewards sweeter.

So he looked at her to gauge her reaction.

She had set her chin against his bicep now, looking through her lashes. Her big does eyes gaze up at him.

She slowly nods.

He has take a deep breath. He can't get too carried away with the small liberty she's given him.

His hand slowly reaches into her hair, pulling her away from his arm so he can turn and lean down to her level. "Your words," he reminds her, but his eyes are only on her lips. He wants to capture her voice perfectly for what she'll say now.

She hesitates, the words capturing in her throat. Until finally, a small plea makes its way through in a hoarse whisper. "Please, kiss me."

Cregan closes the gap with no hesitation, cupping her face in his large paw of a hand. 

His kiss was heavy. It felt weighted with both intensity and words unspoken. But he made it feel light.

With careful movements, he trails his other hand from her hair to her lower back and begins to lay her down on the settee. His lips never disconnect from hers, slipping his tongue past her lips with an expertise that made her gasp.

Her mother had once had a brief talk about sex with her. It was broad and strange. Something about feeling something bolden within your lower stomach- like adrenaline shooting up your spine.

She thought she was beginning to feel it.

She braved bringing a hand up his chest and back down again. It was frightening to not know exactly what to do. But exhilarating all the same.

He groaned and began to tug up her thin dress as he climbed comfortably over her. He swears he's not felt more beautiful skin in his life as his fingers brush over her legs.

But as his calloused hand runs up her thigh, she lets out a small sound of surprise that breaks his train of thought. He pulls his face from hers worriedly, though he's still holding back the feeling of ravaging her.

He takes in the sight of the small pants that break through her parted, swollen lips. She's a sight to behold.

He pulls her dress back down, relishing in the fact that his wife truly is beautiful. Even if he has yet to see all of her.

She pushes herself up to try to catch his lips again. But as their lips brush, he turns his head. And when she tried again, he muttered, "Don't."

Her face fell a bit. "Cregan-"

"Don't ask what a Stark wolf would do. Ever again," he warned lowly. "Don't encourage it."

She realized just how much he was holding back. Like he was hungry and had yet to eat in days.

But he tried to lighten his sudden harshness, tucking his face into her neck and nipping. "Might bite you, doe."

She gasped at the surprise of it, but flushed when it came out as a small groan.

"Oh," he muttered against her skin. "You liked that? You want me to give in? Mark you?" He traded his nipping for soft kisses, trailing them up her jaw until he hit a spot that pulled a noise out of her. He kissed and left kitten licks against it until her hands pulled at his hair. He admired the way she was putty in his hands. "Let all of the North know how the doe controls the wolf, hm? How he worships her? You want that?"

Cregan pulled away to get a look at her. Her glazed eyes set on him. Words tried to come from her lips but failed to make it through. Her mouth opened and shut with hazy intention. If that's how she responded to a kiss, he couldn't help but let his mind wander.

He grinned, gripping her chin. "Hm?" He asked again. "Cause I promised not to touch you until you let me, little doe."

.............................................................

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[wcnderlnds]

we're venus and mars, we're like different stars | choi su-bong (thanos)

・❥・ summary: you're a pink guard and find your annoying best friend in the games. ・❥・word count: 1.8k ・❥・warnings: drug mentions, death mentions, lots of swearing because its thanos. ・❥・ authors note: okay, this is a whole series i've been working on for a few days now and i'm hype for it so hopefully everyone enjoys it as much as me!! we in for an idiot best friends to lovers slowburn.

‘The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please try again later.’

With a heavy sigh, you handed your phone over to the guard standing before you for safekeeping. It was pointless anyway. Su-bong wasn’t going to answer but you wished with your whole heart that he would. The last conversation you’d had with him worried you. Things hadn’t been going great for him lately but the way he’d been talking had really concerned you to the point you’d almost considered ditching your duties and sticking with him but you couldn’t. You’d made a promise many years ago and if you didn’t keep it, things wouldn’t end well for you. There was nothing you could do but hope and pray that your best friend was okay. It would only be a week until you could see him again at least.

Security checks to get into the games always took forever but finally you’d made it through, passing them with flying colours. They were very strict about, well, everything. They took your devices, patted you down just in case you were wearing a wire and questioned you for the passcode. Everyone who had taken the job to be a guard was told the code, never to share it with anyone else. It was so they could sniff out anyone who was trying to sneak in. There had been an incident three years ago where someone had disguised themselves as a guard, infiltrating the games. Since then security had been taken up a notch. 

Making your way to your small room, your thoughts couldn’t help but drift back to Su-bong. Hopefully he wasn’t doing anything stupid but knowing him, he probably was. Stupid was his middle name at this point. With a sigh, you pulled on your pink jumpsuit, the mask with the infamous square on it donning your face and you were ready for the games to begin. 

Crowds upon crowds of people filed through the stairs to where all the photo booths stood. This was the calm before the storm. These poor people had no idea what was coming. There was a part of you that felt sorry for them, the urge to almost tell them what was about to happen forefront in your mind. You couldn’t, though. In this place, doing the job you were doing, you had to be strong. Feelings in this place didn’t end well. That’s why whenever you were here you shut down. You became the person that was cold, calculated. Someone that abided by the rules and didn’t feel any remorse. It was the only way to get through. The only way to make this easier on yourself.

A commotion caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes glanced over to where it was coming from and instantly your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach. The room suddenly started spinning, your hand reaching out to the wall to steady yourself. This could not be real. A wave of nausea hit you, the contents of your stomach threatening to resurface as you watched your purple haired best friend surrounded by a group of his fans.

It was no secret that Thanos needed money but how had he ended up in here? When you last spoke to him yesterday, he said he was probably going to try and find a few gigs to earn a bit of cash. His rap career had taken a bit of a downfall when he lost all his money thanks to MG Coin. It had all gone downhill from there. He started taking drugs, acting erratic like he wasn’t even on this planet. It broke your heart to see him so broken but no matter how many times you had tried to help him, he’d always denied it. That was the thing about Thanos; he was stubborn to a fault.

You had to get it together. As a guard, you couldn’t show weakness. Being weak was what got you killed and that was something you refused to let happen. Nobody would catch you slipping. You stood up straight, your heart still feeling like it was at the bottom of your stomach as you watched the scene unfold. You could handle anyone in here but him. If anything ever happened to him….

His voice echoed through your ears asking you if you wanted to be in the picture. Behind your mask, you rolled your eyes before explaining that it was only one person at a time. Making a cross with your arms, he waved everyone else away. He really didn’t give a damn. His face was etched with frown lines, his lips were constantly turned downward. It took all of your strength not to reach out to him and hug him. At that moment, he looked like he needed one. Or maybe you just did. Watching him walk away only made the beating of your heart increase tenfold knowing what he was walking into.

—————

Was he serious?

Your fists clenched at your sides as you watched Thanos pop one of his pills in his mouth from the control room. Eyes fixated on the screen as the dumbass chased his high rather than dealing with what he’d just witnessed. Understandably, watching someone die right in front of you for the first time was traumatic but what was he thinking taking one of those pills in a game like this?

Maybe you were also a little mad at him for flirting with the girl the second he’d laid eyes on her. It wasn’t surprising — he was a flirt, a player but you thought he’d have enough sense to realise nothing about this place was normal. The feeling of jealousy that had bubbled up inside you when you saw it wasn’t new. It happened all the time whenever he spoke of the girls he’d hooked up with. Your blood would boil while your brain would come up with ideas on how to get rid of said girl. It was solely because he was your best friend and you were scared of losing him. That’s all. Besides, he was the same way whenever you flirted with anyone. The amount of fights you’d had to talk him out of due to him being jealous of the guys you’d hooked up with were insane.

You were transfixed as you watched him dancing and jumping around the field. Oh, you were going to kill him. Never mind this place doing it, you’d take it into your own hands. He was really testing your patience. His reckless behaviour was something you’d found amusing in the past but now when his life hung in the balance, you hated it. The exhale you released when he finally jumped over the finish line was loud enough for a couple of other guards to hear. Nobody questioned you, though. The perks of being higher in the ranks. 

During the dinner hour, you made sure you were on duty in the main dormitory. Even if it was against the rules — something you always tried to stick to in here — you needed to talk to Thanos. So, when you caught him heading to the bathroom, you followed. Once you were close enough, you grabbed his collar and pulled him to a secluded corner.

“What the fuck?” He groaned as you pushed him against the wall, his head hitting it. Not hard, he was just dramatic. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, huh?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, pulling your mask off. Thanos’ eyes widened in an almost comical manner. Was he high and imagining you?

“Obviously, I’m dreaming right now. Bet in two seconds you’ll be on your knees su-“ You glared at him almost daring him to finish that sentence. “I’m joking. I’m joking, damn. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here is the better question! Are you out of your mind?” You released your grip on his collar, taking a step back.

“Relax, I’m good. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle, baby. Now, answer my question. Why are you here and wearing that fuckin’ outfit?” His eyes scanned the pink jumpsuit, his fingers pointing at you. He couldnt wrap his mind around the fact you were here let alone as one of the guards. His sweet, caring best friend being one of the people who shot anyone who lost was something he was going to have a hard time accepting.

“…I work here every year. Have been for about five years now. It’s good money and helps keep me afloat. I’m not proud of it, okay? I hate it here, I hate this whole thing but… when an opportunity shows up, you don’t ignore it.” Your mask was held in your hand by your side, eyes glancing down towards it. 

Thanos held his hands up, shrugging his shoulders. “Ain’t judging you. I just pushed three people so if you’re making money by killing people then whatever.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Ah, but it is. Are you or are you not killing people here?”

Your head hung low in shame. It’s true, you were. The money you were earning came at the cost of people’s lives. Thanos reached out, his finger on your chin tilting your head up so your eyes could meet his. The concern in his matched your own. He could be high as a kite but he would always make sure you were okay. In his shitty life, you were the only thing that mattered. The thing that got him through the days.

“I know you know what you’re doing but be careful, you hear me?” His tone was stern, his deep voice causing little flutters in your stomach.

“I should be saying that to you. Don’t go getting yourself killed, Su-bong. I’ll try and help you as much as I can but there’s only so much I can do,” your voice was barely above a whisper as his thumb brushed against your cheek. He’d taken a step closer, his breath fanning across your face. He was a touchy-feely person, he always had been but never before had his touch made you feel like this. You put it down to the situation you were in. The pounding of your heart and the butterflies fluttering in your stomach were nothing more than nerves, obviously.

“Don’t get yourself in trouble for little old me, Senorita. I’ll be fine,” he winked, his signature smirk on his face. “I really need to piss, by the way. You gonna let me go, guard?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside. However, before you could pull your mask back on, Thanos pulled you into his chest, one of his hands resting on the back of your head and the other around your body as he hugged you close to him. You could hear his heart pounding against his chest, your own matching his rhythm. As your arms wrapped around him, you couldn’t help but wonder if you both really would make it out of here alive.

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[shariasweet]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ testing the waters

p.sunghoon 𝒙 f.reader

this is olddd... 2024 old.... #tryingtogetbackonmygrind anyways because it's so old it's kinda rough and punctuation, grammar is iffy. my apologies 😓

wc ::: drabble length sharinote ::: any who here I am writing butt stuff... shivers. this was supposed to be for jay but erm this is an experiment post so... uhm yeah !!! contains a little bit of plot… just hoon referencing a memory but!

when your boyfriend notices you're having trouble... finishing. he decides to test the waters. double the pressure... double the pleasure (or something like that).

your fists tightly balled around the wrinkled material. 'sunghoon..!' you mewled into the sheets — dirtied by several previous rounds of what seemed like relentless fucking:

your boyfriend was ripping orgasm after orgasm from your quivering body — or at least he was trying to. he'd had you on his fingers in his mouth... missionary cowgirl and now? doggy. you just couldn't come.

every time you felt your orgasm creeping up on you… it'd never arrive.

it’s like just as that wave of pleasure would be about to wash over you... the waves would never crash. instead you'd be left writhing with an aching cunt — chasing a nonexistent high.

your eyes swelled up with tears. they began pouring from the moistened ducts as you whined into the bedsheets. ‘please please please…’ your begging came out in broken breaths — exasperated and desperate as you tried arching further into his touch. ‘I want it… ‘want to cum so so bad hoonie fuck!’

as much as your boyfriend loved to see you cry… wailing as you took him bullying his lengthy cock into your cunt with moderate struggle… or screeching whenever his fingers dug deeper into your cunt…

sunghoon and you both knew how badly you really want to come — you have to… hence his unfaltering dedication.

‘shhh… I know baby.’ his strong arms wrapped around you as his hips began to stutter no longer rapidly pistoning against your ass. sunghoon thought to himself… he was busy thinking of ways he could make it better… ways to make you come:

sweetly rubbing your clit? no you’d already tried that and by now the bundle of nerves was so bruised and sore you’d only be more distressed… trailing kisses down your neck? it’d only left you more desperate.

the male was at a lost running a hand through his hair as he sighed. he only wanted to make you feel good.

still rummaging through recycled ideas he’d briefly thought of a conversation he’d had with a couple of his friends. a dumb one really…

it was lighthearted — playful and seemingly useless.

him heeseung and jay sat around drinking and laughing around jays living room coffee table… the two single men reminiscing past hookups to share with their friend.

‘she told me to!’ the middle laughed.

‘no way dude! that’s sick…’ the eldest gulped down his drink. ‘not really…’ jay’s humored laughter dying down. ‘what do you think hoon? I mean she came quick. crazyyy orgasm — I mean she was clenching and — ’

‘enough!’ heeseung jutted his lip out. the two bickered as sunghoon chuckled out loud. ‘I mean I ‘dunno never tried it.’ he replied indifferently also taking a sip of his drink. ‘well if you ever need to get y/n to… y’know give it a try.’

his friends advice lingered in the back of his mind as he sat back up. ‘baby…’ he cooed listening as you sniffled. ‘want to try something… s’that okay? I really want you to cum f’me.’ you softly nodded. more pleas began to slip past your lips — coming out as incoherent babbles. ‘please hoonie…anything.’

gradually he begins sinking back into you. his cock dragging between the fluttering swollen walls of your cunt.

