#you opened up a can of WORMS my good sir

[shirubiaowo]

opinion on hazbin hotel

(Not me forcing auburn to watch the whole series when it came out last Friday)

Anywaaaay,, I LOVE HAZBIN HOTEL (I have been playing loser, baby [the song] on repeat,,, I literally have the lyrics memorised at this point,, ask auburn)

I have been following the Hazbin hotel for a while now,, I remember when Vivzie first uploaded like an animatic part of the pilot years ago

Indie animation my beloved, but yea

I love hazbin hotel so far,, lovely animation, the songs were a little jarring at first (it was giving my little pony with the amount of songs) but I’m used to them now

I did buy the early release package so I did get a preview of the first two episodes last last Friday

It’s honestly really impressive that they can make a cartoon with how extreme vivzie’s style is

(I can continue going, but I’ll stop here bc I have watched so many LORE videos on Hazbin hotel and helluva boss I could talk forever :D 💛)

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Kafkaesque

Summary: On the flight back home, Spencer and Reader exchange books to read, and Spencer is surprised by your selection.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Funny, fluff-ish

Content warnings: Franz Kafka (i like him but whatever)

Word count: 1k

The team is on the jet heading back to Quantico after yet another successful case was solved. The tensions of a stressful arrest started to quell as only clusters of city light started to become their only view for the rest of the flight. Morgan has already passed out listening to music, taking up two seats for himself, while Hotch, Emily, Rossi, and J.J. stay occupied by playing poker. Their banter filled the cabin along with the sound of shuffling cards, and actual chips were exchanged instead of poker chips.

You and Spencer, on the other hand, decided this was the perfect time for reading. You had been discussing the idea of exchanging books to get each other’s opinion, since you two are the only consistent readers among your colleagues (and also because Spencer’s banned from playing poker for cheating (again)).

You only briefly got to start each other’s selection before landing, but now there was plenty of time to cross some of the short stories of Sherlock Holmes off your TBR. Considering you were reading in the same space, you expected this to be more of a challenge. Because Spencer is a fast reader. A notoriously fast reader. To the point where Hotch has prevented him from reading while questioning witnesses. The speed at which he combs through books knocks off their focus. You’ve seen it yourself, so much that it’s not as funny as it was when you started here.

Nevertheless, you explore the world of Sherlock Holmes. As you turned the pages, you marveled at the intricacies of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s storytelling. The deductive prowess of Holmes and the vivid depiction of Victorian London transport you to another time and place. Andrew Scott’s charismatic portrayal of Moriarty in the TV adaptation flickered through your mind, though you wisely kept that observation to yourself. Last time, Spencer gave a passionate lecture on the discrepancies between books and television adaptations, citing difference in attention spans, and you had no desire to open that can of worms again.

Amid the familiar hushed ambiance of the cabin, you felt a familiar sensation—the piercing gaze of someone fixated on you. It was a feeling you had grown accustomed to, whether it was the malevolent eyes of criminals from afar of the intense scrutiny across an interrogation table. You tore your attention away from the pages of your book to meet Spencer’s eyes. His expression was contemplative, yet he was less than a third through the book.

“Wanna trade already?” You asked, breaking the silence.

“No, no,” Spencer replied, his lips pursed as he continued to study you.

You raised a brow. “Any questions I could answer?”

“How did you come across him?” He held up your book, “The Complete Short Stories” by Franz Kafka.

“Oh,” you shrugged, “just those angsty high school years, you know?”

Spencer’s nose wrinkled at that. No, he, in fact, did not know what you meant. Because he wasn’t old enough to have angsty high school years. And if he did have any at all, they would have been during college—neither period of his life he cared to recall.

“You’ve seriously never picked up Franz Kafka?” You asked him. “You? Spencer Reid? The equivalent of a human encyclopedia?”

“Only some of his short stories were used for college lectures.”

“Okay.” You feigned a laugh. “So what’s the problem?”

“What was your childhood like, Y/N?”

Your face widened in shock before a sly smirk emerged. “Are you seriously profiling me because of my favorite author? That’s absurd!” The urge to playfully smack him surfaced, but the goodness of your heart made you resist (also because this isn’t your book you’re holding). “Kafka enthusiasts come in all forms, you know. Like everybody else.”

“He’s your favorite author?” Spencer chuckled, still very surprised.

You nodded. “And what about it?”

“You’re just so… happy all the time.”

You cocked your head to the side. A small laugh slipped out as you said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Reid. Should I have brought ‘The Adventures of Strawberry Shortcake’ to help maintain your image of me?”

“No! I mean…” Your shared laughter briefly interrupted his train of thought. “It’s just not what I expected from you.”

“Hm.” You settled back in your seat, opening the book to where your thumb rested between the pages. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” You’re ready to get back to reading, but you still look at Spencer.

His eyes sparkled, and the curiosity of something becoming more complex than intended makes his brain run for miles. “Perhaps I don’t.”

As the jet continued its steady course back to Quantico, you and Spencer settled into cozy companionship, growing more familiar with each trip. The ambiance remained peaceful, with the faint hum of the engines serving as soothing background noise for your literary exploration.

You find yourself engrossed in the world of Sherlock Holmes once more, relishing in the intricate puzzles and razor-sharp deductions. Andrew Scott continued to dance in your mind from time to time, a testament to the power of well-crafted adaptations (excluding season four. You never told Spencer there was a fourth season).

You were also increasingly aware of Spencer’s presence beside you. Instead of the prickling sensation of having eyes on you, his knee brushed lightly against yours, sending tingles through your body, along with zero doubt it was accidental, considering this guy hesitates to shake hands. He still took the time to look at you after some moments of reading, as if he were deducing what certain Kafka works in that book could mean to you exactly. He flipped through the pages—actually reading—like he would find the answers.

You heard him swallow. “So, uh, why is he a roach in this one?”

“Because that’s how he feels.” You knocked your knee against him this time. “Just keep reading, Spencer. We’ll discuss it after.”

You watched him bite his lips closed as he tried to suppress a smile.

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Yandere Superhero x Villain! Reader pt. 2

TW: Smut, inflation(stomach expansion), hyper ejaculation, hypercum, extremely large cock

Wanna buy me a coffee?: ☕

🎀🎀🎀💖💖💖💖

Ever since Krouken has changed your DNA, your relationship with him has been moving fast. You went from cuddles and fluffy actions to having a full-blown sexfest every day when your body developed enough Plutonian features like thicker skin, stronger lungs, increased libido, and stamina. You don't know if it's because of the DNA changes, but you went along with Krouken's plan of breeding the next generation of Plutonians.

"Bend over and hold your ankles," Krouken says, waking up with you.

You obey him and hold your ankles, revealing your naked pussy to your boyfriend. Krouken uses his alien dick, so swollen with cum that it's the size of a fire log, and sticks it inside your pussy. Your walls stretch from his size, and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" You chant, feeling Krouken thrust into you.

"That's right, baby. Take my seed like the good mate you are," Krouken encourages, spanking your ass. "You're doing so well obeying my orders. Keep holding your ankles for a little more."

"Yes, sir," You reply, drool going down your mouth.

"Ah-ha!" You and Krouken moan as he empties his seed into you.

Thick streams of cum cover your walls, and you sigh as you orgasm. Krouken pulls out of you, and you stand up. Arousal begins in your body again, and you position Krouken's dick at your entrance. He grabs your legs, holding them near his head, and thrusts into you as you swing your body back and forth onto his crotch. 

"Oh, shit, princess, you've been such a freak these past few days," Krouken says, enjoying the new position you're in. 

You're too busy enjoying dick to notice his compliment. He spits in your open mouth, and you swallow it like a bitch in heat. Cum starts from the previous session starts to leak from your pussy, and he quickly cums in your pussy. A smile plasters your face, feeling like utter bliss.

