#what deep brain worms

[elvhendis]

I think lack of content actually makes me more insane about a media

[fisheito]

"makotolookinass"

the intersection of nu: carnival and free! fans that are all here because of our favorite green haired hunks (himbos?) is so funny

but it kinda makes sense given that both nu: carnival and free! are both at their core about caring about the people closest to you and prevailing internal struggles

dang , anonn, you really cut thru all the glamours of distraction

in brief contrast, i feel like a simple creature. one who was dragged into the intersection simply because i saw some dudes with Unlikely Physiques

[erikahenningsen]

Fandoms come and go but The Hunger Games is forever

[deepestturtlepielover]

My brain works faster than my hands bear with me so Imagine if Julian made a fort and for whatever reason (we know the reason) shows garak and garak for an understandable reason for not understanding most human tendencies (there’s a cat in human brains that demand we make hidey holes) misinterprets it as a nest like the thing for your mate or eggs like Julian is finally asking him

Cue to garak standing awkwardly watching Julian excitedly making the fort bigger (if you want your sorta kinda lizard boyfriend to come into your cool super tent you must make it big and have him sit next to the door way) to fit both of them while gesturing for him to come in and help like this isn’t going to build its self

Garak: “…you’re what?..”

Julian: “my fort! look at my cool fort I built ! Garak it’s so cool you gotta come in here”

Julian shoves more snacks in the fort along with a light to see and small fan so it doesn’t get too hot and takes garaks hand before he can protest. (it’s gonna get hot) he takes a deep breath remembers forgets and then garak is surprisingly much warmer and comfortable in the nest so he lets the doctor pull him in away from the biting cold of the space station and it’s just them sitting in the nest away from everything,…usually being holed up makes him feel tight but with Julian it’s better.

Julian: “so what do you think? You like ? Not as good as the ones I used to make when I was a child you see but still good”

He fidgets with kukalaka on his lap and turning on the flashlight standing it upright on a pile of blankets to be able to see better. Before opening up the bag of popcorn he gives it a good shake to equally distribute the butter and opening it up.

(Nyhehehe i stop here until I get more I will eat chocolate to give me answers)

[alchemiclee]

been trying to figure out what exactly it is about aventurine that feels perhaps relatable, or what it is that makes me want to study him like a bug...

and camr to the thought that he's pretty pessimistic for am optimist...but also ob the other side of the same coin, he's optimiaric for a pessimist. kinda both at the same time,.or depending on the day or how you look at him maybe.

he's an optimist becuase he knows he's going to win. he always wins. he has always won his gambles. he knows it will happen again and again. his luck, or gift, or blessing, or whatever you want to call it ensures that. but he's also a pessimist becuase he knows that "win" also always comes with some kind of suffering for him. he wins all his gambles, but at what cost? a lot, actually. so is it really a win? he knows he will win, but he also knows he will be used, abused, sacrificed, broken, or in pain. he expects those to be a consequence of his winning luck, to the point of making sure it happens and becomes self-destructive because of it. he acts calmly like it's ok and is the outcome he wants and calls that a win because it's what he plans and expects. he bets on it and it happens.

but at the same time, he's slowly breaking and seems to want it to end. he tests the limits of his luck to see if it's a real "gift" or if it is all a coincidence and has an end. he probably wants to meet the end to end the pain and suffering, but knows his "luck" won't allow it. he wants to be against the luck and see if he can win. a whole contradiction it itself. his luck kept him alive so many times and continues to do so. it will always do so, unless perhaps his end is the goal. what if he bets on losing this time? bets in meeting his end? he needs to get lucky enough to achieve that goal. flip his lucky fate by turning his luck around, make his end the final lucky win.

but it seems like he either lost for once and didn't meet his end....maybe his luck truly does intend on keeping him alive...or he changed his mind in the end and got lucky enough to get out of meeting his end once again...

he's still a bit of an enigma to me and i'm not sure exactly what happened. but he's for sure a complex and amusing character (even if I still want to put him into a snow globe and shake it as hard as I can) and this whole penacony story is too complex for my soggy trashcan brain lmao but i'm enjoying the ride

[mantisgodsdomain]

On the rare occasions when we talk about the spectre of veganism you can probably physically tell the amount of psychic damage that we take from seeing people throw out any part of a carcass.

[unwelcome-tagalong]

*david duchovny voice* what are dragons??