‘y’know give it a try.’

the words echo throughout his head as he slowly thrusts into you. sunghoon’s hand finds it place around your hips — a bruising grip on your ass as he brings his thumb to gently press against the puckered rim of your ass... testing the waters.

he feels you tense at the sudden contact, drawing careful circles around your hole. ‘here y’go sweet girl. how's that?’ he purrs, his thumb still prodding at your gaping opening as he continued fucking into you. 's'good...' you groan.

your boyfriend glances down where the two of you connect — his shaft flooding you much smaller cunt… resulting in an abundantly creamy ring around the base of his cock — his thumb inching further inside of you.

god, you were so irresistible... back arched, digging into the mattress as a sweaty sheen adorned your body. it’d only be a matter of seconds until sunghoon came again.

your continuous, desperate mewls halted by the pressure of his thumb massaging against your asshole. ‘f-fuck!’ gasping you threw yourself back on him, feeling him knuckle deep as his drooling tip kissed your cervix. "more, please, hoon! o-oh my... sshhit!"

you squirmed against his toned stomach as he fucked into you — finger prodding against the spongey walls of your ass.

'hah!’ you eagerly moaned. you could immediately feel the pressure building in your stomach... an orgasm finally near as your boyfriend picked up the pace of his hips snapping into your own.

finally.

he could feel you clench around him — a tell tale sign as your cunt fluttered around the shaft of his cock. you were about to cum.

each drag brought you closer until alas you were coming undone. "f-fuck!" you cursed, finally giving out as you sunk further into the mattress... "that's it. cum f'me, y/n... shit, you're perfect, baby." he grunted, slowing his thrusts as he allowed you to ride out your high.

"thank you, hoon." your voice echoed, an exhausted and hushed whisper. "of course, sweetheart." chu. he placed a peck on to your bruised lips... pulling the uvet to rest over your body as he left to draw a bath.

all works are works of fiction. they do not reflect the reality of anyone mentioned... all works owned by @shariasweet on tumblr {do NOT repost on other sites} ≽^•⩊•^≼

[scribblesofagoonerr]

Blue for a while | Buddy & Monkey: Double The Trouble

summary: monkey's loan spell in the 2022/23 season.

double the trouble masterlist

The Manchester rain felt different. It wasn’t just that it was heavier, colder, or lingered in the air longer than it did in London.

It was lonelier.

And you hated it.

You hated the city. The constant rain, the grey skies, the way it was always cold. You hated how the wind cut through you even when you wore three layers. London was cold too, but it never felt this miserable.

You hated the shirt. You especially hated how the blue felt wrong against your skin, and how every time you pulled it on, it made your stomach churn.

You had grown up in red. Arsenal was your home, your family. 

This? This was nothing but a punishment.

Or at least it felt like it was.

And more than anything, you hated Jonas for sending you here.

You had been absolutely fuming when you found out about the loan.

“You’re joking? I’m not going there!” You exclaimed, outraged even at the thought of it.

“You don’t have a choice, kid,” Jonas had said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“You… You can’t make me! Leah–” You turned to her, desperate, “Le, can’t you stop this? You can’t let this happen!”

Leah’s jaw had been tight, her fingers flexing at her sides. She was just as frustrated as you were, but the fight had already been lost before it even began, “It’s out of my hands I’m afraid, my girl,” Her voice was strained, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to go,” You had pleaded.

“I know,” Leah exhaled a sigh, running her hand through her hair, “But you’re going to be fine. Kei, G, and Lucy are there. Just think of it like an adventure.”

Of course, Leah tried to make it sound like it was better than it was, but it wouldn’t be.

You scoffed, shaking your head in protest, “But I don’t want an adventure, I want to stay here.”

Jonas, however, didn’t look the slightest bit phased, “You’ll be expected to arrive in Manchester for your medical tomorrow. The club is sorting your transport out.”

Your stomach had twisted at that. It was happening, whether you wanted it or not.

“Where am I even gonna stay?” You asked, confused as your voice was small.

“Don’t worry, Monkey. I’ll speak to Kei and Luce, and I’m sure you can stay with them,” Leah said, she was trying to be reassuring but you saw the way she was struggling with the idea of this herself.

And then, just like that, the club’s announcement post dropped the following morning after you found out.

It was official.

“Remember, it’s going to be an adventure,” Leah said, forcing a faint smile.

You scowled, “A terrible adventure. Why do I have to go?”

Leah sighed, barely managing to get a spoonful of porridge into Buddy’s mouth, “It was the club’s decision, Monkey. I can’t do anything about it.”

But you didn’t want to hear that. You wanted her to fix it.

You hated it here. And you were vocal about your feelings.

“I hate it here. It’s so shit,” You grumbled, collapsing onto the bed in Lucy and Keira’s spare bedroom after another miserable training session.

“Stop swearing,” Leah chided through the phone, “It’s only for this season. You’re going to be fine, and you have Kei, G, and Lucy, remember? It’s going to be alright.”

You huffed, rolling onto your stomach, “You’ve sent me to live with a crazy woman, Le!”

Leah sighed, “You’re being dramatic, Monkey,”

“Am I? Lucy tried to shove pineapple on my pizza yesterday. I barely made it out alive,” You protested, dramatically.

“Relax, squirt. Auntie Kei is here to keep you safe,” Keira popped her head around the bedroom door with a cheesy grin, “Don’t yer’ worry, Le. She’s safe with us!”

You wrinkled your nose, “Did you seriously just refer to yourself in the third person? So lame.”

Keira cackled, “You’re just mad ‘cause I scored that banger past you in training.”

You groaned. You hated that too.

You hated how Keira and Lucy had been given orders from Leah before you even arrived. 

Don’t let her spend too much money.

Don’t let her stay up late.

Make sure she eats properly–no sweets, no energy drinks.

You weren’t a child.

Okay, sure, you were only seventeen, but still. You could take care of yourself.

Except… you were currently banned from Uber Eats because Keira caught you trying to order a McFlurry for breakfast. Lucy had physically taken a pack of Haribo Goldbears out of your hand at training. And when you tried to sneak an energy drink before the match, Keira snatched it and took a sip right in front of you–just to be annoying.

“You’re the worst,” You grumbled, arms crossed.

“You’re predictable,” Keira had shot back, grinning.

You just wanted to throw something at her.

But the worst part?

It wasn’t just that you hated Manchester. 

You hated City. 

Their football was different, it wasn’t Arsenal’s football, and you felt it in every training session, every match. The movement was different, the patterns weren’t the ones burned into your brain from Hale End. Even when you did well, it didn’t feel right.

And the dressing room? It wasn’t the same. Sure, everyone was nice, but they weren’t your people. You missed Katie’s loud, chaotic energy. You missed Lia trying to make sure you ate before training. You even missed Kim’s usual Captain’s mannerisms and stern words.

You missed Leah. You missed Jordan.

And most of all, you missed your favourite little buddy.

The Arsenal group chat was still very much active on your phone, but it didn’t feel like yours anymore. The first few days, the girls had kept you included – talking about training, sending memes– but then the messages started to feel different. The jokes weren’t ones you were in on anymore. You saw pictures from team dinners–moments that you weren’t a part of.

You tried to pretend it didn’t sting.

Jordan and Leah, of course, always checked in.

Jordy: How’s City treating you, little one?

Your answer was always the same.

You: Shit.

Jordan sent a laughing emoji. That bad?

You didn’t hesitate to show how much disinterest you had for the city or the club.

You: Yes. I hate it. I fuckin’ Jonas. I hate the shitty weather. I hate the stupid fuckin’ football. I hate everything.

Followed by a phone call from Leah, usually to scold you about your vibrant language.

“Stop swearing will you,” Leah chastised in her usual manner, “Jord told me about the text you sent her. I know it’s hard, but…”

You didn’t say the worst part.

You didn’t say how much you missed home.

You didn’t say how much you missed your family.

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter, “I want to come home,” You muttered, quieter this time, “What if Buddy forgets who I am? I can’t let that happen.”

“Monkey,” Leah’s voice softened instantly, “She’s not going to forget who you are. She’ll still remember her big sister.”

“She’s just a baby,” Your voice cracked, “Babies forget things.”

Silence stretched between you. Then, the call flickered into a FaceTime request. You accepted it without hesitation, and the screen filled with Buddy’s tiny face. She was clutching your old stuffed monkey, babbling your name like it was the only word she knew.

Leah smiled, tilting the camera, “Someone’s missing their big sister. She won’t let go of it,” She teased, her voice warm, “Does this look like’s forgetting you anytime soon?”

Your throat tightened, eyes burning as you fought back tears, “That’s not fair,” You mumbled, voice thick, “You can’t just make me cry like this.”

Leah’s smile softened, “It’s just this season, my girl. You’ll be back home in London before you know it.”

That season felt like an eternity.

© scribblesofagooonerr

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter II)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, noncon, dub-con, non-consensual drug use, when the emperor is a bit insane, mommy issues, daddy issues, every kind of issues—this little shit has them all (he’s so cute)

word count: 5k words

chapter I

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

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She didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave their room, all she wanted was to go home. Not to their new villa in Rome, not even to her husband's old house. Cassandra longed for her childhood home, with her father and sisters, where she could always be the little girl.

"You're an early bird today," Tiberius said, waking and stretching towards her.

Her heart skipped, her palms sweaty with worry.

"Those who apologize properly deserve forgiveness, don't they, little bird?" - another voice, deceptively tender but promising nothing good, echoed in her mind.

Cassandra wrapped herself tighter in the sheet, licking her lips, hiding her body from her husband, not wanting his touch.

"I slept poorly. And I don't feel well. When will we return home?"

Tiberius got up, his brief morning tenderness replaced by his usual sour mood.

"When the games end. Not before. I've got business."

Normally gentle and shy, she never argued with him, but this time, she tossed the sheet aside and jumped up, chasing after him, desperate to talk face-to-face. Her hands shook. She pictured herself – pale, nervous, dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess, more like a madwoman than a loving wife. Ashamed of her sudden anger, Cassandra covered up again.

"I feel awful, I'm nauseous, could it be a child, Tiberius?" she tried to elicit some sympathy, pressing her hand to her stomach.

She couldn't stand another moment in the palace.

"Tell me, wife, what troubles you so much?" - he took a step forward. She had never truly feared him, but suddenly realized that after yesterday, both he disgusted her and she feared him. It was his fault! Everything that happened to her was his fault!

"I'm really not well."

"And where better than the emperor's palace to find a good physician?"

Realizing her words were futile, she slumped back on the bed's edge, and Tiberius knelt in front of her, resting his cheek against her leg.

"The emperor," he began, "Emperor Caracalla, he's ill. His mind is rotting, just like his body, so you won't find better physicians here. Should I call someone for you?"

Cassandra couldn't breathe, pulling away from her husband, standing up in a daze, not caring about her nudity. Even when servants walked in, she didn't cover up, lost in dark thoughts.

Emperor Caracalla's mind was afflicted by a disease? What kind of disease? She knew nothing about medicine and couldn't even guess. Did this make him more dangerous, or was his nature already cruel and violent? His smirking face flashed in her mind, his mood swings, his smile turning to a sneer...

Cassandra flinched when someone touched her from behind. She quickly scolded herself.

"Stop, he won't burst into your chambers while you're with your husband!" - she repeated, but she didn't believe it, if he wanted, he'd take her right in front of Tiberius, and no one would stop him.

She spent the entire morning trying to comfort herself, but her anxiety only grew. First, Tiberius noticed the purple bite on her skin. She managed to excuse it, saying he'd had too much wine and hadn't been gentle with her in bed. He believed her.

She was horrified again when the slave girls began to dress her.

"This isn't my clothing!" - the fabrics were too vivid and fine, and they...they smelled of aromatic oils and powder.

"Not yours, true, but we'll be here for some time, and until your clothes arrive from the villa, you need something to wear, don't you?" her husband murmured, looking at her like a piece of art. "You can't just walk around naked, can you?"

She would have preferred to parade through the palace entirely naked rather than willingly wear the clothes and jewels Caracalla had sent her, fully aware of how pleased he would be. Yet, the problem was, her nude debut would have left him equally pleased.

The stands were louder than ever, and only when they entered the imperial box did she understand why. The Colosseum was flooded!

They were late due to her distraction and sluggishness; if she had her way, they wouldn't have come at all, but there she was, seated behind Lucilla once again.

Despite the excitement of the ship battles, the clanging of metal, her eyes kept falling on the red-haired head before her.

Neither emperor acknowledged their arrival, too absorbed in the spectacle, and while Geta later gave her husband a nod of recognition, Caracalla didn't even turn around. Anger simmered in her chest. For him, last night was nothing, but for her...For her, it had haunted her all night and morning. All her thoughts were trapped in those wretched, humiliating moments.

Why did he seem to have forgotten while she, cursedly, remembered every touch? Remembered his hands were soft and hot, his scent sweet, almost intoxicating... And, of course, she remembered the bitter humiliation from his words, from how he touched her, and that Emperor Geta had watched it all.

Cassandra pressed hard on her palm where the wound was healing, trying to push away the memories. She wouldn't let him occupy her mind as well.

Yet, she couldn't relax, pandemonium broke out in the box when the ships came too close and an arrow hit the column between the emperors' chairs. The last thing she heard before Tiberius pulled her out was Emperor Geta's piercing scream.

The palace was buzzing with unbearable noise, the feast meant for evening had transitioned into the day, though the servants were not fully prepared.

Cassandra stood by a column, wine cup in hand. Her husband had left her again, off with General Acacius. The emperors were nowhere to be seen, nor were most of the Senate.

"How many do you think will be executed today?" she heard a quiet female whisper.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the emperor ordered all the gladiators on the field to be gutted," another voice answered, "you know how he is, insatiable!" A burst of giggling followed, and Cassandra stopped listening, embarrassed by the direction of their conversation.

She understood that for many, winning the emperors’ favor was a dream. But for her? She was a married woman who had spent her youth cultivating a sense of duty, loyalty, and responsibility. Why, then, had the gods abandoned her? Faithful and devoted as she was, they had thrown her to their earthly incarnations to be torn apart.

"More wine, domina?" a slave girl dutifully refilled her goblet.

The girl was young, dark-skinned, and beautiful, with large, intelligent eyes. Cassandra noticed the gilded collar around her slender neck and suddenly felt an invisible, soft, and hot hand squeezing her own throat. In a rush, she took a large gulp, wincing at the bitter taste, then handed the cup back.

"No more, thank you," she said, licking her lips nervously, knowing she wouldn't find peace in this cacophony.

"Are you not well, domina?" the girl asked, worry in her voice.

"I just...I need some time alone," she muttered quickly, stepping away from the column, only to stagger and clutch her head. What was happening to her?

"Do you want me to take you somewhere quiet, domina? You can rest and come back later," the girl didn't wait for an answer, guiding her by the elbow out of the room. Such audacity from a slave was unheard of, but Cassandra was too rattled and her head was spinning.