"We're not done yet, princess. My dick is still swollen," Krouken teases, gently slapping your cheeks. "Pull out and assume any position on the bed."

He lets go of your legs, and you pull his dick out. Cum drips down your legs, mixing with the sweat. You put your body in a mating press position and wait for Krouken. He crawls onto the bed and kisses you, sucking on your tongue. Spit goes down both of your mouths as he uses his hands to scoop some of the cum from your legs back into your pussy. 

"Are you ready for me to properly breed you? This time I'll be shooting more cum into your hole," Krouken asks, feeling how wet you are. 

"Breed me, 'Ken. Fill me up with your seed," You reply, your body preparing itself for the extreme fucking.

"I'm so glad to see how enthusiastic you are about my mating rituals," Krouken comments, sticking his cock in your cum covered pussy. 

He starts slow, licking the spit off your lips. You hold your legs tighter in anticipation as his Plutonian cock gets to work. You can feel it moving back and forth like a worm as he thrusts. You can hear the sound of his cum sloshing inside your pussy, and you start to tap out from the pleasure.

"Nope, baby, you need to stay awake," Krouken says, twisting your nipples hard. 

"Yes, sir!" You squeal, wishing he'd go faster.

Krouken laughs softly and starts to move faster. Your moans become screams as your new body feels such inhuman pleasure for the first time. The bed is shaking like there's a 7.0 earthquake, and your lamp from his nightstand falls and breaks. The bed posts break, sending the mattress to the floor, causing Krouken's cock to be pushed deeper inside you. This sends you both over the edge, and Earth-shattering orgasms leave your body.

"Baby, I'm emptying out," Krouken moans, going still and holding your hands.

Krouken's sperm-swollen cock empties into your pussy, flooding it with his cum. Your stomach grows from the amount of cum, and by the time he's done, you feel like you ate a seven-course meal. Your cum mixes with his, and you let go of your legs.

"Sit up. There's one more reward," Krouken says, pulling out of you, his cock back to its normal size.

You sit up, and he pumps his cock a few more times. Gallons of cum spurt out of his cock like a tidal wave, covering you in his cum, painting your body a milky white.

"I love you, Y/N. I'm so glad you chose to be mine," Krouken coos, hugging your sticky body. 

"I'm glad, too. It's not like I could fuck any other dick after being with you. My pussy only fits your dick now," You say, kissing Krouken.

"Aw, I'm so glad you think that way. Now let's clean you up and get that cum off your body and into your pussy where it belongs," Krouken replies, picking you up and walking to the bathroom.

[aychama]

L: I told you to leave me alone

R: I know Sir, but I'm your advisor and I (unfortunately) have to supervise you too.

Raymond sighed as he read the papers in his hands while following Leshy.

L: Do you think I need your supervision? I was doing just fine before you arrived. I'll continue to do so. Leave

R: I can't. We still need to go over a lot of things, we're far behind schedule to discuss real matters which is urgent, I need you to sign the agreement of imported goods from Anchor Deep and the people in the neglected villages are revo-

L: Fine! How many!?

R: Pardon?

L: How many papers, Raymond?

Leshy turned to him with a momentarily anger. To him, Raymond was simply, yapping.

R: Uh, about... 1, 2, 3...

He began counting, sounds of the paper coming to Leshy's ear.

R: 86 papers, sir.

L: Well good luck to you with that. Just copy my signature.

R: Wait, me? Sir I can't just decide on the matters of the whole kingdom!

L: Aren't you my "advisor"? That's your thing, to decide.

R: Yes, I give advice! I don't rule over a kingdom!

L: Too bad so damn sad, I don't feel like listening you talk about dumb problems I won't be paying attention to anyway.

Leshy chuckled a bit and walked towards his work room. Raymond followed right behind, a bit panicked by the king's nonchalant decision. Leshy closed the door behind him, Raymond nearly making it inside.

R: You can't just ignore it! I promise it won't take long... Don't you care about your people? They are suffering! They are doing their best but barely surviving with what you let them have! Not only that, you've added taxes when I was gone!

L: My people are doing fine. You're worrying too much for something so lame, Ray. If I'm really that shitty of a king, go on. Fill my "so important" papers. And I thought you were smart enough to think that.

Raymond rubbed his temples after setting the papers aside. He took a deep breath. Leshy just sat one of the comfortable chairs and leaned back.

R: (God, I prefer hell over trying to convince this man child to do anything) It won't be long before everything breaks down to chaos if you continue to neglect your duties, sir.

L: ...

R: Maybe the other crowns were right about you after all...

Leshy immediately got up and turned towards Raymond.

L: What did those old bastards say about me?

R: Just the usual sir.

He smiled. Good thing Leshy was, well, blind.

R: That you were too young and naive to understand how a kingdom works. The red crown even said he was surprised that you haven't got hunted by your people.

L: That... Grim faced cat! You know what!? I rule my kingdom just fine! I'm the best king out there! They wish they were me! I can rule their kingdoms along with mine if I wanted!

R: Yes sir. You could...

L: Read me the damn papers Raymond! I'm gonna finish these papers faster than any of those living corpses!

R: (Works every time)

___________________________

It was night time when they were able to finish all those papers. Raymond had lit a candle long time ago to read better and Leshy seemed to listen.

R: This is the last paper... It's, it's over

L: Finally, for fuck's sake...

The worm yawned and leaned back. Raymond put the papers in order and set aside, before leaning back like his King.

R: Sir your profanity.

L: Ray I'm too tired to care.

R: You're right... I should be too tired to ask.

L: What's the time?

R: The moon is up by a hand. It's too late.

L: You don't say.

The advisor yawned and drank a glass of water. The King on the other hand rubbed where his eyes should be. It was rare but, sometimes, his eyes would bleed again, his wounds so easy to tear open. The cat panicked at the sight, immediately his tiredness vanishing by worry that overtook.

R: You're bleeding!

L: Don't-

Leshy hissed at him when Raymond tried to touch his face so he backed away. Raymond looked at the blood with sadness for his King.

R: Does it... Does it still hurt? Does it hurt bad?

He asked with a shakey voice as he reached for Leshy's face again. Surprisingly, the short tempered king didn't pull back the second time. He leaned to the touch, to the feeling. Raymond's palm got bloodied as he wiped it.

L:Not anymore. Not like the way it used to...

R: It's good... I think. Is it just pitch black..?

L: People assume so. But no. My vision is my thoughts. I can see just, not in the way you'd expect

R: How so? How can you just- See?

The King chuckled at the advisor's weirded out question.

L: I already know what something looks like. I know colors, I know shapes, I know sounds, the materials, the feelings. And, if you know it like I do, it feels like your whole imagination is your sight.

R: That's... Not as bad as I thought

L: You think about going blind?

R: No, heh, of course not... I think about, how hard it must be for you.

L: You think about me? Now that just makes me shy~

R: My King-

Raymond gave a tired and short giggle as he blushed. Even though he hated his job, he didn't hate the worm necessarily.

L: What? Can I not be curious about why you think about me Ray?

R: With all due respect, that's not the point, sir. I work for you, it's natural that I worry for the one I'm working so close with.

L: And somehow I'm someone you must worry for? The levels you bring me down to.

R: You make it sound like everything is just fine! Is there really nothing bad about being blind?

L: There are bad sides of it of course

R: Like what?

Leshy smiled, putting his hands on top of Raymond's.

L: Knowing I'll never actually see you

AU8WUW8UQOAPAAJUDJDAAAAAAAASAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

HELLO???? THIS IS SO GOOD?!?!?!?!?! How dare you send me this awsome gift as an anon 😭😭😭 Thank you so much omg I didnt think such a simple drawing would inspire someone to write something like this!

THANK YOU ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[kradogsrats]

Okay, so: I have a theory.