[impossible-rat-babies]

i still enjoy thinking about pollux in 14 because he is absolutely just. oh you can be a wretch in the gremlin way. like he would be a defected garlean who joins the ironworks. has the moral compass of nero but doesn’t have “prove your worth” issues nero had going for a minute. fuck it we ball kinda vibe. cid sanctions what he does because he is going to do the thing either way. he was in bozja when it blew up and is Totally Well Adjusted about seeing his boss be tempered by bahamut and the explosion there. worked on the g-force warrior from the sorrows trial series and wishes cid let him put more guns on it. the sort of “that was fucked up what happened with the ruby weapon huh? *pause* anyway what is going on inside this thing.”

edit: he would be mean Nero until the end of the omega raids at which point he still be mean to him but it’s in a stupid Rude way, but not like a malicious rude way. (I think about what nero says in the omega raids + ew role quests a lot bc he’s just some cool dude)

[plaguedocboi]

Ok y’all brace yourselves cuz I just learned about a new animal

Yes, that is an animal. Yes, scientists refer to it as the purple sock worm. No, that’s not it’s real name, silly, it’s real name is Xenoturbella!

When these deep-sea socks were first discovered, no one knew what the fuck they were looking at (and, really, can you blame them?). They have no eyes, brains, or digestive tracts. They are literally just a bag of wet slop. DNA analysis initially seemed to indicate that they were related to mollusks, until the scientists realized that DNA sample was from the clams they had recently eaten (yes, they can eat with no organs. We don’t know how.)

Scientists then analyzed the data again and tentatively placed them in the group that includes acorn worms, saying that their ancestors probably had eyes, brains, and organs, but simplified as a response to their deep sea ecosystems.

Later DNA testing has since shown that they are their own thing! Xenoturbella, along with another simple and problematic to place creature called acoelomorphs, belong to their own phylum called Xenacelomorpha! This places them as the sister group to all bilateral animals. So, they just never evolved brains, eyes, or organs. They are a glimpse at a very primitive form of animal that never bothered to change, because apparently what they do works. Rock on, purple sock worm.

[rowarn]

wet&messy, afab!reader, no prns, just my brain worms dancing as usual, simon is obsessed with ur pleasure bc i SAID so, idk what this is its not normal grinding but.....just a lil treat from the depths of my brain <3

soft devoted simon who is addicted to your pleasure. everything he does is to get u off. he literally thinks about making u cum while he eats sleeps and dreams. its his hobby tbh

he loves loves loves slow, deep, sloppy sex. he loves having you spread and pinned beneath him — he's so much bigger than u so he can manhandle u and move you however he pleases bc he knows exactly what u need before u even know urself.

in particular, his favorite thing to do is have u pinned open your knees against his ribs and his body draped over yours. either holding himself up by his elbow above your head or his arms on either side of your head. he's got his knees slid underneath your thighs, making sure his hips are flush against yours.

you can't even break eye contact, he wont let you. all you can do is whine and squeal as he makes you take it nice and deep. his body covers yours; his scenes overwhelms you his body heat makes you sweat from just how warm the man is.

then he starts with the grinding — the slow, deep grinding of his hips that makes his cock stir inside you. there's gooey, sticky wet noises from between your thighs when he does it. he makes sure he slides over your clit in this position too.

you can't do anything but twitch and drool as he does it. and he'll do it until you cum all over him he doesn't care how long it takes.

sometimes he milks multiple orgasms out of you this way. it practically melts your brain with how he touches every single sweet little spot inside of you without ever thrusting — just that godforsaken grinding.

you don't know what to do with yourself. he's so deep. you're so wet. it's messy and loud. you scramble to hold whatever part of him you can; scratch his back, tug his hair, slap the bed beneath you. doesn't matter because you won't be getting out from under him or getting a chance to breathe until you cum.

and god, he's so deep. he's so fucking deep!

you're creaming all over him, the base of his cock covered in a thick, milky ring that just about drives him over the edge with you when you squeeze around him like a perfect little vice.

he's whispering praise and sweet little compliments about how lovely you look cumming and how good you make him feel.

it's almost crazy how selfless he is with making you feel good. he doesn't even care if you're too fucked out and tired to do anymore. doesn't even care to get off himself. all he thinks about all day is grinding into you until you gush a sweet little mess all over him without him even breaking a sweat.

ur so sweet and pliant for him and he loves it. loves u!!! adores u!!!

will go to sleep happily with a hard cock as long as u are satisfied.

but if u tell him what you want is for him to fill u up nice and full...well....he'll do anything to please his baby!!! <3

[yeyinde]

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. 

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin. 

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering. 

Incurable. 

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty. 

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock. 

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it. 

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish. 

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist. 

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer. 

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed. 

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you? 

Obediently following the wrong master. 

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth. 

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him. 

But of course, you don't. 

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands. 

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to. 

And so, he doesn't. 

No. He blames you. 

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity. 

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next." 

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners. 

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" 

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like— 

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them. 

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest. 

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen." 

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?” 

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem. 

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning. 

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you. 

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half. 

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.” 

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone. 

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it��

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?” 

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross. 

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging. 

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all. 

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle. 

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?” 

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation. 

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?” 

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him. 

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching. 

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving. 

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease. 

Cathartic. 

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.” 

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady. 

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific. 

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again. 

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose. 

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony. 