"Where are we going?"

They navigated past the throne room into a small, almost secretive chamber. The ceiling wasn't as high, the columns much less grand, the lighting dim and gloomy, and in the center stood a white altar, adorned with gold. In her parents' home, next to her room, there was a similar one, much more modest, of course, but dear to her heart, where she had prayed to her late mother.

"Wait outside," the words were both a sentence for her and an order for the slave.

She wanted to scream. Of course, he was here. No one was to be trusted, even the slave's kindness was a trap—cruel and painful. Was she truly nothing more than a prisoner here, a powerless plaything to entertain the young emperor?

Every time she saw him, he seemed like a different person. He was dressed in black and gold, with a golden laurel crown and an earring. Gold, gold, gold! She despised its gleam, for in it, she saw him.

Huddled against the wall, she stood frozen, afraid to move. The emperor did seem different this time—melancholic and contemplative. His pale eyes were unusually clear and sober as they met hers.

"What did you tell your husband?" His voice was different too: calm, measured. That made it all the more terrifying. Cassandra couldn’t read his mood from his face.

"Nothing, Caesar," she whispered, afraid to speak louder, as if his calm depended on it.

Caracalla turned to the altar, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. She held her breath, watching the golden laurel shimmer in the torchlight.

"Come closer."

His tone was pensive, his light brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. The moment she stepped closer, the emperor’s gaze shifted to her. It slid from her neck, lower, along the colorful tunic she wore.

"My mother used to wear this," he said. To her surprise, his right hand was bare of rings as he brushed the fabric over her chest lightly, almost tenderly. His eyes stayed locked on hers.

Though still afraid, it felt different from yesterday. Worse.

Why had he forced her to come here? Why had he dressed her in the clothes of his dead mother? Cassandra cast a desperate glance at the door, but he noticed immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"She often came here," he continued, "prayed to the gods," his words were vague, her thoughts growing heavier, "do you pray often?"

"Yes, Emperor," she replied, though her mind was growing heavier, duller, as though lulled into a haze that numbed her fear.

"When was the last time?"

The conversation was bizarre, so unlike what had happened the night before. Feeling almost drunk, she answered without thinking, and that's when everything started to spiral.

"Today, when that arrow almost hit you," she said, breathing heavily, it was hot, like under the midday sun, "I prayed for the next one to hit."

Her tormented mind knew he would kill her now. That Caracalla would carry out his threats, destroy her and her family. But instead, he laughed.

Grinning, he patted her shoulder as if she’d told an excellent joke. Then the sharp pain of his hand striking her cheek brought her back to reality. He had slapped her! Tears welled in her eyes, her lips trembling, but she didn’t have time to cry. The emperor grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw painfully.

"You did drink it, didn't you? That wine they brought you?" Caracalla whispered, his voice low as he leaned closer, still holding her face. "Oh, you did! I can see it. Your dilated pupils, that empty stare, struggling to think straight, hard to control your tongue? I get it," in a mock tender gesture, he caressed the cheek he'd just slapped, "for those words, your pretty head should be on a spike outside the palace, shouldn't it? But you know the rules, if you apologize properly, I forgive."

With his thumb, he drew circles on her reddened cheek, moved to her lips, tracing their outline, forcing her to open her mouth by pressing down.

"You understand now, don’t you? The aphrodisiac in the wine you drank," he pushed his finger inside, making her lips encircle it, "I wanted to play differently, but..." his face twisted with anger, "everything went terribly wrong."

Her already rapid heartbeat quickened further, she whimpered helplessly, wanting to cry. He had made her take the drug and was now exploiting her helplessness, shamelessly tormenting her mouth.

"You should say thank you, shouldn’t you? Or did you enjoy last night more? Shall I call my brother?" he chuckled, once again reverting to his usual self.

Caracalla released her face but immediately pinned her against the altar, tilting his head up and gazing at her from beneath his lowered lashes, as if admiring her, smiling.

The torchlight reflected in his eyes, his tongue flicked between his red lips in anticipation. His hand caressed her shoulder, then he removed the pin holding the fabric.

"Did the old senator fail to notice that his dear little wife isn't really his anymore?" he sneered, his fingers trailing down to the mark he'd bitten into her skin the night before, pressing down, aiming to cause as much discomfort as possible. Caracalla's breath grew heavier, his eyes followed every flicker of emotion on her face, every slight movement she made.

"I told him it was his fault... that he drank too much..." The confession fell from her lips without thought, her mind too clouded to hold it back.

"Ah! How unfortunate, and once again, the Senate takes credit for the emperor's work! But you'll comfort me, won't you?" His lips were so close, she felt his hot, uneven breath, saw his pupils, as black as hers, the smeared shadows making his eyes feverishly gleam with madness. Her gaze only darted down to his lips for a moment... and he pressed against her, pulling her into a kiss.

His hands seize her waist, gripping and tormenting, not just her body but her very soul. If she could cry, she would, but there's no energy left, only his greedy, hot mouth. To her, a kiss was something far more intimate, far more sacred than carnal union, promising tenderness and love...And even that he steals from her, kissing her shamelessly, wetly, pressing so hard she feels his hardness against her thigh.

"Let's continue our lovely conversation," he pulls back, his mouth trailing down to her neck, kissing and biting, "tell me, did Tiberius ever get you this wet?" His hand slides between her legs, rubbing through the fabric. "Even once?"

"No," she whimpers, trying to close her legs.

"Keep acting innocent, and I'll call the Praetorians to keep your legs spread wide, is that what you want?" his rough whisper burns her ear, his earring brushing her lips.

Cassandra shook her head, public humiliation was something she couldn't handle.

"Good. Obedient and well-behaved, just as a respectable matron should be," he purrs, his hand lazily caressing, more relishing her embarrassment than her body, "if you want, you can call me your husband!"

His sharp laugh slices through the narrow room.

"Undress," he commanded, his laughter gone, "I'm not going to fuck you in my mother's clothes, am I?"

She thought after all the pain, the threats, the violence, he couldn't hurt her more, but each time, it still cuts deep. With trembling hands, she hurriedly sheds her tunic, then her undergarments, laying them out as treasures, while he watches. His gaze is fixed, nostrils flaring, Cassandra sees him stroking himself under his tunic. Her cheeks burn, her clouded mind finally grasps it - he's going to take her right here, in this holy place, before ancestors and gods. Her soul will be damned, even in death!

"Touch yourself, feel how wet you are," his voice is husky, breathless, "you should be grateful to me for that, shouldn't you? That's what I've been talking about."

Head bowed, she slides her fingers between her legs, horror dawning as she realizes he's right. But why? The drug? The notion that he aroused her with his aggressive kisses, his sharp bites, his lewd whispers, she dismisses in disgust. She didn't want him, she hated him!

Seeing her shock, Caracalla broke into a smile, fully aware of her thoughts. Abandoning his arousal, the emperor circled her nipple with his thumb, watching it harden under his touch.

"It's not surprising your husband doesn't stir your passions, look at yourself," his hand traces down her body, over her breasts, stomach, to her mound, pausing again between her legs, "you're more his daughter than his wife!"

His fingers gather her moisture, rubbing, making her despise her body's response.

"So, will you take your emperor?" he asks, not for permission but to keep the game going.

She can only nod, there's no other choice.

"Say it out loud," Caracalla whispers raggedly, pushing his fingers deep inside her. Now she understands why he took off his rings.

"Yes, Caesar, I'll take whatever you give me," with those words, the last vestiges of her pride are smashed, her genuine compassion and naivety destroyed.

He takes her with a sudden, harsh thrust, only to slow down to a lazy, almost indulgent rhythm. The air is stifling, hot; sweat drips down her thighs. The only sounds are the crackle of the torch, his ragged breathing, and the vulgar, wet slaps of skin meeting skin.

As if to disgrace her further, he grips the back of her neck, forcing her to look into his eyes as he picks up the pace again. Here he is—the protector and father of his people—bestowing his gifts. He's still clothed, no need to undress; the chain around his neck jingles with each movement, his crown slipping forward.

"Doesn’t this feel good, sweetling? Don’t you feel good?"

"Cassandra," she whispers, "my name is Cassandra."

He stops, looking at her with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time.

"Is it really that important for me to know your name, Cassandra?" he teases, playfully biting her earlobe. "Has the little wifey fallen in love?"

How could he think that? Anger surges within her. Her attempt to claim some dignity crumbles! But her thoughts vanish as he thrusts into her sharply, fully, making her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders. It’s the first time she’s touched him willingly. Her simple gesture spurred him on even more, forcing a quiet whimper from her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Next time your senator fucks you, think of me, little bird, understand?" his whisper turns into a moan. She's mesmerized by his parted red lips, his light lashes fluttering, his chest heaving. A few rough thrusts later, his grip on her waist loosens, and his seed floods within her.

He lets her go, adjusting his clothes, his breathing still heavy, but his gaze has changed. Having gotten what he wanted, Caracalla loses interest.

"If you're lucky, my seed will take root, and you'll give your husband an heir!" he chuckles, playfully flicking her nose as if she were a pet. "The wench will help you dress, don't forget, there’s a feast to attend!"

Caracalla leaves her, trembling, bare, and shattered. Tears finally come, and without strength, she slides down the wall, hugging herself. The worst is the sticky feeling between her thighs he left behind. If she were to conceive...

"Domina, you shouldn't sit like this, please stand, I'll help you," the slave girl who brought her here shows no emotion, no trace of sympathy in her eyes.

"Leave me!"

"Staying here is not an option, one must respect the dead," the girl nods at the inscription on the altar.

"Lucius Septimius Severus"

He had defiled her beside his father's ashes! Now, she lets her sobs escape freely.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hey! Thank you so much for the sweet feedback on the last chapter, I didn’t expect so many people to like my work, I’m really grateful! 💋 I promise the next chapter will be up faster (but it also depends on how this one does, your feedback means a lot to me and really inspires me).

[stoneexo]

hey my babes, so i've been super overwhelmed with school and work lately (literally spent 3hrs trying to get home yesterday in what is normally a 45min drive, love canadian winter), so i'm a little late on this for y'all and i'm so sorry :') so here is the little sevika blurb that i promised to keep you occupied while i try to wrap up the vi x reader fic & proof read it! unless you guys don't want it proof read? (lmk)

anyways, enjoy!!

sevika was used to fucking, and she was used to giving a good strap-down treatment. after all, she had always preferred to touch than be touched. but there was something completely different when it came to you, underneath her like this, bent over so pretty while she pounded you stupid. she was used to being rough, the drooling, the scratching at her partner's hips as she forced herself impossibly deeper into whoever's cunt she happened to be fucking that night. she was used to the control. the power. but with you, it all went out the window.

she wanted to touch you so badly. no, she needed to. her flesh hand wanders around your body, exploring every mountain and valley on your body while she gets drunk on the sounds you make under her. she wasn't used to this, to having a need like this. to not being in control. even though you were the one pinned beneath her, back arched and body on full display. everything about you was intoxicating, the way you bounced back on her, the pretty mewls and moans that left your lips in between the cries of her name. and when you reached back to hold her warm hand that was now gripping a fistful of your ass, practically sobbing on her dick, she knew damn well that you were calling the shots now. as she hunched over you, pressing even deeper, drool dripping down your back as she rutted mindlessly into you, sevika knew she would do anything you asked of her now.

something about you like this just did something to her; it was better than drinking, better than smoking, better than shimmer, better than anything else this world had to offer, she was sure of it. she bit down into your shoulder in an effort to contain herself, her hips snapping into yours violently as you struggled to speak in your fucked out state. "d—don't fu—ckin' stop 'vika!" you stammered out, voice pitchy and breathless as the words struggled to come out. sevika only bit down harder into your shoulder in response, causing you to moan yet again.

sevika had experienced phantom limbs before with her arm, but never like this. she swore she could feel you clenching around her cock, impossibly wet, pussy fluttering with each stroke. and it felt like heaven on earth. whatever she had done to deserve this, she would do it a million times over if it meant spending one second longer in your perfect pussy. "ha—i'm gonna c—cum!" you squeaked out, grabbing onto the sheets desperately as sevika ravished your body, squeezing all over as you approached the edge.

"come on doll, give it to me." she murmured— no, demanded, laying a kiss where she had been biting previously, before licking it, her voice breathy and sultry. and you did just that, cumming nearly on command to her desprate rutting.

and that's what did her in, you were sure, as you heard a desperate whimper escape the stoic copper-skinned woman's lips as you clenched around her strap. the nails of her metal claw dug into your hips as her thrusting stuttered. but as quick as the pause came, it went, and she was pounding you even harder than before, leading to your explosive end as you sobbed out underneath her. sevika had never needed someone like this before; so bad that she lost all control of her body, that she made pathetic sounds like this. and she was mortified by the noises she was making, to say the least.

sevika bit her lip and tried to fight back another whine but she couldn't help it as you squeezed her hand and her cock yet again— and she found herself wishing she could be inside you like this for real as she struggled not to cum herself just from your body and pleasure. she tried to stifle the noises, biting her lip so hard she knew it was bleeding, but that fell apart the moment your begging began. "p—please baby w—anna hear yo—u!" you pleaded, body shaking from the overstimulation as she ravaged your body.

and sevika did let go, a flurry of whines and whimpers escaping her lips as she destroyed your cunt till you couldn't take it anymore, making sure you were good and fucked out before she began to slow. you were in a daze of euphoria beneath her as she pulled out and you collapsed on the bed. sevika only left you to retrieve a towel and a glass of water, fully intent on cleaning you up and showering you with kisses as she finds you passed out on your bed.

(you make sure to let her know the next morning, however, that you'll need to hear her like that more often...)

[alexusonfire]

Are You Not of the Flesh?

Joan Ramsey x Witch!Fem!Reader

1 Corinthians 3:3 - For you are still of the flesh. For while there is jealousy and strife among you, are you not of the flesh and behaving only in a human way?

A/n: Anon had asked for a possessive Joan a few weeks ago... an idea too wonderful not to write. Apologies it took so long Anon, hope you enjoy 🧡

Warnings: blood, biting, little bit of smut

Joan Ramsey didn't like to be kept waiting.

Her foot tapped impatiently against the wooden floors, the toe of her heel clicking and clacking. She'd made dinner tonight, just for you, and you couldn't even be bothered to show up on time. The clock hanging above the dining table mocked her, each minute ticking by with a crushing weight on her chest.