Aaravos doesn't know everything. (That's not the theory.) If he knew in exact detail how everything would play out, that would undermine the story's overall central theme that the world (destiny) can be changed. Most of his actual advantage is millennia of observing mortal behavior—he's very, very good at predicting how elves and humans will react when put in situations. He can also, however, be surprised.

Now, that isn't to say he doesn't definitely have some degree of cosmic foresight/timeblindness. (That's also not the theory.) However, even the Cosmic Council in its entirety doesn't seem to necessarily see things in detail, since they obviously see "humans gaining primal magic starts the spiral into chaos" but not "because you then execute a child, prompting her father to personally oversee that spiral." So when Aaravos says things like this:

I don't think he necessarily knows exactly what role Claudia will play, besides that she is important—even necessary—to his plan. It would be chef's kiss irony if what he's actually seeing is that she will become important to him, personally. (That is also not the theory. I'm getting there.)

Despite his general foresight Aaravos can be surprised, and he's specifically surprised by Rayla making a second attempt at killing Viren despite being disarmed, sacrificing herself to stop him. So: did he know Viren was going to die, just not at that moment? Did he prepare a multi-year Worm Plan specifically to resurrect Viren? Or was there another purpose he had in mind?

This isn't the theory, either, but: I do think the plan from the beginning was for The Worm to, uh... pupate(?) into Sir Sparklepuff, and then to lead Viren (and Claudia) to the other archdragons and the clues to Aaravos's prison (or at least the one clue they actually need). The Worm begins to grow aggressively right as/after Aaravos and Viren corrupt the Sunforge, like it's preparing for an imminent new stage. I suspect that after hatching and once in proximity to the prison, Aaravos had every intent to use Sir Sparklepuff in some way to re-manifest in the world. After all, he's tied by blood to Aaravos just as much as he is to Viren—if he can be used to "restore [Viren's] life and future," there's no reason he can't serve the same purpose for Aaravos.

Of course, that all gets derailed, and instead we wind up where we wind up, which is with Aaravos being surprised:

He's surprised enough that, if it isn't in itself responsible for his hold on Avizandum weakening enough to be broken, he's at least distracted enough to be ambushed and physically overpowered. Someone has asked the "what's Sir Sparklepuff's unfinished business?" question, but I don't think that's actually what's at play, here.

Because this, finally, is my theory: Aaravos is surprised because this creature, this little homunculus puppet made a living battery, isn't supposed to have a soul.

He shouldn't be there at all—in the In-Between, or anywhere else. The essence put into him when the chrysalis was opened gives him a rudimentary consciousness, but if there was even enough there to persist, it should have been consumed to finalize Viren's resurrection. Aaravos is looking at something that should be impossible, and yet here it is.

Which makes me wonder... I had kind of dismissed the fairly extreme difference between the symbol for infantis sanguine in Aaravos's book and what is shown after the fact:

Like, that's a lot to draw in the sand. Maybe what's in the book is actually a more functional diagram or instructions of some kind, and Claudia has drawn the actual functional part?

However, because the rune Claudia has drawn is the same as the one on the cursed coins, I have to question. The assumption, I think, has been that Aaravos instructed Claudia in the infantis sanguine ritual to save Viren. I took that for granted because a) it makes sense, and b) it's funny to imagine Claudia's unhinged little "Blood of Child" giggle in s6e1 as "unfortunately for both of us, I do know you fucked the sparkly elf." However, depending on how quickly Callum and the others depart for Katolis, Aaravos is potentially moving away fairly quickly—maybe not so quickly that he can't contact Claudia and give her the ritual before being cut off, but still.

We also know Claudia knows about the cursed coins, including a good grasp of what they entail:

It's not clear if she understands it in the way Lujanne explains, with the coins containing only a piece of the soul and the rest being trapped elsewhere, in the In-Between:

Aaravos may have given her a different ritual (maybe infantis sanguine itself can only be self-targeted) that works more like that. Maybe, if Sir Sparklepuff had enough of a soul, only part of it was enough to anchor/revitalize Viren (essentially "stored" in him as the coin) and the rest went to languish in the In-Between.

Anyway, if Sir Sparklepuff is not meant to have a soul, but does... that raises some interesting possibilities, both thematically (depersonalization/what is a monster) and narratively. What if Sir Sparklepuff needs his soul completed to pass on, like Rayla's parents? Could he be after a piece of Aaravos's? Or, what if Sir Sparklepuff didn't have enough of a soul, but what he had entered the In-Between rather than being consumed because it was actually a piece of Claudia's that broke off to save Viren?

idek man this is just the shit I think about like constantly

[gwenphobic]

COWBOYS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE.

(arthur morgan x pianist at a saloon!male reader)

a/n; sorry for not posting for so long!! gwen stacy x black cat reader will return but rn i’ve had this worm stuck in my head for a min so hold on on that. STAY with me now, this one is good i swearr

You’ve never found it especially appealing, the way cowboys hold themselves and yip and yell about. The way they loiter and accidentally make themselves family men. It’s always been quite annoying though you imagine it is what you would’ve been had your parents been present. Nonetheless, it is not envy you hold toward them but.. annoyance. Yes, that red warmth in your stomach and heat on your face is pure annoyance. And nothing more. Of course.

Your town is small, of no concern. It would never even be dotted out on a map, it is so unimportant. You’ve always imagined what it would be like to leave but have never had the strength. Your place is here at town saloon, fingers dancing around the keyboard. The man who’d taken you had been saloon owner Pete Carter who’d taken your street urchin mind and managed to shift it into something greater, or well, something that makes money. Perhaps, this is why your faith is so strong.

The heat of the day beamed even on your face and flooded the floorboards of the saloon. You sigh. Still, the saloon will open and still will you play away. An Irish woman came in for she was new to town, new to America in a way so obvious. Not much people were here, only the town drunk and a few of the working girls. You sat down with her as she weeped softly, her curly brown tresses falling into her eyes. Her face was bent and curved to her age. She was a mother, you knew and had seen her son and daughter around town often. Trailing upon her like ducks to a mom. Her son was sweet and her daughter, proper. Both young, you didn’t believe either were a day over 6.

“Sir,” she cried, accent thick in her mouth. You rubbed her back before taking her hands. “Yes?” you replied. The mother sighed as she stopped her tears. “I need to write a letter home, but I’ve made no sense of the alphabet. Please do help me, sir,” she said and prayed, “Please know to write.” She looked as desperate as she sounded. She continued, “My Mam has passed, and I don’t know— I need to send my Da a letter. Oh, please, sir!” You shushed her and went to find a piece of paper. That afternoon you’d spent helping her craft a letter home.

As you sent her off, the saloon wasn’t quite full but neither was it empty. A few sat in drunkenness, others sat in a buzz. Some old, some young. It was a comforting feeling, a saloon not so full but neither so empty. You adjusted yourself when you heard it. The sounds of immature folk coming into town. The hooves of horses didn’t stumble as the clambered onto the dirt road. You could feel your stomach tighten with annoyance. Cowboys. Or rather, outlaws. Nonetheless, both were strangely irritating to you. The leather, the boots and all the self-confidence. Can anyone really blame you for holding such disdain? You roll your eyes and sit on the piano bench, beginning to play a tune.

Eventually, the attendance of the church extends and the more proper day drinkers leave. The last to leave is Old Charles McDonald, the union soldier with a limp and a missing tooth. He’s especially fond of his granddaughter who helps him around. He said, some days, he feels crazy. You remember nearly everyone who comes into the saloon, everyone who shares their tale with you. Why would anyone want to forget such history? You begin to help clean up before the sound of jangling spurs throw you off. You froze, completely froze. You turned around;

And there, your worst annoyances stood, an outlaw with two others trailing just before him.