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs. 

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs. 

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit. 

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming. 

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.” 

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips. 

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose. 

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he? 

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts. 

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth. 

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic. 

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades. 

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive. 

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow. 

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins. 

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him. 

It's new, this. This meekness. 

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it. 

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening. 

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched. 

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender. 

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one. 

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring. 

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs. 

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh. 

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?” 

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head. 

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No. 

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight. 

Bracing yourself. 

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over. 

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine. 

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx. 

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere. 

Something will break. Shatter. 

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock. 

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric. 

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl. 

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.  

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting. 

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth. 

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that. 

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers. 

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins. 

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand. 

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you? 

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.” 

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—” 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel. 

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” 

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox. 

“E–eight.” 

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone. 

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare. 

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly. 

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body. 

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks. 

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze. 

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.” 

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking. 

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon. 

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand. 

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet. 

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap. 

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

[shhhimnothereiswear]

I think I'd be an avatar of the Eye (I LOVE learning new stuff) or the Spiral (im just funky like that)

I think I'd probably give a statement on the Corruption (I'm currently writing a fan statement on it B] )

ok wait im curious-

which tma entity do you think youd be an avatar of and which do you think youd give a statement on

[beloveds-embrace]

Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about yesterday’s post and the dynamic that fucking snatched up my brain worms in a vice grip.

Reader who is perfectly capable, has a well earned spot on her team. Who has safety net after safety net provided by the mere presence of the rest of 141. So much so that she doesn’t even remember what fear is. Living in that invincible bubble of “we’re the best because we look out for each other and we’re not going to let anything happen to each other”

And the day that bubble pops and you don’t even realize it yet. A chance encounter with a KorTac operative and you stole his kill right out from under him. Made eye contact in a shower of blood, maybe even threw him a cheeky grin, high on stims as you were.

You didn’t realize that you’d stepped outside the metaphorical bounds of your little safe zone, stepped right into the territory of a feral, untamed creature with sharp teeth and the scent of you cloying in his nose. A scent that made his blood sing a siren song of want.

It’s not just happenstance that you cross paths again. (Not that you know that). Hes been seeking you out, taking mission after mission in a dogged attempt to see you again. To see if it was more than a fluke.

And his impatience, his persistence, is rewarded with the silhouette of you, breaking a man’s neck with your thighs. (If the man weren’t surely dead, he’d wish he was for the crime of having your attention, of being smothered by your thighs, of being that close to your cunt.)

In your precious stealth gear, sleek and deadly, eyes sharp on the path ahead, not the shadow gathering behind you. He just watches you for a long while, soaking you up like a dry earth in a squall, letting you take root deep, deep within his being, in the place a soul should be. (You’re better than.)

He’s got your callsign now, whispered by one of your team members as their path intersects with yours. Narrowed eyes at the (too) friendly shake given to the hard mask covering your mouth and nose, the way your cheeks rounded with a grin beneath.

What was an interest has evolved instantaneously into an obsession. (Or devotion. Or love. They’re all the same to him, all the same kind of possession.)

He loves watching you fight as much as he loves watching you kill. He’s hard in his tac pants experiencing it this close, getting to feel each unforgiving strike in all the openings he leaves for you - invitations you always accept because you’re his good girl and you can’t resist, of course not.

He purrs when he gets you pinned to the wall, your eyes big, sparking with that animal knowledge that you’ve been bested by a bigger predator. That you’ve been won, claimed. To the victors go the spoils, and the only thing he’s lost is his restraint.

You’re panting and squirming beneath him, and he’s hypnotized, unable to do more than press closer, press harder to get you wriggling against him. Moaning softly when your heel digs a bruise into his calf, how you go still with a sort of realization.

“Again,” he rasps into your ear, “go on, pretty little hunter. Keep going. You’re so strong.”

But before you can, something over his shoulder steals your attention. Your eyes flick away from, where they should be. And he realizes that he been so consumed by you, intoxicated, that he missed the intrusion on your moment together.

In the aftermath, his gear smells like you. The place where he slipped his thigh between yours and pressed he swears smells like your cunt, heady perfume. He’s breathes it in as he fucks his tight fist, high on the memory of your strength testing itself against his.

He imagines the scent of him all over you in return. Going back to those men with his claim in your armor, wishes you’d taken the blade with you, his blood smearing your gloves, your shirt, your pants, staining your skin.

He cums to that thought, thick spurts all over a grainy print out of you from the op he first met you on, milky drops on the ink that forms your mask.

Soon, it’ll be reality.