She knew exactly where you were too, huddled up with those… colleagues of yours next door; just thinking of your laughter ringing through their halls, not hers, left a bitter taste in her mouth. What was so special about that damned school anyways? What was it, specifically, about those women that so easily held your attention, when she was right here. You didn't need anyone else, especially not them.

Joan couldn't stand it. Not anymore.

You were hers, and hers alone, and she'd make sure you and everyone else knew it.

“Baby?” you called into the half-dark house, “I'm sorry I'm late we were just-”

You stopped short at the sight of her, clearly ruffled and upset. Her gaze was sharp and unforgiving, hands clenched on the counter in front of her. Her eyes followed the bob in your throat, and a small thrill of satisfaction ran through her at the tentative way you approached the island.

“How nice of you to show.” Joan snipped,“I certainly haven't been waiting for the better part of an hour. Shall we see if the food is still warm?” she gestured behind her to the still-steaming meal, a large smile plastered on her face.

You were only ten minutes late at the most, but her sardonic tone told you it may have well been hours. The length of time made no difference; you were late, and she was pissed.

“I should have kept a closer eye on the time. I'm sorry.”

Joan simply tsked, ignoring your apology completely. She filled a plate, dumping the food rather unceremoniously before placing it down on the table.

“Sit.”

Knowing better than to defy her, you sat without uttering a word, your fingers curling into each other as you waited for her to join you.

Joan had other plans however, unbeknownst to you. Instead of serving herself, she came up behind you and placed her hands on your shoulders.

“Go on. Try it. I made it special just for you.”

Heart racing, you picked up your fork and skewered a fair-sized bite. Despite the nagging thoughts rising in your skull (you knew what she'd done to her husband and son after all…) you chewed and swallowed, scooping up another bite without hesitation.

“It's delicious Joan. I think you've outdone yourself.”

She chuckled. Her fingers dug into your skin, the sharp pain eliciting a small grunt from you.

“Flattery is a sin, dearest. Eat more.”

A command, not an offer. The silence stretched on painfully long as you ate, Joan's hands still tight on you. Scraping the plate clean, you didn't dare leave a single bite behind. A soft hum sounded from behind you, and you thought perhaps her mood had finally eased with your obedience.

“Now that you're satiated I'm sure you'll go running back to those harlots, won't you?”

Fuck.

“No, Joan. I'm staying here, with you.”

“Mmm. For how long? And hour? Two?”

You didn't dare look behind you. Didn't dare move. There was a game afoot, and you weren't entirely sure of the motives behind it. Joan had only done this to you a small handful of times since the beginning of your relationship, and you were not fond of the consequences when you lost.

“I'll stay as long as you want me to.”

A long, slow exhale. Not a good sign. Her nails dug into your shoulders hard enough to make you wince. Warm breath washed across your neck, the little hairs on it suddenly on end as she invaded your space.

“How long do you want to stay, little mouse?”

The nickname squeezed through her teeth was also not a good sign, especially when she was in a particular sort of mood. Despite the blood pounding in your ears, your answer came easily, and honestly. You knew never to placate Joan; she demanded truth and nothing but.

“Forever.”

Fingers wrapped around your jaw, tilting your head to the side. Her lips ghosted the shell of your ear while she toyed with the button on your trousers, flicking them open with ease. Teeth scraped against your skin, making you jolt, and you had to bite back the moan sitting in your throat. Normally she was so… docile when it came to touch, usually preferring a more vanilla approach in the bedroom. You certainly hadn't seen this side of her before, nor ever expected it.

“Baby what- what are you doing?” you asked, voice surprisingly hoarse. Joan chuckled behind you, dark and low; it sent shivers slithering down your spine.

“Making sure those filthy sluts next door know that you're mine.” she whispered. Her sharp canines suddenly sunk down into the junction between neck and shoulder, the hand resting on your lower abdomen sliding into your pants at the same time. Breath hitched in your chest, you let out a strangled moan as pain and pleasure shot through you, both teeth and digits sinking into you with such ease you could only wonder if you were made for just this…

Joan nearly faltered at how wet you were.

There was no room to think, to speak, to breathe, as she brought you to your peak once, twice, three times, her jaw never faltering from your flesh. The sharp pain had ebbed to more of a dull throb, though you knew you'd be bruised and bloody for all to see. For them to see, just as she wanted.

Limp, blood trickling past your collarbone, your chest heaved as you tried to make sense of your surroundings; you were in such a haze that you barely registered the soft cloth Joan used to gently clean you, or her humming one of her favorite hymns.

“I'm suddenly feeling a bit peckish dear. Would you sit with me while I eat?”

Mhmm, was all you could manage. Joan continued to hum, a few words escaping here and there as she filled her plate. The chair legs scraped across the floor as she pulled it next to you, wanting, needing to keep her eyes trained on your pretty new wound.

“So… tell me about your day.”

[puckinghischier]

Jealous Nico

i struggle with this one bc can he get jealous? yes, extremely so. does he often? i wanna say no.

i feel like he’s just so trusting and obsessed with you that the thought doesn’t even cross his mind half the time, because you never pay people any mind. he knows he holds your attention, so why would he ever get jealous?

but sometimes…just sometimes, when you’ve had one too many drinks and your attention starts flitting around the room, looking for anyone who will entertain you to have a conversation with? he wants to scream “i’m right here!!!” at you. but he doesn’t want to be that guy, so he just lets you wander and mingle. never too far, though.

and as much as we wants to, the feeling that settles in his stomach when he sees you laughing with some finance bro over at the bar when you’re getting a refill is something he can’t really ignore.

maybe it’s the way you’re giving him so much excitement, clearly passionate about whatever topic is pouring from your lips. or maybe it’s the way this douche is looking at you, like you’re the brightest light in the room and he’s a moth that can’t escape your glow. whatever it is, it has him walking away from his conversation mid sentence, warm eyes turned dark in dislike of what he was witnessing.

as he makes his way through the crowd towards you, he realizes he can’t even be mad at you, because you’re just being the social butterfly he knows you are. all you want to do is converse and enjoy all the liveliness in the building, you’re not purposefully ignoring him. you were actually trying to talk to him a few minutes ago, but he was trying to listen to what jesper was saying before he got lost in whatever topic you deemed so important. so really, he thinks to himself, this is his fault, and he shouldn’t even be jealous in the first place.

but when you start jumping up and down slightly, clearly excited with whatever response you were just given, and douchebag’s eyes go straight to your chest instead of your ear to ear grin and bright eyes, he realizes yeah…maybe he can be jealous and a little bit of an asshole right now.

“müsli? did you ever get your drink, sweet girl?” he tries the sweet approach, not wanting to be overly gruff in front of you.

his chest puffs out at the way all of your attention is focused on him the second you hear his voice, forgetting all about the stranger in front of you.

“nico! hi! i feel like i haven’t seen you in….in….like…thirty minutes ago!” your words make no sense, a small hiccup making you giggle out an “excuse me” as you turn towards him.

he smiles down at you, your glossy eyes focused on his own, just how it should be.

“oh! frank, this is nico!” you turn back around to the stranger, his gaze raking down your figure, making nico see red all over again. you lean in closer to the man, cupping your hands around your mouth to try and whisper, but failing miserably. “he’s my boyfriend!” you giggle out, acting like a school girl talking about her crush.

turning back to nico, you miss the hard gaze he was throwing your new friend. “nico, frank and i were just talking about how fun it would be if there was a slip’n’slide in here!”

nico’s demeanor involuntarily softens a bit at your enthusiasm over the random topic, amused at how excited you are over the thought of a slip’n’slide in the middle of winter in new jersey.

but when he looks back up at your new friend frank, he can practically see the thoughts running through his head, and why he’s also be enthusiastic about the idea. if it wasn’t him ogling your tits earlier, it was the way he was checking your ass out while nico is standing right there.

“oh yeah?” nico speaks to you but keeps his attention on the man too lost looking at your ass to realize he’s being summoned into the conversation.

“yeah! tell him, frank! tell him what you said about making sure i’d be able to take as many turns as i wanted! that no one else would be allowed on it, because it would be my own special slip’n’slide!”

it’s endearing, really, the ideas you get in that smart head of yours when you’ve been slamming vodka crans all night. nico always loves to find out what theories and plans you come up with everytime you two have nights out. he’s thought about writing them down a time or two, because you never believe him when he tells you about the the next day, always claiming you “would literally never say that,” because you’re “a college educated woman, thank you very much.”

but this one? the one that has frank all but salivating at the thought of seeing you repeatedly have a wet t-shirt contest of one on a theoretical slip’n’slide? this one is just pissing him off.

“hmm?” frank’s attention is finally snapped away from your body and back to the conversation at hand.

“she was just saying how you told her how wonderful her own, special slip’n’slide would be, considering you wouldn’t let anyone else on it,” nico answers, letting his voice lower.

“oh yeah, dude. wouldn’t that be the hottest thing ever?” frank, so stupidly, decided to respond.

nico’s dry chuckle is the only response frank got. and either frank was smarter than nico gave him credit for, or he looks a lot more menacing than he thought, because the sound wiped the smug, disgusting smile right off of his face.

“frank…buddy….just walk away, yeah?” nico suggests, not used to being the scary boyfriend type but hoping it does the trick.

and much to his surprise, it works, frank nodding and walking the other direction, but not before you call out a sweet “bye, frank! it was nice to meet you!”

grabbing your hand, nico leans down to suggest it’s time for the two of you to leave, because he’s “tired of sharing you with everyone tonight, schatz. need my daily dose of hiding you away so i can get all of your attention,” while nipping playfully at your ear.

and, get all of your attention he does, considering you don’t stop talking to him from the time he gets you in the car to drive you home to the time he gets you settled in bed, behind closed doors, soaking up every second of not having to share your sweet voice. he drank it in like you were his own personal oasis in a dry and vast desert, just how he liked it.

[ghostsandfools]

Okay guys. Okay. OKAY.

I just went back and watched a couple of the astral related episodes that have released in the past few months and I have a LOT to say.

I don’t think we realize how messed up the astrals truly are. Like, they seem to have noble goals and all, but oh my goodness.

Okay, lets walk through Lunar’s entire life story real quick:

The first episode of TSAMS came out on March 24, 2022. That was a little less than three years ago now. Let’s just keep that in mind.

When Lunar was created, his entire purpose was to serve Eclipse. I��ll be honest, I’m not too familiar with early TSAMS. I joined the fandom a bit late. But Lunar underwent constant emotional and sometimes physical abuse from Eclipse. He was constantly belittled, made to feel worthless, and in the end, Eclipse killed him in front of somebody he cared about. His entire purpose was to serve Eclipse, and suddenly that purpose had been taken away from him.

Lunar was remade in space, granting him the ability to use star power. Gemini then came down to Earth to evaluate if he was a threat and train him in the ways of star power. In the very first episode they appear in, Castor asks Earth to “please leave Lunar alone and stop talking to him.” Earth obviously refuses, but this interaction is still interesting. It’s strange that their first instinct was to try isolating him from his closest family.

Castor and Pollux began training Lunar and eventually becoming closer with him. Lunar was freaked out at first, and it seems like he didn’t really enjoy his training at first, but eventually it kind of took over his life. Star power was his entire purpose. And when he began to develop feelings for Gemini, it only became a bigger part of his life. His personality and goals for the future revolved completely around star power. It was his new purpose in life.

Lunar messes up a couple of times and begins to fear what will happen if he lets his power get out of control. First he attacks Bloodmoon, then kills Eclipse. Killing Eclipse was the especially interesting event here. Afterwards, Gemini makes it very clear to him how much he’s fucked up. They tell him his life could be on the line, that the other astrals want him DEAD, and they seem to be withholding their affection. They don’t spend as much time with him, saying they’re busy with his court case. Killing someone is a bad thing to do, so it makes sense for Gemini to distance themself, but I think we should remember this.

And then, it just stops. Taurus tells him that if he can’t move on from his trauma with Eclipse, he can’t continue to train.

This is detrimental to him. He doesn’t know what to do without a purpose. Eclipse abused him, but he also gave him something to do. He gave him someone to be. His entire identity was serving Eclipse. And now, he thought he had moved on from that. He had a new purpose now, to serve Gemini, to train as an astral and make everyone proud. And now he’s suddenly being told that he can’t anymore? That if he doesn’t get over his trauma (which is exceptionally difficult to do) he won’t be able to train anymore?

And so he makes a mistake. Another very big mistake. He pursues negative star power, he hurts Earth, he’s temporarily shunned by his family. It’s a big mess, he goes to jail, he’s put on trial.

And do you know what Libra does to punish him? She finds him guilty and takes away his star power.

So… This whole time. This entire time, they could’ve taken his powers away. And yet, they didn’t. Why is that? Why is it that they let someone like him, who has been shown to lose control, keep these powers?

Alright. Let’s take a look at the astrals. Let’s take a look at what they’re really doing here, because I think it’s interesting.

I’ve talked about this before, but the astrals operate like a cult.

Lunar is traumatized. He is emotionally broken and he has no idea what to do with his life. He’s just experienced death and lost his purpose in life, and now he has no idea what to do. And all of the sudden, the astrals appear.

Cults will often prey on people who are going through a rough time, as they’re much easier to manipulate and control. Not only that, but when they did appear on Earth, as I mentioned earlier, Castor asked Earth to “stop talking to Lunar” so they could evaluate if he was a threat. Cults will often isolate their victims away from their family and friends. Obviously they didn’t go through with this step, Lunar kept in contact with his family during his training, but it’s clear the astrals will use isolation as a way to control people. Remember when Nebula tried to befriend Earth and Taurus immediately scolded her for stepping out of line?

Next, they trained Lunar. They told him he’d have to leave behind this life on Earth, that he had a bigger purpose now. He wasn’t just an Earthling anymore, he was special. He could become somebody noteworthy if he trained hard enough. And they got closer to him, went on a vacation with him, spent time with him. Eventually they even pursued a romantic relationship with him.

But during this time, it was clear that they weren’t being completely honest with him. If he asked to many questions they’d say “you aren’t far enough into your training to know that yet.” They’d withhold information from him, yet another method often used by cults. They kept him enticed with the promise of something more. If he could get his emotions under control, if he was just a bit stronger, maybe Gemini would like him then. Maybe then they could be fully honest with him. Maybe then he’d be truly worthy.

They stayed committed to him. When he was in trouble, they went to court for him. They trained him diligently, stood up for him, they were always by his side. They cared for him.

And then, of course, disaster struck. They stopped training him. Lunar felt lost, he made a mistake, he had everything taken away from him. He lost his family, his friends, his partner. His entire life fell apart.