You hid the grimace and continued to wipe down the windows. He wouldn’t be the last cowboy to come out tonight. You just knew the cowboy was walking with some sense of self-importance. You’d only gotten a glimpse but found yourself reflecting on the man’s looks, body. His sandy blond hair and nice tanned skin. Those shining eyes that you were almost certain were a shade of blue or green. You swallowed. He must be popular with the ladies, you came to the conclusion. He’s attractive, alright? Even you can admit that. You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling.. insecure of your appearance. But insecure isn’t the right word, maybe just.. very oddly aware.

“Play a good one,” the man shouted out, his more pale friend snorted while the tanner one huffed. You scowled. You’ll play what you want, not what some insolent outlaw wants to hear. Your fingers find the keys and continue the same tune you’ve been playing. The outlaw can deal with it. Faintly, you hear the drunken footsteps coming closer. The saloon is bustling with business now, outlaws and working girls all circulating about.

“Hey there,” he greeted, his voice was faintly reminiscent of a southern accent. He was pretty, his eyes at least. All green and.. nice. You shook the thought away and returned in a hardened voice, “Hi yourself.” The man looked a little embarrassed if not.. nervous. He looked down, his hat shielding his face. “You, uh, you play real nice,” he complimented and a fill of warm crowded inside your stomach. You returned, “Thanks.” You continued playing as he spoke, “I hope.. Uh, we ain’t causing too much trouble for ya.”

You wanted to say something mean, or snarky. Usually, you would. But staring at this.. outlaw— he’s an outlaw, remember— you couldn’t help but fumbling out, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Y’all ain’t no more trouble than a few drunkards.” He smiled nicely. Really, it was a nice smile if you ignore how beat up his teeth seem to be. “Alright,” he drawled, “good.” The sound of the piano and chattering of the saloon kept the scene from being awkward. “I’m Arthur,” he added like it was an afterthought. You told him your name. “That’s a nice one,” he said and looked as if he was about to say something else before one of his friends called him back over.

“It’s alright,” you said, “go.” Arthur smiled a little brighter and touched your shoulder. “This ain’t the last you’ve seen of me,” he said lightheartedly before stepping back and returning to the bar. You could feel your face all warm, you inhaled. What was that feeling? Hate, maybe. But hate doesn’t make you all flustered like that. He didn’t even do nothing! You grimaced.

It was gonna be a long night.

[manicpixiefelix]

baby, put your back into it {Farleigh Start/Reader/Oliver Quick}

2/2: think about me while you do it [SMUT]

{ masterpost : 2/2 }

Summary: In which Oliver puts you in your place, and makes you beg to be there.

Need to Know: She/Her. AFAB!Reader. Established FWB Brat!Reader/Brat Tamer!Farleigh

Warnings: PWP!! smut; fingering, oral (M receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, lots of arguing, reader is very very bratty, dehumanising language and overall incredibly degrading talk, BDSM, leashes, dacryphilia(crying), reader being treated like a dog, bondage & restraints, creampie, so much begging, sir kink, oliver having the time of his life as a manipulative dom, pet name used for the reader "princess" and being referred to as "good girl"

A/N: 7434 words. never ever as long as i live will i ever write this pairing (farleigh/brat!reader/oliver) again, and not only can you quote me on that, but you can take it to the fucking bank. that being said, i did genuinely LOVE writing this, i think they're dynamic is so incredibly fun to explore, and honestly there's something hot about the mind games they all play on each other. it's just that it takes FUCKING FOREVER for them to do anything because they all hate each other. well, you and farleigh hate oliver and he hates both of you, but you also like to cause problems on purpose which pisses them both off. i love it. i never want to write them again. 10/10 LETS GET WEIRD WITH IT i would love to know what you guys think about this all :) oh also we definitely get heavy on the farleigh/oliver in this as well

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Farleigh has always had these long, delicate fingers that Oliver's been fascinated by since they'd met, since he'd grabbed his thigh - so achingly briefly - in their tutor's office and levelled a grin that surely read as apologetic to the professor for running late, but turned so immediately dismissive the minute his gaze flicked to Oliver himself. For so long as Oliver wormed his way into Felix's life, into his circle of friends, that's all Farleigh had been; dismissive looks and long, enticing fingers poised with cigarettes and disdain like he was a model for Marlboro.

But the coldness in Farleigh's eyes turned warmer, especially over the Summer at Saltburn, and Oliver couldn't deny the heat of his frustration didn't have some kind of want pitting in his stomach. Anger and lust have never truly been strangers, at least not if he was judging by the way Farleigh had been looking at him tonight.

Now, Farleigh was looking at you with that heat in his eyes, looking at your parted lips and breathless smile like he wanted to devour you whole after so readily giving in to Oliver's degradation. Then he's watching the gentle way Oliver caresses your face in the moments that follow, and that heat too turns degrading.

"You really have no self respect," he scoffs; the mood shifts sharply to the left. There's that look in your eyes again like you're on the verge of causing more trouble.

"He said I had no manners!" You protested as Farleigh moved back from you, "my etiquette teacher would be rolling in her grave if she heard that!"

"Etiquette teachers aren't a real thing, are they?" Oliver, genuinely baffled enough to be pulled out of his earlier mood, automatically shuffles back as Farleigh gently pushes you over. You land on your stomach with a humph, hands still trapped at the small of your back, though now Oliver can see the skilled, tight way his belt was binding them. It conjures up images of expensive leather contraptions, restraints, and you on display, desperate for a hungry-eyed academic like Farleigh who'd actually put in the work to study how to best tame a beast like you.

"Do you think she ever stops to think why we call her a princess?" Farleigh scoffs in a brief moment of solidarity as he reclines on the bed. Oliver actually, genuinely laughs at that, much to your chagrin, at least until Farleigh's hand, those beautiful fingers, pushing down the waistband of his own boxers to finally give his cock some sorely needed attention. "Don't think your manners are the most scandalous thing you've been a part of tonight," he adds, turning his head to you with a deliciously sly smile, "your etiquette teacher know you beg like that?"

Oliver had caught sight of the way you were pouting, legs kicking ineffectually against the end of the bed considering how you were trapped in your position, like a little worm. You turned your head to face Farleigh with that same sulky expression, like all three of you didn't know exactly what he was talking about.

"My arms hurt," is all the response you give.

"Good," Oliver hadn't meant to say that out loud, nor had he entirely realised how fucking pleased he'd sounded as he'd said it, but it had seemingly escaped him nonetheless. His focus had been caught on the lazy rhythm Farleigh had been using to keep himself hard, but he still found himself enjoying the sound of your complaints, it seemed.

And your reactions to him; the way your fingers curled, the shiver he could see run down the length of your spine, and how quickly you had to press your face into the mattress, most likely embarrassed by whatever Farleigh would have seen in your expression. It seemed Farleigh himself wasn't even immune, cock momentarily twitching in his hand before Oliver realised how long he'd been staring, and that Farleigh's bright yet smug expression had meant he'd definitely noticed.

"You are taking to this remarkably fast," Farleigh sounds almost pleased, almost proud. You tell him to shut the fuck up, face still pressed against the duvet, but can't kick anyone from this angle, much to his ongoing amusement.

Surfacing, but still rather flustered, you announce sharply that you're not touching either of them until you can use your hands again. Oliver remarks that that's the point, and there's a part of him that's far too pleased about how it makes Farleigh laugh too. Of course this sets you off - he should have known - but it's easy enough for Oliver, sitting on his knees beside you on the bed, to keep you from sitting up too far once you've managed to roll over onto your back.

He knows he's different in this light, leaning over you, everything awash with the blue and silver of the night. For just a moment, it's as if you know you're helpless, his hand flat and warm on your chest, on your sternum, and you can see it in his eyes that he thinks you're helpless beneath him too. The chain around his neck hangs like the sword of Damocles above your own throat, and with the blue, searching, hungry eyes of a man who remembers every last cruel remark you'd tossed at him in the past week.