[baka-bakeneko]

Sharing Nicely - Logan Howlett [Wolverine] x Wade Wilson [Deadpool] x F!Reader

tags: NSFW, MINORS DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, deadpool and wolverine are "playfully" territorial, platonic massage, more throuple vibes, playful costuming, deadpool is a bratty sub, movie accurate Logan Howlett attitude, Logan Howlett is an animal, service dom Logan Howlett, mean dom Logan Howlett, submissive Wade Wilson, guided oral, sharing the bowl, definitely more knifeplay [?], edging, wolvie-style, kneeling sex, j*ck off show, praise kiiiink, Wade is a good boy, wrap it before you tap it psa, cre*mpie, c*m decorations, slight aftercare

wc: 3.8k

synopsis: You try to give Logan a massage, but Wade wants attention too.

a/n: i gave myself good brain scratches with the last fic so imma write some more until i tire myself out; call me obsessed.

You pushed your palms up under Logan's shoulder blades, admiring the bristled hair that decorated along his back. He released a heavy growl out in the direction of the headboard, wedging the pillow he was relaxed again further under his chest.

"Fuuuuck, that's good," Logan grit, turning over his shoulder to smirk. "Keep doing that."

You smiled down at your boyfriend, raising up on your knees to knead into his sides. "Tell me if I hurt you?"

Logan shook his head, dropping his face into the mattress with a deep groan. You bit into your bottom lip, pulsing your fingers against his hot skin before trailing down to squeeze his lovable handles.

He stretched his back, grinding his teeth in a low growl. "Harder, babe. Right there."

Your heart rushed at his utterance, catching your breath as you rolled your hips forward at the tops of thighs. Following his direction, you pressed into his lovable handles, kneading into the stiff muscle there and earning his version of a whimper.

"God fuck," he muttered, dropping his head to the mattress to release his soft noises.

The door creaked open to Wade peeking his nose into the doorway. His head tilted into the room, catching your attention.

"Whatcha doin'?" He asked cheekily, earning your grin at him. "You peggin'?"

You giggled at him, lifting onto your knees to press into Logan's back again. Logan lifted his head and snapped his glare back at Wade.

"Get out," he huffed.

"What about me?" Wade pouted teasingly, stepping into your room.

"Go fuck yourself," Logan retorted, turning his head back to the headboard.

"That's not as fun," Wade said, hopping onto the empty side of the bed and stretching out. "Come on, baby, come rub on me a little."

You laughed again, playfully rolling your eyes as Wade's hand grazed up your knee. "I'll make it worth your while if you make my banana cry."

Logan grunted, turning his head at Wade. He wormed his arm out from under his pillow and not-so-playfully jabbed Wade in the side.

Wade grimaced through his grin at you, baring his teeth in a smile seconds before Logan's claws found their way into his side. You looked plainly between your two men and shook your head.

"Are you two fighting over me?" You asked teasingly.

"No," Wade coyly said, sparing a glance over to Logan.

"Yes," Logan grit, retracting his claws and shaking the blood over Wade's side. His hand reached back to caress your knee, up to your thigh before his pinkie finger tempted under your shorts. "Stay on me, bub."

Wade mocked Logan. "Bub, come rub on me. Or I'll rub on you. Eat you out, turn you over. Whatever you want."

Logan's nostrils flared over at Wade, his hand leaving you to clamp over his throat and squeeze. You tapped at Logan's bicep for him to release Wade.

"Babe, relax," you said, taking Logan's hand back to your thigh. You looked over to Wade. "Not right now, Wade."

Wade deflated, pulling his arms behind his head to watch you. "That's fine, I like watching you two."

Logan snarled, which was cut short with the heels of your palms baring into his back, grazing down with a heavy pressure. He groaned, his pitch heightening the further you got down.

You punctuated with a deep press into the small of Logan's back, earning another soft whimper.

"Wow, can I try?" Wade asked, reaching over to touch Logan's back.

Logan's top lip peeled back, growling in a fashion that you felt in your core. You rolled your hips against the backs of his legs again, leaning forward to playfully nibble at Logan's earlobe.

"Relax. Wade's just playing. Aren't you, Wade?" You asked, raising your brows at Wade.

He recoiled his hand, bored at the turn of events. You smirked at him, returning your attention to Logan. "Better?"

Logan rolled his head against the mattress, lifting his head at your unsharp teeth nipping at his earlobe. "Be better if you were naked."

"That's what I'm saying!" Wade added, pouting his bottom lip out at you.

You shook your head at the two men on the bed; you reached out and playfully mushed Wade's face away. The one time they came together on an idea, let it be your men.

"Grab the body oil," you said casually to Wade, instructing him on a quick hunt.

You watched as Wade scrambled off the bed, his lack of brows raised in excitement. "Okay! Let me grab your nylon thong and crop top too!"

You scoffed amusedly at Wade as Logan raised his head to look back at you. "Are you really gonna wear that?"

"No," you drew out, looking down at your attire. The spaghetti strap crop tank and free flow shorts doing the same job.

"Would you wear it for me?" Logan raised a brow curiously. You smirked down at your boyfriend, pressing into the middle of his back and earning his groan.