But think about why this all happened. They could’ve taken his power away. They could’ve come down to Earth, taken his powers away immediately, and been done with it all. None of this needed to happen.

I don’t think Lunar was justified when he killed Eclipse, and I don’t think it was okay for him to attack Earth either. Trauma isn’t an excuse to hurt people. But Lunar hasn’t had a break within the last two years.

First it was Eclipse, then the astrals, Bloodmoon, Nexus. He was abused every day for years, he died, he was brought back and began spiraling into depression, and then he was indoctrinated into a cult. Now he’s messing around with dark star power and getting himself into trouble.

And even now, he’s trying to be better. He’s been torturing himself, putting himself in that machine Moon made where he listens to his loved ones berate and verbally abuse him. Why? So he can impress Gemini. So he can have a purpose again.

TSAMS is the kind of show that’s meant to go on for a long time. The action has to happen FAST! But because of all the fast paced action, Lunar has been in multiple traumatic situations with no real breaks for two straight years now, and i think it’s messed up. He’s made a lot of mistakes, but he’s trying his best. I feel bad for him.

[melis-writes]

Mafia Wife [Sonny Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 2 – By Chance and By Fate

Read on AO3 / Read Chapter 1 / Chapter Masterlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

“Please, I insist.” / “Our families are close, you know. We respect one another. I hope ya know you’re always welcome here.”

By chance and by fate, you find yourself intertwined by the soon-to-be successors and sons of powerful men, mafioso again and again. From your experience with the Barzini family, you knew what to expect meeting the Corleones, let alone Santino Corleone, the "enforcer", or so you thought. How can you feel at home in someone else's house you've visited for the first time? How can time be meaningless for Sonny who only wants to get lost in his words? You promised yourself you wouldn't tangle with mafiosi, you know what the means for you, but one wants nothing more than to be close to you. The ease and comfort inside of you from this man draws out your fate and future with him...

[WARNINGS]: Mentions of family abuse / Mentions of death

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: An update we very much needed to continue this fic because I can promise from the bottom of my heart that even after a year of no updates, Mafia Wife is not forgotten nor abandoned!! 😭❤️ 2024 had not been kind to me with my writing, but I'm back at it again having beaten writer's block. 🤭 Gabriella and Sonny's story CONTINUES! Despite it only having one chapter up from 2023, I'm in awe every single day at the love and support this fic gets! It means so much to me, so thank you all so very much!! 🥺❤️🥺❤️ This is a bit of a slow burn fic, at least in these initial chapters, so I'm trying to build up friendliness and potential romance with Sonny and Gabriella before we really jump in to their lives together and how they came to be. Sit down and get ready for the ride, it only picks up after this chapter! 👀

“The underboss’s wife”; that’s who you are, and the whispers of enemies, family and colleagues alike know it too. You’re no stranger to the underworld of crime surrounding you including the one run by the Corleone family’s underboss; Santino Corleone. The streets run red with blood and brutality under Santino’s influence but it’s Santino who feels hit by the thunderbolt at the very sight of you—pushing away his womanizing and notorious unfaithfulness. You unexpectedly find yourself in a position of power balancing your marriage with the fate of the Corleone’s family’s future whether it be through Santino’s infamous brutality or the love he finds amidst the man he claims to be.

March 1937, Long Island, New York, Giordano Estate Greenhouse.

Humming a soft tune to yourself as you make your way through your family greenhouse, you almost blend in with the various, planted flowers growing around you in your lilac color, flowing shirtwaist dress, and hair put up in a messy bun.

Just outside in the back of your family’s estate, you spend the remainder of your afternoon alone in the family greenhouse with hundreds of plants, herbs, and flowers that are carefully curated, gardened, and cared for by you and your family. It's always been an ideal place for solitude among colorful, fragrant nature and a muse for your painting sessions.

You approach the greater floral section of the greenhouse where blossoming flowers are planted in pots and little plots of soil in gardening boxes from vibrant tulips to lilies, lilacs, orchids, peonies, tulips, and roses grow.

You pause for a moment, stopping your tracks as you glance back over your shoulder to your easel set up a few feet behind you, centered in the middle of the greenhouse to encapsulate a stunning view of all the plants around you and capture as much sunshine peeking through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse.

‘Roses. Roses will do.’ You note to yourself, gazing at the variety of white, red, and pink planted roses; some half-bloomed, some yet to grow and others wilted from a lack of proper sunlight in the winter.

“Spring can’t kick in fast enough,” you sigh to yourself, frowning at the potted red roses you planted yourself, almost completely wilted now.

You run your hands through the petals of a growing set of planted red roses before you take the pot of wilted ones, moving it over to the small round table by your easel.

Just before you’re about to set down the pot of roses, your eyes flicker over to the glass door of the greenhouse, noticing three tall, male figures walking outside in the estate’s gardens.

One of the figures you easily recognize; is your father, wearing a navy three-piece suit walking with whom you assume are two other guests, no doubt prestigious and wealthy judging by their black, three-piece, Italian silk suits.

From slight fog and droplets of rain clouding the glass walls and door of the greenhouse, the guests your father walks with appear mostly distorted to you as you’re unable to make out any faces.

Paying no attention to them, you set the roses down before taking a seat on your stool in front of your easel.

You clear your throat, inching your seat closer, and begin to prepare your paints on a little tray in front of you before you focus on tracing an outline of the roses onto your canvas to begin painting.

Don Emilio Barzini and his son, Emilio Barzini Jr. Are your father’s esteemed guests for today, visiting the Giordano family estate to discuss investments and private banking in detail.

The Barzini family was one of the first crime families in New York to invest in the Giordano family banks when your father first entered the business, and his relationship with the Barzinis blossomed from long-time allies and respected customer into a grandfathered friendship with due respect.

Your father, Francesco Giordano, recognizes well enough the power and influence a man such as Don Barzini has. Francesco knows Barzini is a man to be respected, a man who is known to be cunning and crude on whims, and a man who if relations sour through wrong actions, can also become a dangerous enemy.

It’s always been in your family’s best interests to keep on good terms with all of your clients, but particularly the most wealthy and powerful mafiosi without being involved in any mafia business yourselves for the sake of your family.

Today marks the first time Don Barzini is touring the back of your family estate, taking in the splendor of the carefully curated gardens, gazebo, and private pool that finished its recent construction this year, and an even rarer occasion marked by Emilio Jr. Accompanying his father as well.

Emilio Jr. Is now fully engrossed in the Barzini family business himself, directly learning from his father and beginning to forge the same business relationships for succession shortly.

You've met both Don Barzini and his son years prior, but you’ve never spent enough time with either of them neither personally nor formally to get to know them. Considering their mafiosi, you believe that as a nurse and not a mafiosa, there’s nothing you can offer to either of these men unless they come to you visibly sick or injured.

You’re nothing if not kind and welcoming to all guests—including your family’s business partners—but you’ve never paid mafiosi special attention. You’ve never had to, thus far.

Your father remains close to the door of the greenhouse, speaking to Don Barzini. “There is nothing more important,” he says, patting Barzini’s hands in his, “than our continued partnership and friendship.”

“Indeed,” Barzini smiles back, amused. “I trust none other with the investments and wealth of my family. You know this.”

Emilio’s eyes linger over your back through the greenhouse walls, only half paying attention to his and your father’s conversation in front of him.

You haven’t had a chance to approach the Barzinis to welcome them today as you were never told they were coming, but you have no intention of stopping your painting mid-way from rushing out and greeting mafiosi.

Although you remain a distorted figure of sorts behind the greenhouse glass walls to Emilio Jr. it mildly disgruntles him to be unable to make out your full figure, he knows it's you.

It’s much to Emilio Jr.’s surprise that he catches your father then offering, “Have I not given you a grand tour of our greenhouse yet, Don Barzini? Oh, please, allow me. It’s finally completed its construction alongside our gardens this year, just as my family envisioned it to be.”

“Gladly,” Don Barzini chuckles, “you’ve already impressed me above all others I’ve seen.”

The three men enter the greenhouse as you begin to slowly use a crimson shade of red paint to encapsulate the less wilted, vibrant colors of a rose petal on your canvas.

You hear the door to the greenhouse open and close, sighing quietly to yourself as you force yourself to focus on the canvas until you simply are unable to.

You know and respect that your father doesn’t have much of a choice when it comes to entertaining his mafiosi guests and touring around the estate, but it does make you uncomfortable when his guests choose to interrupt your personal and hobby time—particularly the chatty Don Barzini’s son, Emilio Jr...

You hear a brief conversation about the final renovations and construction of the greenhouse from your father and Don Barzini, as well as mentions about the sections the greenhouse has been separated into to organize flowers from herbs and fruits before their footsteps grow louder and you’re in plain sight of all three men.

“My daughter, Gabriella,” your father beams proudly at the sight of you. “The greenhouse is often her muse when it comes to her paintings.”

“The beautiful Gabriella Giordano,” Don Barzini remarks, glancing at you, then your painting.

Emilio Jr. quietly stands in awe, gazing at your beauty as you turn around and look at Don Barzini with respect.

“Don Barzini,” you’re quick to set your paints down and carefully rise from your seat to greet him. “Welcome. Forgive me, I didn’t know you’d be visiting us today.”

Don Barzini chuckles, taking no offense. “Ah Gabriella, how are you, sweetheart?” He gives you a light kiss on both cheeks. “No disrespect done, it’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Don Barzini.” you smile politely. “Likewise. I’ve been well.” 

Emilio Jr.’s eyes wander over your dress and body inconspicuously, admiring your curves and how the fabric of your clothes hugs your figure.

It’s no surprise to him nor his father how powerfully attracted Emilio Jr. Is to you as you remain the epitome of his type in women; a beautiful, young woman from a prestigious family that built itself from nothing getting closer to the top, mingling with families like his—not to mention a woman who built her own pathway with a career at that.

“Gabriella,” Emilio Jr. Speaks out, your name sounding like a rich wine over his tongue,

“Hello,” you turn to face Don Barzini’s son; no shred of affection or attraction shared towards him whatsoever.

It’s not that you find Emilio Jr. Unattractive, as he’s very much a conventionally attractive, Sicilian young man with medium-length, clipped, dark hair just past his earlobe, parted to the left, slicked and gelled back neatly wearing a sultry cologne, bright charming smile with dark, dreamy eyes, but nothing in your heart speaks to him.

When it comes to Emilio Jr., it’s always been a “no” from you, and there’s nothing more to go off on that.

“Don Barzini and young Emilio are touring the grounds with us today, sweetheart,” your father says with a proud smile. “I just hope we haven’t interrupted your painting.”

“Nonsense,” you tell your father, very much speaking to him directly. “Please,” you smile back at Don Barzini and Emilio Jr., “make yourselves comfortable.”

With that, you turn back around and return to your easel, hearing Don Barzini and your father begin to make their way further into the greenhouse, spiking up another conversation.

You don’t notice that Emilio Jr. Decides to linger behind quietly, not following your father and his but rather remaining back to watch you from a distance as you pick up your paints and try to focus on where you left off.

Swirling your brush into the scarlet red paint again, you slowly begin to paint away at the easel.

Emilio Jr. watches your mastery in awe, wishing to be able to watch you paint all day just to watch your delicate, yet slow and precise movements—painting with such ease as if it’s second nature to you. Your talent mesmerizes Emilio Jr., as does the rest of you.

You’re aware the three men are rather close to you in proximity in the greenhouse, but you pay no attention to them or any other potential distractions as you remain engrossed in your art.

It’s when Emilio Jr. Begins to directly approach you that you become startled, hearing him say in a low, whispering voice, “Something tells me this is more than just a hobby to you.”

You gasp out quietly, dropping the small container of red paint you held free in your hand to the ground, spilling half like a bloody splatter over the floor. “Oh!”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Emilio Jr. blinks, taken back as he quickly attempts to kneel to scoop up the container of paint.

You’re faster, leaning over to grab the container first but manage to spill more red paint over your hands as you get it away from Emilio Jr’s. Grasp.

You let out a small sigh of relief, noticing quite a bit of paint still left in the container and that at the very least it didn’t splatter on you, your easel, or let alone Emilio Jr.’s thousand-dollar, silk suit.

You both gaze at each other, out of breath, hearts racing.

Emilio Jr. Chuckles sheepishly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright,” you glance down at the red mess staining all over your hands as you set the paint container down. “It cleans off easily.”

“And your hands?” Emilio Jr. Frowns, becoming genuinely concerned.

“That too,” you frown, looking at the palm of your hands as if you committed a murder; bloody red reaching your wrists.

“I commend you for using high-quality paint...” Emilio notices the brand name on some of the small paint tubes around you. “But my apology isn’t enough. I’ll have replacements sent to you later this afternoon.”

Your eyes widen at the thought of receiving any sort of gift from the Barzini family. “No, no, please, I couldn’t--”

“I insist,” Emilio Jr. Smiles back at you, taking your hands into his suddenly.

Stunned, you glance down at your hands to see the red paint smearing onto Emilio Jr’s willingly; your cheeks stinging red from surprise.

“Let me make it up to you,” Emilio Jr. Coaxes.

“If you insist,” you avoid eye contact with him.

“You’re a master of your craft, it’s the least I can do.” To his regret, Emilio Jr. Slowly lets go of your hands. “I want to buy this painting from you.”

“This?” Stunned, you glance back at your easel, utterly confused by what Emilio Jr. Is trying to get at.

Your painting of a set of wilted roses is nothing if not simple, but rather mediocre in your eyes. Your only idea was to practice painting flowers and nothing more; why would the son of a wealthy Don want this of all things from you?

“Of course,” Emilio Jr. Chuckles, “this is already making itself out to be a beautiful portrait. Does that surprise you?”

You give him a small smile. “I’m my biggest critic. It doesn’t make sense to me. It’s...” You frown at the rose portrait, barely close to completion. “It’s just a little practice on painting florals. Nothing I wanted to keep.”

“It makes sense to me. Practice or not, it’s your artwork and it’s beautiful.”

“You can have it,” you won’t object, a little flattered that Emilio Jr. Appreciates your artwork despite having only seen it once. “I won’t deny a lover of art his painting.”

“You understand me,” Emilio grins. “And that goes for any of your paintings, you know? I would love to see more of them sometime. Perhaps you’d give me a private showing?”

“I don’t know if--”

“Please, I insist.”

Current day, March 1939, Corleone Estate.

“Believe me, I insist,” Sonny says to you; the same words, similar persuasion, charming smile over his lips wanting to give you a tour of his family estate having just met you, but it’s different.