"Can I at least get some water?" You break the moment, and Oliver almost has to laugh, "it's not funny, I'm thirsty and for some reason," you pointedly rolled your eyes, words dripping with sarcasm, attempting to regain some of the composure you liked to carry yourself with, "I can't move my arms."

"Of course, your highness," Oliver briefly acquiesces, lips twitching into a smile as he made his way to the adjoining bathroom, hoping their was some kind of cup in their. Re-joining the room, he finds Farleigh to be amused, and you to still be on your back, annoyed -

"- not kidding, I'm not doing anything with either of you if you don't take this belt off of my damn hands," you were still insisting. Farleigh just grinned.

"Yeah, Miss Green-Light-Princess, we'll see about that."

Considering how your expression scrunched up to something almost flustered, and you didn't have any kind of comeback, it was safe to say you were still on board, just as Farleigh was delighted to call you out on it. Oliver reintegrates himself, sits himself on the edge of the bed and wears a little smile even as you call him your hero with more bitter sarcasm than he's ever heard from anyone in his life.

"Sit up," so gentle, so opposite of the ways he's been speaking to you just before he'd left; Farleigh is regarding him curiously, but you just roll your eyes. Now that Oliver knew inside and out - pun entirely intended - you were deliciously predictable. Easy to lull into a false sense of superiority.

"I can't."

"Roll over," the sweetness is quickly disappearing. For a brief moment, Farleigh's gaze meet's Oliver's, and he knows exactly what Oliver's doing, even if you haven't clued in. There's a spark of devilish glee that they share in this moment, but Oliver can't let it show on his face.

"What?"

"Roll over, I'll help," Oliver's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but you dubiously agree. Perhaps you think he'll undo the restraints around your wrists. Of course he won't, you should know better than that.

With you obediently on your stomach, Oliver puts the water on the nightstand. One hand goes to your shoulder, the other holds your shoulder.

"Now princess," he murmurs low in your ear, tone oozing condescension, "sit," like ordering a dog when he pulls you upright; you don't even fully notice at first, the pressure from the angle that he pulls your arms makes them ache once more, but then you're sitting up on your knees, and Oliver's lips are inches from yours, leaning into your space with intent, "stay," and you go quiet.

There is fury when he looks in your eyes; your jaw twitches as you bite down on a hundred different retorts. There's something intoxicating about you, the way everything you do in these moments is a war between your cruel nature and your hedonistic desires. You want to kick him, you want him to spit in your mouth, you want to ruin him, you want him to ruin you. All of it is written in your eyes.

You have spent all week treating Oliver Quick like nothing more than a dog; you hate that it turns you on when he returns the favour.

Farleigh is eating this interaction up, watching like a hunter who lay in wait for his prey, content with how Oliver so skilfully toyed with you -

"There's a leash in the bottom draw of the night stand -"

"Farleigh Start, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands when I get them back," you hissed, but Farleigh's comment had piqued Oliver's curiosity. Before you could even look back to give Farleigh a withering glare, Oliver's hand found your throat. Thumb and fingers against your delicate pulse points, not yet cutting off the blood flow, but right where they needed to be.

Ironically it's Farleigh's voice in the back of his mind, a night out at the pub where it had just been mostly guys, and somehow the topic of their sex lives came up. It had been Farleigh who had rolled his eyes and explained - it's here, idiot - reaching over to demonstrate on Felix himself - it's cutting off the blood flow that makes their head spin, not actually choking them to death. Gorgeous fingers momentarily placed on his cousin's throat, Oliver had memorised the placement. Considering what he now knew of Farleigh's relationship with you, he didn't need to guess why he was so sure back in the pub.

"Didn't say speak."

"I'd kick you if I could," your lip curled, even as his grip on your throat tightened. That fire in your eyes was betrayed by the way your heartbeat practically danced beneath his fingertips, "give me my water, I wasn't kidding about that."

There's a long, tense moment where Oliver deliberates. Then, very slowly, he lets you go, and turns, reaching over to the night stand. Out of the corner of his eye there's a very sudden flurry of movement, and of Farleigh moving unexpectedly fast. The water actually shakes with it, spills and splashes several drops onto his thighs, cold in the humid room, before he turns to see the tableaux of attempted rebellion. Farleigh looks still amused, but rather exasperated, like he expected as much, expected to have his hand in your mouth, your teeth in his palm, other hand digging nails into your shoulder as he attempted to hold you back.

"It's like you forgot, Ollie," Farleigh says with a mean little smile, "my dog's the kind that bites," still he plays along, the words coming out lazily despite how he seems to actually have to work to pull his hand from your mouth. Your anger at being thwarted seemed to simmer just beneath your skin; this smile you now wear is laced with malice that hadn't been there before.

"Just having some fun," you practically spat, with both of Farleigh's hands now on your shoulders, holding you in place. This malevolence is it's own kind of fun; your desire to hurt, to wound, to sink your teeth in like a cornered animal betrays you to Oliver. Your pride is starting to win over your desire; your capacity for cruelty is overcoming your desire to be put in your place. Perhaps it was getting to real, perhaps you remembered how much better you supposed you were than Oliver himself. This is exactly how he wants you.

Princess. Collared.

Taking a deep, deliberate breath, Oliver levels a flat, unimpressed look at you. Both you and Farleigh are waiting, watching, letting him lead in this moment, and he does. Water in one hand, he carefully reaches down to the bottom drawer of the nightstand - when you move, the bed moves with you, but Farleigh's grip on you never yields, never lets you lunge at Oliver the way you keep trying. The collar is sleep and simple, padded on the inside, with a leash to match. It even has a little bell, and an engraved tag.

Bitch.

Oliver chuckles a laugh as he reads it, he can't help himself.

"Farleigh thinks he's very funny," you roll your eyes, knowing exactly what Oliver had found so amusing. Farleigh does look particularly pleased with himself over your shoulder.

"It was true when I got it engraved and it's still true now."

But Oliver's moving on again, asking Farleigh to hold the glass of water for him as he fiddles with the collar. He is quiet, intense, arms around your neck as he takes his time doing up the collar; his face is so close to yours, sharing your furious, shaking breathes.

"How is our princess feeling?" Oliver takes the moment to check in, genuine, though it seems to irritate you further, "green light?"

"Do not flatter yourself into thinking I am yet speechless," you spit, "if I truly thought you offered me nothing, and wanted nothing more from you, I am more than capable of making that abundantly clear." You were endlessly fascinating to Oliver; you wanted to maim him, but you wanted him nonetheless. He tightens the collar around your neck. Farleigh still has one hand on your shoulder; his thumb comes to press against the edge of the collar, against your skin meeting the leather as he makes a pleased hum. "Green fucking light, scholarship boy," you give a mocking little smile to Oliver, the bitterness never leaving your eyes.

"Good -" the moment Oliver has latched the collar, has the leash curled at the back of your neck around his fist, you strain forward against it. The bell rings with the movement, a delicate sound for an indelicate moment -

"But I am warning you," forehead pressed against Oliver's, you're straining for any inch, any millimetre more you could get from his unyielding grip on your leash, you practically snarl against his lips with venomous hatred, "about what you will get when you treat me like a dog." Yet Oliver makes sure to remain impassive, perhaps even a little amused, in the face of your threats.

"If I can't make you bark like a good girl, princess," Oliver murmurs, catching your lips in a kiss even as you try to bite him, pulling back with a cold smile, "then I'm going to make you beg."

"Are you going to be a good girl?" Farleigh's voice purrs in your ear, and some of the viciousness about you eases. You sit back, back out of Oliver's space, and watch as Farleigh hands the water back to Oliver's waiting hands, trading him for the leash.

"For you," there's contempt in your eyes as you watch Oliver while addressing Farleigh, "I'll think about it."