"If you wear a leather jacket."

Logan's face metered out, his brows evening before smirking. "If Wade comes back with it, I'll wear the jacket when we go out."

He turned onto his side, making you raise up on your knees for him to roll on his back. You pursed your lips in thought as Logan played at the hem of your shorts, just as Wade rushed back in with his arms full.

He panted, dropping his finds onto the bed like a proud puppy. You and Logan looked over at Wade's finds: a bright red nylon thong, his old x-force training crop shirt, and a bottle of body oil.

Glancing from Wade to Logan, both of them were eagerly silent as you weighed your options. You climbed off of the bed, grabbing the items Wade scrounged together and starting towards the bathroom.

You stopped at the doorway, looking back at your boys. "I want you both ready when I get back."

Wade and Logan looked at each other, both nodding before you shut the door. It was a quick change, peeling off your shorts to replace with the thong. The slinky fabric slipped over your cheeks, lining directly up your butt and resting naturally on your hips.

You did the same with your tank top, replacing it with the crop top that barely kept your breasts hidden with your arms at your sides. Turning in the mirror, you admired your body in Wade's odd choices.

The curve of your butt was accentuated by the bright red, your breasts peeking out from the bottom of the yellow-blue crop top. You cracked open the door to the bedroom, prompting the boys to get ready.

You snatched the bottle from the bathroom counter and leaned in the doorway. You teasingly exaggerated your exit, tossing your hair behind your shoulder before holding up the bottle.

"Who's ready for a rub down?" You asked, surprised that both Logan and Wade were sat on the bed, stripped down to their boxers.

"Holy-" Wade began, gaping at you.

"Shit," Logan finished, sitting up from lounging on his side. He immediately shoved Wade away and bucked up on all fours.

You giggled at him, then Wade who grabbed the back of Logan's neck to shove his face to the mattress. "Bad dog. Come here, sweetheart."

Logan growled and tossed his arm out at Wade, slapping him in the stomach to release him. You stood patiently, waiting their petty fight out before tossing the bottle onto the bed between them.

You held your hands on your hips, glaring at the two of them and taking the lead for the men. "Hey! Eyes on me."

They both paused, taken aback by your stern tone before sitting and staring at you; your nipples peaked out from the bottom of your shirt, taking more attention as Wade hummed.

You took a knee onto the bed, then the other, using Logan's shoulder to steady yourself. Grabbing the bottle, you flipped the top and squeezed a small dollop of the oil onto your palm.

You took the cool oil to your neck, rubbing it along your shoulder with a deep hum before doing it again, this time reaching to massage oil into Wade's burnt neck.

Logan slipped the bottle from your hands, opening it to gather a handful and moving behind you. His hands, calloused and large, started at the waistband of your thong, his nails grazing your skin to show his restraint.

Wade turned into your migrating hands, looking over your shoulder to your menacing junkyard dog boyfriend. "He's right behind you, you know."

You grinned, palming over Wade's shoulders before reaching up his neck to share moisture to your other hand. "I know."

Logan sneered over your shoulder at Wade, rounding his hands to your stomach then gliding up to tease at your breasts. You cooed by his touch, focusing your eyes on Wade before leaning in to kiss him.

Wade's hands nervously hovered over your hips, wanting to partake in touching though Logan's eyes bored into his forehead. You grinned, glancing over to Logan as he ducked his face into your neck. He kissed you there, dragging his lips and tongue down as his hands kneaded heavily at your breasts.

Wade narrowed his eyes at Logan, placing his hands on your thighs and kneading at them carefully. You giggled between them, feeling Wade migrate his fingers to tease around your thong.

"Wade," Logan warned, parting from your neck to snarl. "You know the rules."

Wade pouted, leaning in to whisper at you. "What happens if I don't follow the rules?"

You smirked, leaning into Wade's mouth. "I'd follow them, Wade."

He scoffed, readily flossing your thong in the front, stringing it around your clit and earning a keen from you. Logan's hands instinctively shut it down, his fingers diving into your panties before Wade's could.

Logan scrubbed at your clit, leaning you back into him while he turned his nose at Wade. You moaned, stretching yourself against Logan as his fingers curled into your pussy.

"That's not fair," Wade grit, releasing his fingers from your panties.

"You didn't ask," Logan sneered, pulling your panties aside for Wade to witness his thick fingers pushing into you.

"Boys," you breathed, trying to keep level as your hands slipped off of Wade.

Logan turned into your ear, shushing you as he glared at Wade. "Wade, are you going to be a good boy?"

Wade grumbled, his mouth worming and readying to say something. You tilted your head back on Logan's shoulder, losing your control over the situation. Logan was once again in charge.

"Yes," he said shortly, dropping his chin and looking under his brow at Logan, barely stashing his pout.

Logan's signature grin returned, dropping his head to lick a stripe up your neck, staking his claim once again. "Why don't you get on the floor for me?"