‘Why is it different?’ A moment of realization flickers through you.

Why is it different for you now, having another son of yet another powerful Don, again the eldest, again the future successor, the enforcer whom you just met, make you feel so comfortable and so safe already when you’ve just met him?

How do you already feel so at ease as opposed to how you felt in your own home’s greenhouse next to Emilio Jr. When you have known him for much longer?

You can’t explain it to yourself nor can you think of it in the moment; it’s not Emilio Jr. Whose on your mind for the time being.

There’s no uneasiness surrounding you and Sonny; something just feels right inside of you, and Sonnys easygoing, playful personality towards you only provides further relief.

“I won’t get lost?” You teasingly ask, beginning to follow Sonny through the foyer of the estate.

Sonny chuckles, glancing at you as he leads you through. “Well, what do you want to do?”

Both of you crack a smile at one another.

“I gotta make this as boring for you as possible, ya know. But I do wanna give you a warm welcome,” Sonny extends out both of his arms, gesturing to each side of his Tudor-style estate interior that is the home of the Corleone family. “Five bedrooms, seven bathrooms. Impressed?”

“Were you a real estate agent in your past life?” You giggle, causing Sonny to burst out in laughter with you.

“Maybe,” Sonny grins, “jack of all trades, you could say.”

“Great,” laughing, you continue, “I heard there’s a grand library, maybe?”

“You heard right, come on. I’ll show you the study.” Gesturing for you to follow close, Sonny begins to lead you up the mahogany, spiral staircase. “Something tells me that’s your favorite room in a house already.”

“I won’t deny that,” blushing a little, you follow Sonny down the hallway and to double French doors leading into a spacious, quiet, and dimly lit study where you can barely make out a square inch of the wall from the bookshelves holding hundreds of books.

Two study desks are placed at a distance from one another in the room with a plush, fur carpet in the middle, two leather armchairs and a beige, tweed couch on the other end of the room.

“I don’t spend as much time in here as I should,” Sonny admits sheepishly. “Almost a little too quiet in here, y’know?”

“Not to your liking?” You ask, peeking around the study curiously.

“I like having someone around.”

“That does sound nice,” the blush deepens on your cheeks.

“You a bookworm of any sort?” Sonny walks towards the bookshelves, albeit not very interested in the surroundings of the study or anything it has to offer him.

“I’m a painter,” you smile shyly.

Sonny blinks in surprise, turning back to face you. “You’re an artist, hey?”

“Something like that,” you meet his gaze.

“So...” Sonny chuckles, gesturing around the study aimlessly. “We gotta get you a private room where you have all the space and painting tools you need, right? No use for all these books.”

“Maybe not,” you’re intrigued even by such a forward suggestion from Sonny as you move to politely sit down on the couch across from him. “Funny enough, the greenhouse has always been my place of choice to point.”

“I know where to take you on a tour next then, don’t I?” Sonny smirks. “Interesting stuff. Never met an artist before. What do you paint?”

“A little bit of everything.” You’re flattered to pick up on Sonny’s genuine interest in your hobby, easily being able to tell by his tone of voice and body language that he isn’t just forcing small talk to get to another point. “I like still life portraits the best, but I also adore Renaissance artwork so I do similar style portraits. Anything. I love all kinds of painting and artwork, it’s calming.”

“Right,” Sonny nods slowly. “A lot of chaos around? It must be nice to unwind in a hobby like that.”

“There’s always something happening,” you frown, only able to think of the recent mob wars between the families of New York and their lasting, heated impacts and tensions just to mention a few. “If you know what I mean.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Sonny mumbles, slumping down in one of the leather armchairs closest to you.

“It can be a lot to handle, but it’s not exactly an escape for me.” You continue, “Making art is something I’ve always loved to do.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sonny tilts his head to the side, raking a hand through his brunette curls. “And you’re more well-informed than I thought.”

You pause for a moment, locking eyes with Sonny.

This is Don Vito Corleone’s eldest son, his successor, and very much an active mafioso. If anyone knows anything, it’s him.

‘Is he prodding me for information?’

��You or me?” You counter.

Sonny’s eyes widen a little, his curiosity towards you fully peaking. “You know who I am?”

“I know more than you think.”

“But I don’t know much about you,” a sly grin begins to form on the corners of Sonny’slips. “How’s that fair, Miss Giordano?”

“What do you want to  know about me?” You flush a shade of scarlet, clasping your legs tighter together.

“To be honest? Everything. We can start there,” Sonny purses his lips, licking over them.

“I’ll be here for a very long time then,” you tease back.

“I have time,” he states.

“Don Corleone’s son is never too preoccupied?” A little thrill rushes through you at the back and forth you find yourself engaged in with Sonny.

“I can make time,” he winks. “I want to see you again if you’re willing. It’s refreshing to talk to a girl like you, and we just met.”

“Right...” You blush deeply, nibbling on your bottom lip. “Likewise. We can do that.”

“I’ll talk to your father. He’s no stranger to me, but you and I haven’t had a proper chance to meet until now.” Sonny begins to slowly rise from his seat. “Our families are close, you know. We respect one another. I hope ya know you’re always welcome here.”

‘And why don’t I feel uneasy around this mafioso now?’

“I’m flattered,” you also begin to get up from the couch.

“You should be,” Sonny maintains a respectful distance from you—something Emilio Jr. sorely lacked. “How about I take you down to our greenhouse? See if it’s worthy of hosting a painter?”

“I like the sound of that,” nodding eagerly, you begin to follow Sonny out of the study and back down the hallway.

“I’ll give you a tour to the Corleone Mall too sometime if my Pops and yours don’t beat us to it. We just finished building up the place in Long Beach. I know your Pops have been there a few times while it was still under construction,” Sonny leads you back down the spiral staircase. “A little out of the way—like an hour—but worth the trip now. A lot of residential, good security, gated community, now for the family.” He suddenly switches up the topic, “You had the misfortune of meeting any of my brothers yet?”

“Misfortune?” You hold back a laugh as you’re both back down in the foyer.

“Let’s put it that way,” Sonny chuckles.

“I’ve met Tom recently,” you nod. “Tom Hagen.”

“Yeah, Tom and I go a long way back. The first friend I ever had. Played out there in the streets of Hell's Kitchen growing up. He’s German Irish. His family was uhhh...” Sonny shrugs his shoulders loosely, beginning to lead you out through the back door. “Not doing so well, let’s say. I’m sure Tom will tell you all about it sometime.”

“Oh,” you frown, stepping outside as Sonny holds open the door for you.

“I saw his folks sometimes when we played outside. His dad was a carpenter or something, I think, but man...” Sonny shakes his head, “he drank and he drank. I like my whiskey and anisette, but the violence in that man when he had liquor in his mouth was something else. He beat his own kid black and blue, just like that.”

Sonny stuffs both hands into the pockets of his dress trousers, leading you out to the greenhouse. “He was eleven at the time, I think. Yeah, eleven. And I saw his ma, she had a real nasty eye infection. She went blind from it, and it wasn’t long till we didn’t see her around anymore but she gave Tom the same infection too. I was worried for him. I knew he didn’t have the money or means to treat it.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you mumble, clasping your hands together.

“Everything started to go to shit after that,” Sonny continues the story, “his dad wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the violent type anymore to others like his own son but he started to take it out on himself. Drank himself to death after the funeral. Tom told me one day when we were playin’ that some funny-looking business people were wanting to take him and his sister away. I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

“Social services?” You raise a brow.

“Yeah,” Sonny nods, stopping by the greenhouse door with you. “So they got sent to some orphanage, and I didn’t see Tom for a few weeks. I thought that was it, y’know. Then some week later, I saw him back on the streets. He told me ran off from the orphanage.”

“But he left his sister back there?”

“Nah, it’s nothing like that,” Sonny shakes his head. “Some couple adopted her, but not him. Assholes,” he scowls, “they knew she had a little brother and chose to separate them anyway. Tom didn’t trust anyone after that—I mean, how could he, right? He didn’t even trust me,” Sonny takes a hand out of his pocket, pointing at his chest. “Just the streets. Took me over a year to persuade him to come stay with us. I talked to Pop and told him everything that happened down to the kid’s eye infection. Pop didn’t wanna disrespect Tom’s background and family you see, but he adopted him. Saw him as a real son. And Tom’s a real brother to me, so there’s that.”

“Wow,” a small smile begins to form over your lips. “You wanted to take him as your brother?”

“Of course. He was always a brother to me, we just didn’t live together at that time.”

“That’s so sweet,” you beam as Sonny opens the greenhouse door, letting you both in so distracted and engrossed in each other’s conversation that both of you already forgot this is supposed to be a greenhouse tour.

“What came of the eye infection?” The curious nurse in you asks as both of you stand before each other, talking.

“My father hired a private doctor to operate on it. Tom healed up well after that,” Sonny explains.

“I’m glad. Most eye infections are treatable, even the ones that led to blindness like his poor mother, as contagious as they are. I wonder if it was keratitis or trachoma.”

Sonny stares at you in awe, like a child seeing Christmas tree lights for the first time—bewildered and intrigued.

“What?”

“How would you know all that? You a doctor?” The grin on his mouth becomes contagious.

“I’m a nurse,” you giggle.

“You’re a nurse,” Sonny repeats. “Wow. Just what else are you, Miss Gabriella? So you don’t give me any more big surprises like this.”

“We just met, you have to go easy on yourself,” you laugh softly.

“Do I?” Sonny chuckles. “Y’know I’m used to seeing private doctors shuffle in and outta here, take care of Pops or one of us without saying much—just shoving medical stuff in your face but this is different. A good different.”

‘She’s incredible,’ Sonny thinks to himself, fascinated by you.

“You’re too sweet,” you say back as both of you remain quiet for a moment, smiling at one another.

“Ah,” Sonny blinks, awkwardly looking around the greenhouse. He knows he’s brought you here for a reason, but easily gets distracted by your eyes and smile. “Oh, sorry, the tour--”

“It’s beautiful here, thank you for showing me.”

“Not much of a grand tour, but it’s something. You garden too, or?”

“I like to give it a try here and there, but I’m not sure if I can call myself a green thumb,” you tell him.

“Well, I am not,” Sonny glances around the various plants around him. “I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been in here.”

“Really?’

“But if you plan on coming to visit more often, that can change,” Sonny sneaks in a flirty comment.

“I’ll take you up on that,” you nod happily.

Patrolling the vicinity of the Corleone estate at this hour for security are Clemenza and Tessio’s men, as well as the two men together, making their way around the back of the greenhouse.

Clemenza and Tessio’s movements are slower and linger nearby the greenhouse as they notice both of you inside, staying out of your sights.

Tessio chuckles, smoothening out his suit jacket. “There he goes again, Santino... One new lady at a time.”

Clemenza stares through the glass of the greenhouse walls more intently, trying to study your features. “This is not looking good.”

“Hmm? Why’s that?” Tessio’s attention perks up.

“Not just a new lady,” Clemenza murmurs, shaking his head. “You see who that is?”

Tessio turns his head to look through the glass, trying not to catch you or Sonny’s gaze as inconspicuously as possible.

“Oh,” Tessio blinks, “that’s...”

“Francesco Giordano’s daughter,” Clemenza sighs deeply. “Santino. What’s he getting himself into this time?”

“This is a scandal waiting to happen,” Tessio can hardly keep his laughter contained. “What do you think? They’re seeing each other?”

“I don’t know,” Clemenza grumbles, turning away. “But the Don told me to keep an eye on Sonny. Y’know, last week he could barely get his hands off of Ms. Mancini in front of everybody. Now he’s got a private banker’s daughter in the greenhouse?”

“Relax, old man.” Tessio pats Clemenza’s shoulder reassuringly. “We don’t even know what’s going on with those two just yet, and Don doesn’t trust his son?”

“Not like that,” Clemenza replies, pursing his lips. “But y’know how Sonny can be. He’s too hotheaded, too quick to act. Too promiscuous for his good if you ask me, but something like this won’t simply blow over if it gets out.”

“Ah,” Tessio nods. “The Don will want to hear about it.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be surprised anymore. I just wish Sonny would settle down already,” Clemenza crosses his arms. “Settle down for good, y’know? Get married, and have a family. It would be good for him.”

“Give him time,” Tessio tells Clemenza, “this could be a good thing. We can’t get too involved and even the Don knows he can’t rush his own son when it comes to the ladies he brings around. We just gotta keep a good eye on him here and there.”

“Gabriella Giordano is a very, very different story altogether,” Clemenza nods slowly. “Believe me when I say this, but... Telling the Don will be for Sonny’s good.”

[sensitivepluto]

Rooftop Bliss

Short & Sweet - Day 1: Oh. Oh.

Megumi Fushiguro x Gn! Reader

TW: none really, mention of injury, tooth-rotting fluff.

So for this month I'm going to try to do @thewritingstar's Short & Sweet prompt list! I haven't decided if I'm going to do multiple fandoms yet so we'll see!

Here's the link to the original post

It was a breezy night when Megumi Fushiguro snuck away to climb atop the rooftop of the dorms after a completed mission. This wasn't his first time doing this, as he enjoyed getting away from the chaos of Jujutsu even if just for a moment. A gentle sigh escaped his lips as he started to lose himself in the starry sky. Of course he didn't expect to be alone for long. Every time he'd decided to come up here, you had a way of figuring it out. Not that he minded. Actually, he'd come to deeply appreciate your company.

And just like clockwork, he heard the familiar sound of you making your way to him on the roof.

"Hey." You spoke softly, carefully crawling up to him. A small smile graced his lips when you joined him, and he ignored the slight increase of his heart rate.

"Hey." He said, watching you adjust yourself into a criss-cross. "Did I wake you?" You shook your head.

"I wasn't asleep. Besides today was particularly rough so I figured you'd be up here." A hum left his lips in response.

"When did you get back from Shoko's?" Megumi questioned. Even in the starlight he could see the embarrassed sheen on your face at the mention of Shoko. During the mission you fumbled managed to get yourself impaled through the arm. The whole ordeal was embarrassing and you were ashamed to have gotten hit so easily.

"A little bit ago. You know it wasn't anything major." You waved off. He rolled his eyes at your dismissiveness. He'd never tell you, but he worried whenever you got hurt. He couldn't figure out why. Other mission partners of his have gotten hurt in the past, so why was it so hard to watch when you did? The question lingered in his mind for so long he didn't even realize he was staring you down.