Oliver's gaze meet's Farleigh's as he presses his laughter to your shoulder; something in his eyes almost says, well, good luck, I tried. Like Oliver isn't revelling in this chance you've laid before him; like he doesn't know how quickly your body betrays you at every single opportunity.

"If you want some water, you have to ask nicely," Oliver offers. A pause follows, and he watches you change tact.

You relax, letting the fight leave you, pressing yourself back against Farleigh as much as you could. Feeling his face so close to yours you turn, practically nuzzling against him.

"Even if I'm nice, he's going to be mean about it," your voice comes out so sweetly, so transparently manipulatively, "I just want a drink of water, you wouldn't make me beg for a drink of water, Farleigh," you insist, voice plaintive, all doe-eyed and pouting and not looking at Oliver.

"I can and I have and you didn't complain this much," Farleigh saw fit to remind you, giving a wide, mean smile. Your lip began to quiver.

"You're not even fucking me and I'm going to cry," you tried whimpering.

"Funny how none of those sound like any of those safe words," Oliver points out. Your lip stops quivering, in fact, you glare at him out of the corner of your eye as you pout, still trying to be soft and gentle with Farleigh.

"That's because they're not," Farleigh says far too knowingly, far too smugly, muttering into your ear once more, though loud enough for Oliver to clearly hear how sharp and praising it is, "and aren't you pretty when you cry."

"Can't cry if I'm dehydrated," you huff, and finally Farleigh, with a roll of his eyes, gives in with a sigh.

"Give her the water."

You immediately perk up, looking far too pleased to be getting your way, and lean forward expectantly. Oliver will give you this - and only this - before he drags every bit of satisfaction out of you that he wants. So he is careful, doesn't let the water spill, lets you breathe between mouthfuls when you indicate.

"All of it; it's good for you," still he tells you, tone like a teacher, cup insistent at your lips.

"Yes sir," you managed sarcastically, rolling your eyes as you drank more of the water, but something snapped, rewired in Oliver's brain. Farleigh could see it too.

"Oh he liked that," he commented, eyes alight with intrigue, and you frowned as you indicated for Oliver to lower the cup.

"I'm not saying it again."

"The optimism you have about what you will and won't do tonight is adorable," Farleigh tells you, planting a teasing kiss on your cheek, while you tell him to piss off.

"Give me the last of my water, you fuck," you finally manage, and Farleigh finally feels like he can lay himself back down, cackling at your audacity in the face of everything that had just happened. He also drops the leash, at least confident in either Oliver, or his own reflexes, for the time being, "do you want me to drink it all or not? Pick a lane."

Oliver, glass in one hand, reaches between your legs with the other. Immediately, you close your eyes, breath catching, knowing exactly what he was playing at.

"Is that how you think you're going to get fucked tonight?" No response; Oliver's thumb begins moving on your clit, pressing insistent circles as your breathing grows deeper, "are you going to be a good girl?"

"I'm not going to bark for you," you manage through gritted teeth, though after a moment, you half stutter out a moan, "please can you let me finish my water?" Two fingers slide teasingly down your slit, "please, Oliver -" you swallow hard, eyes opening to meet his; he can see this almost pains you, "please Oliver Quick, can I have the last of my water?" Those two fingers inside of you, curling, teasing, pulling a groan from you, eyes fluttering closed, and your voice barely above a whisper, "may I finish my water, sir?"

Oh yes, he did like hearing that from you.

"Of course," Oliver sits back, pleased, licking his fingers clean like a pleased cat while assisting you with finishing off the glass of water. You can't meet his gaze, already embarrassed by how quickly you'd given in. He watches your tongue dart out across your lips, collecting the few drops that had strayed, clinging to the edges of your lips. Beautiful mouth, he's sure he can put it to good use.

"All better, princess?" Farleigh snarks from behind you. Oliver thinks he can see you bite back on a harsh retort, and once again watches you change tact. Shifting away from him, half turning so you were now perpendicular to Farleigh and able to properly look at him, you wriggled your legs out from under you, perhaps a little more comfortable to your side, like a Victorian woman on a fainting sofa, it's an unassumingly sweet pose for the situation. Though it clearly matched the energy you were trying to give off.

"Yes, Farleigh, thank you, Farleigh," without even sparing Oliver a single glance. For a long moment, Farleigh's gaze slides from your innocent act to Oliver, looking unamused and still holding the empty glass. A strange moment of understanding passes between them the minute Farleigh sees Oliver's gaze snap to the leash down your back. So he sits, leans in close to you, and takes your face in one hand. It's clear you're leaning in to this perceived moment of tenderness, but Farleigh stops, a breath from your lips.

"You fucking bit my hand," his voice ice cold, you see there's no humour in his eyes as you pull back and try to stammer out something, anything, genuinely caught off guard, "so thanks won't cut it, princess; you can start with an apology."

"I -" you begin to frown, but then the bed dips behind you, and Oliver's cool hand is grasping at the leash, pulling gently.

"Didn't say speak," he warned, and didn't even give you a moment to butt in before continuing, "show Farleigh you're sorry."

Farleigh, clearly delighted by this turn of events, sits himself up, shuffling back to lean comfortably against the headboard. This confidence becomes him, legs spread in invitation, generous cock resting hard and wanting against the smooth plane of his stomach. For several long moments, Oliver watches Farleigh lazily stroke himself, simply watching you and Oliver through a smug, half-lidded gaze.

"You should see yourselves," the teasing barely hides how his voice is dripping with want. Unsurprisingly, you try to play it off, becoming flustered at the implication of you staring, of how much you knew you wanted him. But Oliver meets Farleigh's gaze, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Farleigh's smile widens.

"Aren't you lucky?" Oliver murmurs into your ear, grip on your leash tight as he keeps his eyes locked with Farleigh's. Though you've gone quiet, Oliver's unsatisfied with your lack of proper response, and gives a pointed yank on your collar.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'm lucky," you sighed faintly, "sir." Farleigh snorts a laugh, and Oliver grins, shuffling himself to sit on Farleigh's other side, by his hip, and looks expectantly at you before giving your leash a tug. At least you seem to be getting into this, considering you actually perk up, scrambling as best you could to sit yourself between Farleigh's legs.

There's something about the gleeful little grin that you give Farleigh in this moment that give away how much genuine joy and anticipation you have to have your mouth on his cock. He too seems at home in this moment, settling back against the headboard with his hands behind his head. It's almost cute, your eagerness, the way you lean down in anticipation before.

"Can I have my hands back now?"

Farleigh goes to sit up, goes to say something, as if he'd realised you'd probably need your hands for the act, but Oliver cuts him off before he can.

"No." And it's too firm for him to argue with. When you look at Oliver this time, there's something there that wasn't before. A moment of genuine doubt, a moment of genuine submission.

"Sir, I think I need my hands for this," instead of argumentative, it's almost pleading. This is the moment he knows he's starting to win. Oliver tips his head to the side, as if regarding you curiously.

"Do you?" He can see the doubt in your eyes grow; it's driving him mad the way he's holding himself back, but good things take time.

"I think so," you don't sound sure.

Oliver moves slowly, deliberately, and makes sure you're following his movements. Farleigh's cock twitches in Oliver's cool hand, but all Farleigh does is let out a low, pleased hum. He starts simply, thumb gliding over his slit, collecting the precum that had been beading there, hand then moving up and down in even strokes. For a moment, he chances a glance at Farleigh, only to see his head lolling back against the bedframe, pleased smile on his lips.

When an actual whimper escapes you, and Oliver feels you tug on your leash in his other hand, he remembers his task at hand. There's lust in your eyes as you wriggle, thigh clenching and rubbing together at the sight of Oliver working Farleigh's cock. This might be far easier than he thought.

"You want this?" Just like a pet owner with their clearly eager dog, Oliver teases you.