Wade straightened up, slipping his legs off of the edge of the bed and kneeling onto the floor. Logan squinted, giving his soft praise while still working you over.

He pulled you over to the edge of the bed, propping you up before peeling from your back. He slipped his fingers out of you, painting your juices on your inside thigh.

With a sigh, you propped yourself up on your palms, rolling your head back between your shoulders. Logan slipped off of the bed, sitting next to Wade with his cock fully at attention.

"I gotcha, bub," Logan said, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your thong and peeling them down. He kissed between your knees, down your calves, following your panties dropping to the floor.

He took your knee, spreading your leg open before tenderly caressing the back of Wade's head. Logan leaned into his ear, whispering something incoherent before pulling back and guiding Wade's mouth into your pussy.

You gasped instantly, your chest heaving as Wade's tongue slipped into you. Staring down at Wade, you glanced to Logan, who's eyes were blown to obsidian.

His snarl never left, his hold on the back of Wade's neck metered on gentle before snatching him out of you. Logan took the helm, nosing your clit and lining down your lips before suckling in your erect nub and pressing two fingers inside.

Your stomach curled, your knees threatening to magnetize together but Wade held one leg still as Logan held the other. You cried out to the ceiling, rocking your hips onto Logan's fingers, ready to explode.

Logan reeled back with sharp huff, blowing a hot breath over you, pulling his fingers out. The boys stared in sick awe as your pussy gulped, hungry for replacement.

He offered up Wade again, letting him lick up your leaking juices before pulling him off again. "Do you think she's had enough?"

Wade nodded, licking his lips as his eyes were hazy. Logan leaned in, licking at corner of Wade's mouth before kissing him. It was feverish, fueled by his sneers and sharp teeth. Logan bit into his bottom lip, earning a moan from Wade that Logan ate.

You caught your breath between them, relaxing your body from the edge of orgasm while Logan attempted to share his affection on Wade. It lasted longer than you expected without incident, only punctuated with Logan's claws extending just behind Wade's head.

He pulled Wade off of him, tilting his head. Letting him go, he clicked his tongue for Wade to climb onto the bed. Logan turned to you, running his hand up your body before pushing you back onto the bed. "Roll over, sweetheart. Assume the position."

You trilled, turning onto your stomach and raising up on your knees to present for Logan. Logan grinned evilly over your back to Wade, peeling his boxers down to reveal his hardened length.

You tilted your head on the bed to see Wade, sat at the head of the bed, stroking his hard cock. Glancing back at Logan, he offered you a sharp spank to the apple of your ass.

He ran his hands over your body, stripping you out of your shirt before tearing it off your arms, tossing it at Wade. "This is what good boys get, Wade," Logan grunted, sliding his steel cock into you and earning a heightened moan.

Wade paused, pouting down at you as your hands reached out to stabilize yourself. Your eyes lulled with each heavy thrust Logan gave, a cacophony of skin slapping skin and muted moans from you the only thing left in the room.

"Did I tell you to stop?" Logan asked, raising his brow at Wade.

Wade simpered, raising up on his knees to stroke his cock just before your face. "Just a little kiss?"

Logan uttered an animal sound, nothing more than instinct within his reddening chest. His claws slashed out, using them to climb onto the bed and actually mount you as his inner beast instructed.

His claws dug into the mattress, shielding your body with his. "Fuck your hand, Wade. Or fuck off."

"L-Logan," you panted, reaching a hang out to brace his stubbled cheek. You tried to offer him lenience, even in the position you were in.

He shied away from your touch, if only for a moment; his cock twitched with a new ferocity, your walls suctioned around him tighter than before.

Glancing up at Wade, Logan's nostrils flared before relenting. He pulled back his claws on his right hand, resting it on your hip with a drawback of his cock.

You whimpered as Logan nuzzled into your palm, soaking up the soft feeling of your fingers on his beard. He reached for the back of your neck, leaning in to kiss your cheek before directing you to Wade.

"You be grateful for her," Logan grit at Wade, who whimpered as your mouth circled around his tip.

Wade fell back on his haunches, his fingers curling through your hair as he stared at Logan. "T-thank you."

He massaged at your temples, his fingers working through your hair while he slowly canted his hips, pushing his cock in and out of your open mouth. At the same time, Logan resumed his pace, leaving you suspended between the two men.

Your hand reached out, twitching in response to Logan's heavy thrusts; with your mouth occupied, your moans fed into Wade's thrusts, earning a few pleased hisses from him.

"Y-you wanna Eiffel Tower this? Really seal the triangle?" Wade asked, removing one hand from your hair to offer out to Logan.

Logan growled, once again showing his dislike for Wade's mouth when not put to good use. He reached out, pulling Wade a bit closer before tenderly tapping his cheek.

"Just for that, I'm gonna make sure you finish last," Logan posed, almost an empty threat.