"Megumi? Earth to Megumi, are you in there?" You snapped him out of it, waving you hand in front of his face. A slight blush crept onto his face at the realization.

"Oh. Sorry. Lost in thought..." He mumbled, turning his gaze away from you. You giggled and looked up at the stars.

"They're beautiful tonight." You hummed mindfully. Megumi looked up at the stars and nodded in agreement. For some reason tonight's sky yielded many more stars than usual. He once again turned his gaze toward you and his breath caught in his throat.

In the starlight your eye's shone with a brightness he'd never seen before. Your hair rippled against the breeze and the smile radiated an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. It felt like he was going to burst and when you finally turned to look at him with those eyes he'd come to...

oh.

oh.

"Beautiful..." He muttered with a wide, almost panicked look on his face. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, blush now creeping onto your own face. It was like his body was being possessed at this point. Pure instinct had him reaching for you and cupping your cheek delicately in his hand.

"Megumi..." Your words almost died on your tongue. An unspoken flurry of feeling bringing the two of you closer together. "A-are we still talking about the stars?" He rolled his eyes and pulled you into him, his hands cupping your jaw as his lips finally made contact with your own. A small gasp left you before you relaxed into him and reciprocated the kiss.

Megumi had never realized how much he'd wanted this. The feeling of your soft lips against his. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling you both closer together. When the two of you finally parted, simply for the lack of oxygen, he rested his forehead against yours.

He finally understood it. The worry and anger when you got hurt. The uncontrollable palpitations in his chest whenever you came near. The inability to think clearly whenever it came to you. All just side affects of the feeling he now craved more of.

[daddysboydean]

heaven is a place

“Open up,” Sam says. They’re standing outside a warehouse in downtown LA, letting loose between jobs. Dean hates California, but Sammy kept going on about the god damn ‘healing powers’ of California sunshine and salty ocean air. It’ll make us feel good, he promised. If Dean’s being honest, more heat is the last thing he wants — give him temps so cold they make his bones ache, hunting the abominable snowman in Alaska or evil elves in the North fucking Pole, whatever. But it’s Sam. It’s Sam.

So here they are, ten to midnight with some shit they scored off one of Sam’s old classmates. Dean’s never done this one before but Sam has, something about college parties and getting lit. Sam sticks his tongue out, berry pink like the underside of something sweet and alive you’re not supposed to see, and it makes Dean think of pussy lips. Wet and slick. A pale purple circle with a smiley face stamped on it sits in the middle of all that pretty pink. Dean tilts his head up, just a little because he’s tall but his brother is taller, and licks the pill off Sam’s tongue.

The warehouse is a club called Heaven. Heaven is loud, hot, thick with sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder and dancing to the DJ’s techno drone. Concrete pillars rise up to a ceiling lined with metal pipes that look liquid, T-1000’s mimetic polyalloy shapeshifting in the strobe light glow. Dean says as much, the words spilling out of him in a blur so he’s not even sure what he’s saying as he says it.

“You're such a nerd,” is what he gets in response. A little part of his brain wants to argue back that that’s his line, but Sam’s cool breath against his ear makes Dean shiver and forget.

The way the room is all lit up in reds and smokey shadows reminds Dean of the pit, of being on the rack with his insides exposed and boiling in the heat. Dean’s in his mechanic’s coveralls, navy blue and covered in grease stains, the ones with ‘Singer Salvage’ embroidered above the breast pocket in white cursive. He’s got the sleeves rolled, pant legs tucked into his boots, unbuttoned at the top to expose his collar bones. A look Sam called slutty with a psycho-hungry shine in his eyes, but the pain memory of being downstairs makes Dean’s skin crawl like he’s naked under the knife again. He grinds his teeth and whimpers into the ecstasy rush, and the sound is lost to grimy industrial beats blasting through the speakers. He grips Sam harder against him (for comfort, for release, does it matter?) and rolls his body up along his brother’s, like how you dip your finger in the last specks of sugar on a plate so you don’t miss any of the sweetness. Edge to edge, gotta get every last bit.

And that’s how they fade into the crowd, just two more bodies trying and failing to eat each other whole. They can do that here, in front of God and everybody. Dean can run his hands under the white wife beater wrapped tight around Sam’s chest, drag his nails over skin and feel Sam's stomach muscles clench and sigh underneath. He can pull Sammy close by his belt loops, hips against hips, and let his eyes roll back at the friction. No one cares here because no one knows.

Dean has spent years chasing the brutal thrill of dive bar whores and good girls looking for a nasty time. Cheap perfume and the sharp sting of a woman’s hair against his face, bending himself into a shape that never fit. Every room the wrong size without his gigantic brother in it. He looks at Sam’s face, shining blood red in the lights and just as hot, and he knows. He knows it like an exorcism incantation, like stripping a gun. Without thinking. Next to Sam is the only place he’s ever belonged.

All Dean’s atrophied little pieces are touch-starved and Hell-stained, and all he needs is for Sam to kiss them better.

It’s a filthy bright weight in Dean’s veins, like he’s made of ribbon, like the music is curling through him and around him and he’s curling around Sam. Everything’s in shades of faded cherry red but he’s candy-colored when he sticks his tongue into Sam’s mouth, neon love filling him up so good.

Dean thought if he could pile on enough good, maybe it’d cancel out the darkness he brought back from the pit, where all his nastiest parts were thrown on the rack and peeled back for examination. John toeing lines with Dean, Dean obliterating those lines with Sam, hooking at truck stops for cash and scraps. Watching people die because he couldn’t save them until he held the knife himself and watched people die because of him. The guilt, the guilt, the guilt.

But really, Dean’s not even trying that hard for redemption. How can he be when this is what he wants? No matter how many lives he saves, no matter how many times they stop the world from ending, no amount of good will ever be enough to absolve him of this incessant need to fuck his brother up the ass. It’s a poison under his skin that itches and itches but won’t let up.

And this thing’s always been rotten to the core, sour-soft and collapsing in the middle. Like hell can Dean say no, though. They’d have to do more than draw and quarter him to keep him away from Sammy.

Sammy, his baby, grinding against him in time to the dirty bass beat.

Sammy, his baby, unzipping Dean’s coveralls so they’re half undone and Sam can slip them off Dean’s shoulders, tying the sleeves around his waist and leaving his arms and chest bare. Sammy always needed to be close, to be touching, even as a kid. Skin to skin, all tangled up in each other in Baby’s backseat and crummy motel beds. Dean is covered in a slick sheen of sweat and Sam runs his hands through it, spreading the wetness around and squeezing Dean’s skin tight, reminding him that he’s here and he’s safe and he’s wanted under his brother’s calloused palms. Dean is vaguely aware of the burn mark on his shoulder, hand print shining shell pink against the rest of him, still so new Dean’s shocked each time he sees it. Sam slides his fingers over it, tracing the outline so gentle it makes Dean’s toes curl inside his boots.

He’s overheating from the X and the memories, rolling so fucking hard and it’s too much pain and pleasure mixed together, the wires all crossed and it’s making Dean short circuit. Sam reads Dean’s signs like they’re a book he knows by heart and leads him through the crowd, out the heavy doors and into the night, giving him what he needs when Dean can’t ask for it himself. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything so good as the dry Santa Ana winds blowing over his fever-hot skin, free from the stink of dancing bodies and too much synth.

Outside, Dean’s light like Kansas cottonwood fluff floating along the breeze with his eyes closed shut. He senses his balance is off, but in a secondhand way, like it’s not really his body that’s falling.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Sam laughs, and Dean slow blinks past the chemical bliss when he feels Sam’s hands on his shoulders, propping him up against a fence like a tire that’s about to tip over. The wire on his back makes him shiver in the heat.

“Why aren’t you as fucked up as me?” Dean slurs, cottonwood fluff in his mouth this time. He rolls his head back, and the fence rattles around him.

“I am. I’m just better at taking drugs than you,” Sam says, as if being a druggie is something to brag about. Dean’s about to say it but then Sam’s trailing his finger down the curve of his neck, throat pulled taut with his head thrown back like it is, and Dean’s brain blanks.

“Jerk,” is all he can choke out.

Sam pulls out a beat-up pack of cigarettes from his jeans, must’ve nicked them from somebody inside with his sticky witchy fingers, and sticks one in his mouth. “No, you’re the jerk, I’m the bitch,” Sam says around the cigarette. He pats his pockets and comes up empty, then gropes around Dean’s coveralls for his Zippo. Dean loves the familiarity of Sam touching him like this, casual, no thought, no barrier to entry where his brother is concerned. They’re all one piece, and Dean counts himself lucky. Everybody craves closeness like this, but few get it.

The flint click-pops a metallic burst in Dean’s ears, and Sam blows out a cloud of minty smoke. Dean takes a deep breath in, coming back to himself a little bit.

“Kools? Really?” Dean says when Sam pockets the green soft pack. Sam assures him that ‘it's a thing.’

“Menthols are good on ecstasy,” He says. Probably another druggie trick he learned at Stanford. Vick’s VapoRub was mentioned, but Dean said fuck no to putting that shit under his nose.

Sam hands the cigarette to Dean, but it takes him a few tries to grab it. His hand-eye coordination is shot. Sam leans on the fence facing Dean and holds it, filter-side first, to Dean’s mouth. Dean opens his lips to take a drag and lets his tongue lick the salty pad of Sam’s fingertip. The smoke and skin light Dean up from the inside and make his jaw ache from the pleasure of it all. Sam says he’s peaking. Once Dean has a firm grip on the cigarette, Sam flops over so his back rests on the fence. More rattling, and Dean spaces out on the sound for a minute before remembering he’s got smoke in his mouth. He puffs it out minty-cool and looks over at Sam, sharp-jawed with glitter on his cheeks that flickers sliver under the moonlight. His hair is getting long, fuckin’ hippie, it’s sticking up in a hundred directions with sweat and grease. Dean loves him more than he’s ever loved anything. He loves Sam so hard and so deep, it drips down to his mutilated core, and it’s almost enough to make him whole again.

He wants Sam to feel how he feels, a cunt hair away from perfection, so he reaches up with the hand that’s not holding the Kool and scratches Sam’s scalp, and he swears, it’s almost like he’s doing it to himself, the way his eyes roll back in his head at the soft feel of Sam’s mop tickling the insides of his fingers, where the skin is so rarely touched.

“I can feel that in my cock,” Sam moans, low like it pains him, but Dean keeps going ‘cause there’s good pain and there’s bad pain, and he knows this is the good kind.

Two years from now, it’ll be Sam’s turn to go to Hell. Dean will grieve and again he'll stuff himself into a mold that doesn’t match his shape, hoping that maybe this time, maybe this time he’ll shrink to match. And when Sam comes back with his own special brand of fucked in the head, Dean will do his best to protect him the way he always has, mind, body, and soul, only it won’t matter. Won’t even touch all the ways Lucifer messes Sam up during his extended stay in the pit.

But here, half-past four against a chain link fence with the California heat sticking warm to their skin, they share a cigarette. Sam rests his head on top of Dean’s and Dean curls his fingers through Sam’s. They’ll walk twenty minutes to Venice Beach and watch the sun rise over the Pacific, all baby blues and bright golden yellows coming over the horizon, edge of the world and no red in sight.

ao3

[scoobydoodean]

If you had to pick five moments that you think best summarize Dean as a character… What would they be? Like, either each individually makes you go “yup THAT’S the character” or as a whole they male up the most of his facets?

Oooh that’s difficult. Hmm. HMMM.

1.02 "I figure our family's so screwed to hell... maybe we can help some others"

"Saving people, hunting things, the family business" etc etc yeah. But ALSO we often ignore that this whole conversation is centered around not letting desperation for revenge consume you, and Dean's care for others including strangers—wanting to keep them from experiencing the traumas that he has.

DEAN Listen to me. You've gotta prepare yourself. I mean, this search could take a while, and all that anger, you can't keep it burning over the long haul. It's gonna kill you. You gotta have patience, man. SAM How do you do it? How does Dad do it? DEAN looks over at HALEY and BEN. DEAN Well for one, them. I mean, I figure our family's so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little bit more bearable.

4.22 "Stepford Bitch in Paradise"

This one is a good representation of Dean's refusal to back down, caring about the whole world, and arguing fiercely to protect it, as well as his ability to stir up the care and love in others.

DEAN Destiny? Don't give me that "holy" crap. Destiny, God's plan... It's all a bunch of lies, you poor, stupid son of a bitch! It's just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line! You know what's real? People, families -- that's real. And you're gonna watch them all burn? CASTIEL What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise, all is forgiven. You'll be at peace. Even with Sam. DEAN You can take your peace... and shove it up your lily-white ass. 'Cause I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise. This is simple, Cas! No more crap about being a good soldier. There is a right and there is a wrong here, and you know it.

12.22 "I hate you and I love you"

Just a very good summary of Dean's childhood experiences and how they have effected him, and how he (yet again) stirs up the care and love in others (and pulls people from mind control over and over via the power of love <3)

I hate you. You lied to me. I was a kid. You promised you'd keep me safe. And then you make a deal with Azazel. Yeah, it saved Dad's life, but I'll tell you something else that happened. Because on November 2, 1983, old Yellow Eyes came waltzing in to Sammy's room, because of your deal. You left us. Alone. 'Cause Dad was just a shell. His perfect wife? Gone. Our perfect Mom, the perfect family... was gone. And I... I had to be... more than just a brother. I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe. And that wasn't fair. And I couldn't do it. And you wanna know what that was like? They killed the girl that he loved. He got possessed by Lucifer. They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul. His soul. All because of you. All of it was because of you. I hate you. I hate you. And I love you. 'Cause I can't – I can't help it. You're my Mom. And I understand...'cause I have made deals to save the ones I love more than once. I forgive you. I forgive you. For all of it. Everything. On the other side of this, we can start over, okay? You, me, Sam. We can get it right this time. But I need you to fight. Right now, I need you to fight. I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom. I need you to really look at me and see me. Mom, I need you to see me. Please.

5.22 "Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone"

Bobby and Cas try to convince Dean that they've lost and there's no point in trying to reach Sam.

BOBBY: You just don't give up. DEAN: It's Sam! CASTIEL: If you couldn't reach him here, you're certainly not gonna be able to on the battlefield. DEAN: Well, if we've already lost, I guess I got nothing to lose, right? CASTIEL: I just want you to understand – the only thing that you're gonna see out there is Michael killing your brother. DEAN: Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone.

Dean pulls up at Stull right in front of two archangels who could blow him to smithereens, blasting music from his car and making an obnoxious scene. THEN Cas and Bobby show up right behind him (just as Michael says "you are not a part of the story!") Dean's refusal to give up defies causality, and his attitude is infectious.