"Yes," your practically bark, breathless and eager and embarrassingly fast. It actually seems to catch both Oliver and Farleigh off guard, Farleigh's cock clearly reacting positively in Oliver's hand to your obvious desire, and Oliver giving Farleigh a genuinely impressed look.

"Never seen someone so eager to get their mouth around a cock before; you must've done something special to her."

"Do you want me to teach you or do you want me to show you?" Farleigh's eyes shine as brightly as his smile in the silver-blue glow of the night. Oliver's mouth goes dry at the thought, his own cock aching at the mere thought of what it would be like to look up at Farleigh with his smug approval - knew you could be boy for me, Oliver - and he wants to hate the idea, but he can't. But he doesn't get the chance to respond -

"No, mine," slips from you like a whine, unexpectedly possessive. It brings both boys' attention back on you, however, and you seem to realise your slip up. Mouth opening and closing, you can't even seem to find the words to defend yourself; at least you've learned to shut up.

"Careful princess," Farleigh says surprisingly coldly, slipping back into dominance with practiced ease, "you're lucky, remember?"

"I'm lucky," you nod emphatically, but you're straining against your leash, wetting your lips.

"Good girls get treats," he yanks your collar back to remind you who still holds your leash, "this a treat for you, princess?"

"I do genuinely enjoy it," you admit honestly, seeming a little flustered to be saying as much, looking to Oliver with a sheepish smile, "not with anyone else though," it's actually a very sweet moment.

"Really?" Farleigh seems genuinely flattered, wide, bashful smile on his face as he sits forward a little.

"You seriously don't understand how hot the noises you make are," you laughed a little self consciously, "I came completely untouched once just from going down on you."

"Are we here to stroke Farleigh's ego or his cock?" Oliver rolled his eyes, already tired of this, but Farleigh sat back obliging, while you tried to bend down, but very much couldn't.

"Pick a lane, Oliver," you groaned, before quickly amending, apologetically, "sir." Farleigh snickered. Oliver's gaze grew cold.

"Beg for it."

He pushes his hand between your shoulder blades, forcing you to double over and bend down, but then kept his grip on your leash tight as he held the shiny, plump head of Farleigh's cock just inches from your lips.

"Please," already you were back to playing along, mouth open, breathing heavy, whimpering as you hear an impatient moan from Farleigh himself, "please, sir please -"

"Please what?"

Mouth hanging open, panting like a desperate whore, you beg for Farleigh's cock in your mouth, your throat, to be facefucked and used, whatever - you felt like you were going insane from the suspense. All the words come spilling out from you, begging and dripping with need that Oliver almost gives in right there.

Oliver's hand has been skilfully fisted around Farleigh's cock this entire time, keeping him hard and ready and in the perfect spot to drive you made, just out of your reach. He'd half forgotten he was even doing it, getting him all worked up, leaking, slick, fingers shiny and sticky with Farleigh -

"Oliver -" Farleigh chokes out in a kind of warning tone, as if to tell him to stop playing around one way or the other.

"You think you deserve this?" Oliver finally lets Farleigh's cock go, and you actually whimper. Oliver wipes his hand off messily against your mouth, once more demanding to know if you think you deserve this. You're begging, please tumbling from your lips even as Oliver presses two fingers into your greedy mouth.

"Please, sir," muffled so much that it's almost indistinguishable as your thorough tongue laps at Oliver's fingers, "please, I need him," and the desperate tears are welling in your eyes as he keeps his fingers in your mouth but pushes you back up onto your knees.

"Will you sit for me if I give you what you want?" He pulls his fingers slowly from your mouth. You nod, heartbeat alive when he wraps a firm hand around your throat, "will you stay for me if I give you what you want?" Another nod, lip trembling and breathing so desperately hard. He applies more pressure.

"Anything," you gasp, hips moving again, insistent, desperate for friction; he'd see to that soon, "speak, shake," you wet your lips, "roll over."

Oliver glances over his shoulder to where Farleigh is watching with rapt attention. Good.

"Good dog," Farleigh mumbles, desperately working his own hand up and down his shaft.

Oliver lets go of the leash carefully, and your eyes snap back to him. Just as you promised, you sit, you stay, a good dog, watching him move closer to Farleigh with intent. He hears your breath catch the moment he takes Farleigh's cock in hand, and the desperate chanting of 'pleasepleaseplease' as he lowers himself down. For a moment, he looks to Farleigh, a silent question of permission, but considering he too can hear how desperate and needy you're behaving at the mere sight of this, he realises, at least in part, what Oliver's doing and seems entirely on board.

You were right, Farleigh moans and whimpers like a whore with a mouth on his cock. A wanton melody made all the sweeter for your begging having turned simply to needy noises. What Oliver can't fit of Farleigh in his mouth he continues to jerk off, momentarily slipping down to gently squeeze Farleigh's balls, earning him the most beautiful series of swears Oliver's ever heard. Tongue always moving, caressing, often lapping at Farleigh's slit and the sweet, salty slickness, Oliver works hard to make him feel good - which he knows he's more than capable of, despite his demeanour he's nothing near a virgin in any realm - without getting him to close. He'd still leave that for you.

For a moment he glances up at Farleigh, and the bitterness in his eyes at the edge of the obvious lust, like he resents Oliver for being so good at this, makes it all worth it.

I got you here, Farleigh, Oliver thinks with bitter triumph, everything else is sloppy fucking seconds.

When he pulls away, he makes sure there's a distinctive, lewd slurp before he takes a deep breath.

Looking to you, the fight is back in your eyes, but it doesn't fucking matter; Oliver won. He pulls you in for a rough kiss -

"I hate you," you snarl at him through your intensely frustrated pout, even as his hand grabs your jaw, "interloping little slut, where the fuck do you get off -?" But the minute he pushes his tongue into your mouth you still try to press yourself against him, to kiss him harder, taste all of Farleigh in him that you could. You know you're sloppy fucking seconds to him, and you hate him for it.

"I was thinking it was going to be in you," Oliver says blithely as he pulls away from the kiss. In the back of his mind he knows it's a loaded statement - ha - but he hasn't forgotten the colours if this was a bridge too far -

"Fucking finally you have some common sense," you sneer, as if you weren't still on the verge of tears, "I was going to say that if you ruined my sheets I was going to have you arrested."

"No you weren't," pipes up Farleigh with an eyeroll. Immediately embarrassed you tell him to shut up, "no, I don't think I will; I'm beginning to think you guys are a bunch of fucking teases -"

Oliver gives him a thin smile, handing over the leash, having gotten all the permission he needed.

"Are you going to be good for Farleigh?" He whispered low in your ear, "didn't you want this?"

"Weren't you just begging for it?" Farleigh smirked down at you, lust-filled approval in his voice, "come on, baby," he murmurs as he takes your face in his hands, and immediately you're his, "crying for me?" The teasing starts warm, but as he's wiping the first of the tears from your cheeks, as you're nodding with embarrassment, his teasing turns mean and sharp and smug, "crying like a desperate, little cockwhore," he doesn't even time to let you react before he's giving your cheeks a gentle squeeze; "open up," he orders in that same cruel, loving, smug tone that makes Oliver's hairs stand up on the back of his neck. But you seem to react with relief the moment you have your mouth around him.

There's something that even Oliver finds entrancing about Farleigh in this moment. He'd been leading you both for so long that he'd forgotten where it had all started, the way Farleigh had spoken so early on, and how even in your most vicious or playful, part of you would always refer back to him. Part of Farleigh had earned your respect, and in the end, he had been the only one in the house who made the princess feel like her place was on her knees.

"Now your little power trip is over," Farleigh's voice cuts through Oliver's thoughts like a fucking knife, as always, painful and clean and precise, "do you need my permission to -" but Oliver's done with his bullshit tonight too.