His eyes were dark and flooded with adrenaline, his brow low as he stared into Logan. "I got all night to make you miserable."

You hummed, feeling Logan pause inside you as Wade receded. Hand reaching out again, you tapped at Logan's thigh for him to be easy.

Logan pulled you off of Wade's cock, righting you on your knees to be sandwiched between both men. Logan curled an arm around your stomach, his fingers spread precariously around your clit.

"You said you like watching us," Logan grunted, resuming his pace but now thrusting, gaining momentum like a steam train.

You bowed against Logan's body, hands held out to brace yourself against Wade's chest. Wade's nostrils flared, something he'd picked up from Logan, and watched you two fuck before him as his cock twitched at being fully ignored.

He tried to kiss you, but Logan clamped a hand over your mouth cutting off your loud noises reverberating through the room. Logan glanced down at Wade's cock, dripping and damp from your mouth.

"Why don't you show us how you like your cock stroked? How you jerk off to us fucking in front of you?" Logan metered out, restraining himself.

He slowly retracted his hands from their places to rest on your hips, allowing you to drape against him. Wade groaned, taking grip of his cock once more and stroking his length gently.

He winced, reaching his swollen tip before reversing back down to his base with a slow pull. You glanced at Wade through hazy eyes, noticing him masturbating to the two of you.

Logan nodded coolly, tilting to whisper in your ear. "Do you see how well behaved he is, even when he doesn't get a reward? He can listen so well sometimes."

You smiled softly at him, noting the grit at the end of his words. At the same time, Logan thrust into you harder, ringing a part of you that caused a loss of breath.

Your eyes fluttered between rolling and watching, feeling balanced in a delicate nature. Logan drew his tongue along your neck, nibbling at your ear before reaching to touch your clit.

"Are you gonna cum to me or Wade? He's putting on a show," Logan prompted, silently willing you to look at Wade.

He was on the verge of hiccups, fist in his mouth as he bit his knuckles to hold on'; Wade's cock was drooling with precum, begging to be released.

"Say Wade's name like you so sweetly do. Cum on my cock and tell Wade he's a good boy."

Your fingers on Logan's thigh curled to clench into his skin, your pussy throbbing on the edge of release. Logan reached down to teasingly wisp his fingers back and forth on your clit, causing your undoing.

You got caught, sweating from the heat Logan's chest gave off while staring at Wade struggling to not cum.

"Wade," you gasped, your free hand reaching out for Wade's stomach. Your fingers dragged along the divots of his abs, tracing on the burn scars decorating his skin. "Good boy, you're such a good boy."

Logan chuckled, pausing his thrusts to revel in the vice grip of your pussy. It begged at his cock, urging him to cum deep inside you as the ultimate territorial claim. But he refrained, catching his breath before finally succumbing to your molten walls.

He buried his face in your neck, curling his arms around your chest and waist, ready to tuck you away in the deepest pocket of his bed and keep you for himself.

But he opened his eyes, looking over to Wade. He was still trying to maintain, opting use his fingers to tease at his shaft though his face was reddening from restraint.

"Logan," you started, finally regaining a bit of your consciousness. "Let him go."

Logan exhaled, then reached a hand out to slap Wade's away. He took grip of Wade's cock, stroking in a tender pull that had Wade bowing his head back, ready to lose.

"No hard feelings, bub. Why don't you aim for her pretty pussy? Cum right on her clit," Logan said, gearing up his strokes and causing Wade to whimper.

"It's okay, you're a real good boy, showing how you take directions...when you want," Logan continued, his tone hoarse. "But I want you to paint her cunt so you can clean up both our messes later."

He grinned mischievously, earning Wade's furrowed brows and gaped mouth. Logan edged you off of his shoulder with a tender nudge.

"Help him out, baby. Or else he'll be a pain all night."

You scoffed, reaching for Wade's hands and sliding them down your chest, prompting him to knead at your breasts. Wade groaned at the feeling of your pebbled nipples in his palms, how you spread your legs further as he massaged.

The combination of the two of you became too much; Wade groaned out, cumming into Logan's hand and your pussy. The warmth of his essence slid down your skin, splitting around your clit and between your lips, undoubtedly mixing with Logan's overflowing load.

Logan retracted his hand as Wade sat on his haunches in defeat; pulling out of you, he watched as you fell to your side to catch your breath.

He lovingly pat Wade's hip then clambered off of the bed to get a towel. When he returned, you found the energy to sit up.

Wade was lounged between the two sets of pillows, eyes lulling with the false security of sleep. You shook your head as Logan climbed onto the bed and reached between your legs to clean you up.

"You two do not know how to share nicely." You aimed the last word at Logan, who was doing his best to not smile at you.

"I said I'd share," Logan retorted lightly, tossing the damp cloth to Wade's at-attention cock. "I never said evenly."

"If at fucking all," Wade chimed in, wiping his cock off with the cloth before tossing it off of the bed.