While Dean is being beaten to death, he's saying,

DEAN: Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you. I'm not gonna leave you.

Dean's refusal to abandon his brother fills Lucifer with jealous rage making his control slip, while simultaneously bringing dozens of memories of traveling with Dean to Sam's mind helping him surface and take control.

3.10 "I didn't deserve what he put on me"

I have trouble picking a 5th because there's so many different directions I could go (Dean and Cas in the Crypt, Dean reusing to abandon Cas in Purgatory, Dean in the cemetery in 2.20 crying over John's grave, Dean's "I'm not mad I'm worried" from "Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets" or the similar scene in "The Future", Dean convincing Chuck and Amara to make up, Dean refusing to give into Chuck's writing and kill Jack, Dean telling Chuck "We will never give you the ending you want", etc).

I think I have to go with 3.10 "Dream A Little Dream of Me" because it summarizes a lot of Dean's intrusive thoughts and his overactive sense of responsibility and guilt, identifies the origin of those feelings, connects all of it to his depression and suicidality, and then circles back to the fact that he knows deep down that he doesn't deserve to feel this way, that he's not a tool for others to use, that he is his own person, and that he deserves to live.

DREAM DEAN I mean, you're going to hell and you won't lift a finger to stop it. Talk about low self-esteem. Then again, I guess it's not much of a life worth saving, now is it? DEAN Wake up, Dean. Come on, wake up. DREAM DEAN I mean, after all, you've got nothing outside of Sam. You are nothing. You're as mindless and obedient as an attack dog. DEAN That -That's not true. DREAM DEAN No? What are the things that you want? What are the things that you dream? I mean, your car? That's Dad's. Your favorite leather jacket? Dad's. Your music? Dad's. Do you even have an original thought? No. No, all there is is, "Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy!" You can still hear your Dad's voice in your head, can't you? Clear as a bell. DEAN Just shut up. DREAM DEAN I mean, think about it ... all he ever did is train you, boss you around. But Sam .... Sam he doted on. Sam, he loved. DEAN I mean it. I'm getting angry. DREAM DEAN Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument. Your own father didn't care whether you lived or died. Why should you? DEAN Son of a bitch! My father was an obsessed bastard! All that crap he dumped on me, about protecting Sam! That was his crap. He's the one who couldn't protect his family. He- He's the one who let Mom die. – who wasn't there for Sam. I always was! He wasn't fair! I didn't deserve what he put on me. And I don't deserve to go to Hell!

[darlinluxx]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

angst, small amount of fluff ???

warnings : angst

summary : you two could never be friends. you’re still in love.

a/n : based off of sick by dominic fike

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he chipped mug warms your hands, the faded floral pattern a familiar comfort. it’s the same mug you always used, back when your morning routine included a shared kitchen and the lingering scent of Saebyeok’s shampoo. you look out the window, watching the city wake up, the grey light reflecting the grey knot in your stomach. she’s supposed to be here soon.

you made a promise — a promise to be friends. you’d both moved on, gone separate ways after that messy, complicated whirlwind you called “us.” but “friends” was the goal, an amicable postscript to a love that burned too bright, then flickered out. now you just need to do it. be friends.

the doorbell rings, its chime sharp and jarring in the quiet apartment. you take a deep breath, forcing a smile before you open the door. there she is, leaning against the frame, hands shoved in her pockets, the same posture you used to find so captivating. the familiar sting of recognition hits you, a punch to the chest that steals your breath.

“hey,” she says, her voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine, a shiver that has absolutely nothing to do with the chilly morning air.

“hey, Saebyeok.” you reply, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. you usher her inside, feeling strangely self-conscious of your small apartment, the same apartment she used to know so well.

she surveys the room, a flicker of something — perhaps nostalgia — crossing her face. you offer her the mug in your hands, filled with lukewarm tea. she accepts, her fingers brushing yours as she takes it. a jolt, electric and unwelcome, courses through you. it’s just a touch, barely a thing, but your body remembers. it remembers her. you remember her. too well.

you try to talk about the weather, about work, about anything that isn’t the heavy silence that seems to hang between you. you’re both being so careful, walking on eggshells made of unspoken feelings. but with every shared laugh, every accidental glance, the wall you’ve been desperately trying to build around your heart crumbles a little bit more.

she tells you about her new coworkers, how frustrating it is learning new systems. you nod, pretending to listen, but all you can hear is the way her laughter used to fill your apartment, the way her hand used to fit perfectly in yours. you catch yourself staring at the way her hair falls across her forehead, the way she always pushes it back with an impatient flick of her wrist. you find yourself lost in the little details, the details you thought you’d forgotten.

the casual conversation continues, but you feel like an imposter, a fraud playing the role of a “friend.” your every word is a carefully constructed facade, each syllable a lie designed to hide the truth that simmers beneath your skin. the truth that seeing her, hearing her low voice, being in the same room as her, still makes your heart ache like it’s been wrenched from your chest.

the afternoon wears on. you share stories, your laughter echoing in the small space, a hollow imitation of the genuine joy you once shared. by the time she stands up to leave, you feel exhausted, drained from the effort of maintaining this charade.

at the door, she turns back, a hesitant smile on her lips. “this was nice.” she says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“yeah,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. “nice.”

she steps out into the hallway, and you close the door, leaning against it, your breath catching in your throat. the “friend” act was exhausting. it was too much.

you look around the apartment, now silent. the mug sits on the counter, a silent witness to your internal struggle. you know, deep down, that you can’t do this. you can’t pretend to be friends with someone you’re still so desperately in love with. you can’t be around her and not want more. you can’t handle the constant push and pull of desire and denial. you realize with a painful clarity that you can’t have this “friendship” because you still want her, want everything, in a way that being friends doesn’t allow for.

the truth hits you with the force of a tidal wave. you can’t be friends with her because you’re still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her. and that, you know, is a war you can’t possibly win.

[lyslsstuff]

jendo-overstim 😊

freaks.....the both of them...i love them so much....

Jensdo + overstimulation for this kink meme list

word count : 718

Jenson's stamina wasn’t what it once was, not after all these years of retirement. He could still do things, still move, still give—but it came with a cost. A deep, bone-heavy exhaustion that settled in his limbs, in the dull ache of muscles that once thrived under the constant demand of high-speed performance. His body, once sculpted by years of precision and endurance, now betrayed him in the aftermath.

And yet, having Lando Norris in bed was like signing a contract with the devil.

A very unsatiated devil.

Jenson had already given him everything tonight. He had taken Lando apart piece by piece, had worked him into that sweet, breathless place where pleasure blurred into something close to delirium. He had spilled inside him, their bodies slick with heat and sweat, their breaths mingling in the dim light of the room. He should be done. They both should be done.

But Lando never wanted to stop.

Jenson barely had a moment to catch his breath before Lando was moving again. A shift, a press of warm skin, a weight settling over him that made him groan in overstimulated protest. His body begged for rest, but Lando had other plans.

“Come on,” Lando murmured, voice sweet, coaxing. He always had a way of making demands sound like requests, always had a way of getting what he wanted without ever having to ask outright.

Jenson barely had time to respond before Lando was straddling his hips, fingers gripping his still-sensitive cock, lining it up with an ease that spoke of how many times they’d done this before. Jenson hissed, breath stuttering as Lando sank down in one smooth motion.

His whole body jerked at the over-sensitivity, his nerves firing off sharp, raw signals of pleasure and pain all tangled together.

“Fuck—Lando,” Jenson gritted out, his hands instinctively reaching to grip the younger man’s hips, trying to still him, trying to make him pause.

But Lando didn’t pause.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he rolled his hips, his head tilting back as a pleased sound left his lips.

Jenson could feel him tightening around him, could feel the way his body was working to coax him back to life, to keep him inside, to take more even when there was nothing left to give.

Lando always wanted more. Always needed more.

It wasn’t lost on Jenson why.

Lando had always been a man of control. He had to be. In a world where every milliseconds determined your fate, control was everything. And when the track took that control away from him—when the car failed him, when the team’s decisions put him in places he shouldn’t be—he needed this. Needed to be the one in charge, needed to dictate the pace, needed to take what he wanted without waiting for permission.

Jenson understood that. Understood it better than anyone.

So he let him have it.

Even if it meant enduring the slow, teasing grind of Lando’s hips. Even if it meant the agonizing mix of pleasure and overstimulation that left him shuddering beneath Lando’s weight.

Jenson exhaled shakily, fingers tightening on Lando’s hips. “You’re insatiable.”

Lando only smirked, rocking forward, pressing his hands against Jenson’s chest for balance. His nails bit into skin, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to ground him, to remind him who was in control here.

“You love it,” Lando murmured, leaning in close, breath ghosting against Jenson’s lips. “You love how desperate I am for you.”

Jenson swallowed thickly, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He wouldn’t admit it—not out loud—but Lando was right.

He loved it. Loved the way Lando took what he wanted. Loved the hunger in his eyes, the way he chased pleasure, the way he refused to let the night end simply because Jenson had finished.

And, despite himself, despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, Jenson could feel his body responding.

Lando hummed, pleased. “See?” His voice was smug, teasing, his pace unhurried as he worked Jenson back to hardness. “You’re not done yet.”

Jenson groaned, head tipping back against the pillows, surrendering to it.

Lando always got what he wanted.

And Jenson was happy to give it to him.

[kiruamon]

CotL - Sketch dump

Sketch dump and some lore of the Lamb and their silly husbands in my save file. (More sketches after/between the text segments.)

Sooo after getting Barbatos he asked the Lamb to find his lost brother, Tretreon. A while after unlocking the wedding option Barbatos came to the Lamb again. This time asking if the Lamb would consider marrying his brother. So why not? Quest accepted it was. Even though poor Tretreon ended up with the unhappy married trait at first as he hadn't had a say in the whole matter and was set up by his brother for this marriage. Very understandable. Luckily giving him a kiss every day and treating him good changed the trait and he ended up happy in his marriage.<3 Buuut that wasn't the end of it. Cause Barbatos was coming one or two days after the marriage to the Lamb and asking for their/his hand as well! That's how my Lamb ended up being married to the two brothers.

While Tretreon has the poly trait, Barbatos has the jealousy one. But I only catched them fighting one single time, while they would be otherwise really chill with each other. So maybe it had been just an argument between brothers.

Sketches are showing Tretreon (top one with the broken horn thingy) and Barbatos (with the broken tooth) below. Since Barbatos was the cheeky little fellow that set the Lamb up with his brother and himself I decided to give him a more happy go lucky personality. He's a little ray of sunshine and a goober but can be pretty sly as well.<3

Tretreon is the more serious and mature one out of the two. He's a bit sceptic of things and wouldn't probably asked the Lamb for his hand but grew fond of his Leader with time and has grown a big soft spot for them.

They both had been wearing the normal skull necklace and became pretty old until they died.:'( Leaving the Lamb single for a looooong time with no new spouses.

It was only after the defeat of The One Who Waits that the Lamb got married again. This time to Narinder. While I kinda married the grumpy cat ex-god on the spot, I do imagine that headcanon-wise the Lamb would not have done it so fast. That it would take a lot of time for Narinder to settle down in the cult. Learning how to get along with others and the Lamb while slowly growing closer to them. Only as they are opening up to each other, Narinder would learn about Barbatos and Tretreon and what they truely meant to the Lamb. That there were a lot of mixed feelings going on in their fluffly little leader. Loneliness for not having the two around anymore, reluctance over the option if it would be right to revive them. If it would be what the brothers would want or not. The inner struggle between wanting to see them again or if things should stay in the past, untouched. So for a long time Narinder would only stay on the Lamb's side to accompany them and during that time catching some more tender, little feelings.

I imagine he would sometimes visit the graves of Barbatos and Tretreon while the Lamb was out of the camp. Talking to the gravestones to thanks for having been there for the Lamb in the past, how much they had been and were still loved by them or that he would try to be there for the Lamb like they had been to make them happy if he can. Nari is sorting out his own thoughts and feelings with these visits and rumblings.

Welp, let's just say some stuff happens here and there. Smaller little shows of affection that end up for the Lamb and Narinder to grow close enough that the Lamb finally feels like taking a new step forward and accepting that it's okay to find new love. That it doesn't mean that they don't care about the past or their old spouses. So the day comes where they marry their grumpy cat ex-god.

Also some fun facts:

My Narinder ended up being petable and a snorer. So he kinda got the special treatment in having a little house for himself further away from the others. (I call it the snorer tent since I had send previous snorers there already in the past.) Headcanon-wise, I would imagine that the Lamb would let Narinder sleep in their tent instead. And that they would actually like to listen to him snoring during the night. Because it's better then the quiet and they know that there is someone right next to them.)

More time passes.

And even as Narinder feels a bit uneasy about bringing the subject up, he does talk with the Lamb about Barbatos and Tretreon and if they wouldn't want to bring them back.

It's a lot of mixed feelings involved. And angst. Because damn. How would they react to finding out that the Lamb is married again. Would they be upset? Would there be any hard feelings over it?

But after thinking for a long time, the Lamb and Narinder go for it. Bringing the two back to life.

After a tearful reunion, there is a lot to talk about and catching-up to do about everything the two brothers had been missing.

Barbatos is a bit surprised, but on the other hand chill with the situation. Tretreon... is somewhat reluctant and giving the impression as if he was upset. He scowls a lot and has a close eye on the funny three eyes cat his Leader is married too. But it's honestly not that serious and Tretreon doesn't have any hard feelings against Narinder. Tretreon also would be the one approaching Nari to offer him to get along and thanking him for having taken such good care of the Lamb while they hadn't the chance to do so.

It also would be kinda funny if since Narinder always talked to their graves and with being the God of Death Barbatos and Tretreon had been able to hear his voice in the afterlife. They didn't know who he was or what he looked like, but they recognized his voice. Therefore making them more accepting of him and explaining why Tretreon was frowning so much as he had been trying to figure out if the voice he heard was Narinder's.

POV: When your silly husbands are fighting and you had to scold, while it's so hard to keep up a stern face as you just want to hug and kiss them to let them know your not mad.

Also: I only recently have revived Tretreon in game and given him a golden skull necklace. Barbatos will follow soon when the cool down has worn off and then he will get also a golden skull necklace. I am pretty curious to see if shit will go down between the Lamb's three spouses or if they will get along to some degree.:')

Also Barbatos is colored yellow in my save while Tretreon has the orange faced color pallet.