Logan bit back a snarl, only to be met by Wade sitting up and wrapping his arms around Logan's neck. He playfully nuzzled his face into Logan's ear, earning a set of claws extended into his ribs.

"It's okay, Wolvie. We got all night to learn about sharing."

[tang3r1n]

ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴀʙʏ

cw; 18+, heavy topics ngl, refrences to poverty and starvation, angst, GAY LESBIAN SEX, slight cannibalism symbolism if you squint rly hard, refrences to sex work and/or sexual assault

A/N: abt 900 words and literally cranked this bitch out in lile half an hour. jesus fuck how in the hell did Sevika bring me out of my fucking writing dry spell. what the actual fuck. i haven’t written in a year and ofc when i do it’s fucked up analogies and lesbian sex.

To be born of the cursed flesh is a cruel fate worse than death.

To be born as a tainted babe, cast out from the womb with vile stares and scornful words, is the most unlucky a child could be.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. She’d lived her life good, honest, she deserved the fruits of her labor, a young life filled with pain and struggle. But she was that of the unfavored, not the blessed ones of Piltover, not the nobles with their mansions or the Council with their riches. She was impoverished, born starved, raised hungry, grown into a ravenous woman who begged for the moresles of candied love the scum around her shoved down her throat or inside her.

She lived to survive, didn’t have time for anything outside of the coins thrown her way and the scraps she fed from. Ironic how she never looked the part; plump and soft, malleable and pliable, her hunger hidden beneath that syrupy, sugary smile that oh-so softly graced her cherub cheeks. She pranced around in fine silks and soft feathers, smoke and shimmer stinging her nose and eyes, ears never without the soft whines and moans that fluttered through the halls of the brothel.

Men were somehow more starved than she, their oafish bodies sweaty and fetid as they grabbed her with rough hands, uncaring of the bruises and marks that grew, staining her already tainted body. She loathed them, pushing her brain to the clouds of smoke circling overhead as she rode out whatever sick ride they put her on. The rides were never long, thankfully, mercifully, their essence all that remained once they stepped off with little more than a sideways glance and those same scornful words she learned years ago. Her bed was a sanctuary, a soft, pillowy escape where she could let her mind drift and fly away, she dreamed of soft touches and sweeter kisses, honeyed words and gentle smiles against her plush skin.

This woman above her, her tan skin and dark lips, soft breasts and firm muscles, rough hands caressing her like she was made of porcelain, felt like heaven. Her touch was better than shimmer, a rush incomparable to any human emotion, a religious awakening, it was invigorating. Men were hurtful, slapping and choking all while they shared the same blood and flesh that she had— but this woman, with her metal arm and scars, was slow and sybaritic, gluttonous how she sucked and kissed at her skin.

Long fingers pumped inside her, working choked gasps and impossibly soft moans from the cursed one’s mouth, curling inside her cunt to almost lazily press against that spot that made her dizzy, stomach twisting as her eyes fluttered shut. The woman’s voice was low and deep, chiding her for looking away, for her hips trying to worm away from this pleasure, “look at me,” the woman whispered, licking a stripe up her neck littered in hickeys. The other keened, hazy eyes half lidded as she looked up to her savior, the older woman grinned, wolfish and possessed, yet she didn’t feel fear. Not like she had before, the woman was all-consuming, dominating her very soul and suffocating her under that strong body built by the gods, yet she could only cry and cling to her skin, begging for more and more.

She was starved, and this woman, bringing her to climax, the sinfully delicious sounds of her own cunt squelching clashing with her pitiful cries, was feeding her. Feeding that bottomless pit she had been build with, feeding her with lips sloppily meshed together in a fucked up display of power and perversion. Feeding her with those dangerous fingers circling her pearl and filling her up. Feeding her with praise and love like a false prayer, flooding her mind with devotion and compassion she so desperately craved.

With the burst of her orgasm, she wailed, tugging on her savior’s messy hair as her body shook in pleasure. White blinded her as her glassy eyes rolled back, devilish smile fading away with a dark chuckle. The woman gently slipped her fingers from her cunt, a dull ‘pop!’ making her ears burn as she watched the woman suck on the soaked fingers. The woman’s eyes rolled back, a delicious moan rumbling from her chest and in that moment she wondered if this woman was starving too. If her savior craved just like she did, if this woman watched her with the same kind of hungry eyes as she did.

She was pulled into another sultry kiss, lips smooshed and smacking as they stole each other’s breath, wrapped up in each other’s arms. The woman pulled away first, keeping her close with a firm hand around her thick neck, string fingers ever so gently cutting off her oxygen, “such a pretty girl,” the woman whispered, a secret for just the two of them, “my new favorite treat.”

Born damned, she scavenged for love and life, but staring into those dark eyes, she saw the same hunger, the same damned flesh tangled up in her’s in a macabre display.