"Shut it Farleigh," he rolls his eyes and starts to move once more. Time he focuses on your bound hands, finally deciding that you'd probably had enough, or at least were willing enough to listen to either Oliver or Farleigh in a way that mattered.

"Oh my god, freedom!" You immediately announced, sitting up to throw your hands in the air with a genuinely delightful glee.

"You see what you've done," Farleigh looked over your shoulder to Oliver, tossing his belt to the side, but you were already using your freedom to crawl up to meet him. Oliver's surprised by how genuine and affectionate you are when you tell him to be quiet for a moment. With one hand still working on him, the other being used to brace yourself up, you kiss Farleigh gently. What surprises Oliver even further is the momentary look of actual love in Farleigh's eyes as he cups your jaw and kisses you back.

Then you're moving back, making sure to let them both know that you weren't kidding about how much you enjoyed going down on Farleigh. However you do give pause, looking at Oliver through narrowed eyes for a long minute where he's sitting by your knees, watching the exchange, not quite sure where he was meant to go from here.

Your foot lashes out at him. Hard. It's unexpected. Somehow, so is the second kick that follows immediately after. The third he anticipates, but by that stage you'd shunted him to the edge of the bed, and though he tries to catch your leg he falls off, unsuccessful.

"What kind of problem do you have?" Oliver is scowling from the floor, his shoulder and hip sore from the fall, while Farleigh is laughing his ass off.

"What are you, a coat rack suddenly?" You demanded, matching his scowl with one of your own, still braced on your hands and knees over Farleigh, "also fuck you for making me beg for water." Careful, Oliver thinks, he's not quite done making you beg.

"Maybe his dick's broken," Farleigh snorted, "which would be a fucking shame; have you had a proper look at it?" Oliver bristled at the implications, though he knew he'd be thinking about the compliment tucked in there for days to come.

"You are both right fucking insufferable," Oliver snapped, getting to his feet and brushing himself off with indignation.

"Yeah, I'll cry about it in the shower later," you could clearly be heard rolling your eyes. There's a few pointedly obnoxious moments where you make a point of gagging on Farleigh's cock before coming back up for air and to add, "fuck me or fuck off - woah, okay, good choice!"

Before you can even finish your ultimatum, Oliver's decided he's come too far to, well, not. Grabbing your thighs with all the strength he could muster, he pulls you almost entirely away from Farleigh, to the end of the bed, half off the bed, causing you to faceplant into the duvet the moment your knees were no longer supporting you. Farleigh's protests fall on deaf ears, however, as all Oliver allows himself to focus on is keeping you stable, bent over the end of the bed like this.

Still, Farleigh shifts down to accommodate your change in position, despite his eye rolling and claims that Oliver's being dramatic, it's overshadowed by the sudden, loud moan that escapes you.

"Never felt someone so fucking desperate for someone they hate," Oliver bites out, almost impressed by how easy it was to bury himself in you. In the moment he gives you to adjust, his hand pressed to the small of your back to which you eagerly arch back against him, he watches Farleigh. It's his turn to be smug.

After a moment, he gives a few, shallow, experimental thrusts. Each time you rock back to meet him, to take him as deep as possible, and each time he hears a faint, pleased whimper. Your body and it's desires has betrayed you at every single opportunity, which is information Oliver gladly keeps in the back of his mind.

"Come on princess," he leans over to you to murmur in your ear where you'd pressed your face to Farleigh's thigh for the moment, attempting to keep going with your hand on him when your body could only focus on the rhythm of Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, "you've got a job to do, don't you want to be good?"

"I want to be good," you keened, before making the effort to prop yourself up, taking Farleigh in your mouth once more.

It's the last moment of care that Oliver affords, however, as he very quickly sets a rough pace, nails digging so hard into your hips that he thinks he might draw blood. But your cunt still clutches at him like it was made for his cock, so slick with how much you need this, need him in this moment, that it's already dripping down your thighs.

The three of you get lost in each other, each desperate moan from your muffled by Farleigh's cock hitting the back of your throat. The sensation soon sets him off and he can't keep his hands off of you. Up on his knees he takes over, takes your face in his hands as you look up at him, teary-eyed with a heady kind of bliss, and he matches Oliver's rhythm as he fucks your face.

Oliver can only imagine the kind of mess you look like right now, but has to focus on sustaining himself, making sure he doesn't leave you with any more excuses to belittle him tonight. So he reaches around, between your thighs, and his fingers find your desperately sensitive clit.

Immediately your stance slips, widens, gives him better access to your clit, and he hears your muffled moan become a choked sob. The beginning of the perfect end.

Farleigh's getting close, his pace is faltering, his hips are stuttering, you're whining and gasping desperate breathes between each of his thrusts, that have turned to wordless, overwhelmed sobs in the past few minutes. Oliver is genuinely impressed that you're able to take all of Farleigh like that; he wonders if he'd dedicated time to training you. He can't dwell on it, not when Farleigh's eyes have fallen closed and he's started mouthing what Oliver can only assume is a string of swear words.

For just a moment, Farleigh looks like an angel. Ethereal. He almost glows. Perfectly at peace and content and not a total, unbearable smug asshole. Then he pulls his cock out of your mouth and lets his legs give out again, flopping back onto your bed with a wide grin.

"I thought Oliver couldn't make you speechless," Farleigh teased, while you had in fact moved past words almost entirely, except -

"Please," you sobbed desperately. Farleigh, who'd never gotten to see you like this from here, lights up, moving back to you. You're shaking, barely able to support yourself, and he finally sees Oliver's hand between your thighs, and puts two and two together.

"Please?" He wears a smile that's all teeth, gently taking your shoulders and the pressure of keeping yourself up. In return you find yourself holding his face, his arms, everywhere, for support as he moved you back to press against Oliver. Taking the hint, Oliver wraps his arm around you, firm against your back, keeping you secure as he fucks up into you.

"Pleasepleaseplease -"

"Words, princess," Farleigh tells you as he brushes Oliver's hand out of the way, letting him focus on the new angle, the new sensation, the way you're trembling and so close to cumming on his cock. Before you can even formulate proper words at first, your head falls forward onto Farleigh's shoulder, sobbing, aching with how good you've been made to feel.

"I'm so close," you choke out, "please can I -"

"Selfish," Oliver admonishes coldly, and the reaction is immediate.

"No, no," you whimper apologetically, something Farleigh's never heard from you before. Lifting your head you lean back, fitting yourself against Oliver further, trying to placate, "please, no I promise- you, I need -" you take a deep, shuddering breath, "Ollie, please, it feels like I'm going to fucking die if you don't cum in me," you blurt out. Farleigh actually laughs, he's never seen you so fucking weak for another person.

Your begging and desperate pleas spur Oliver on, holding you tighter, fucking you harder, until he finally leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. It sends you over the edge, has you seeing stars as you cry out. Shudder and sobbing with your release, you feel Oliver bury his cock deep in you as it twitches and throbs and paints your inside.

Oliver lets you go, lets you fall onto Farleigh as your orgasm is still quaking through you. Oliver's hands grip your hips, keep you flush to him, keep you from pulling away.

"That's a good girl," Farleigh murmurs in your ear. He's holding you close with one arm, the other gently running his fingertips up and down your back in a comforting rhythm. He doesn't bother sparing Oliver a second glance, Oliver isn't an important part of this equation to him anymore. Not that that matters to Oliver.

It was far easier to pick you apart, to own you inside and out, than he'd ever imagined. He'd brought you to tears, made you beg for every last bit of fucking pleasure including every inch of him and then some. He would leave you aching, leave you knowing that you both knew the truth of where your place is in his world.

Finally Oliver pulls out of you, wiping his softening cock on your thighs before he thinks about getting dressed. He does take a few moments, while you're still half bent over the bed and being supported by Farleigh, where Oliver watched with a detached kind of approval, the way his cum starts to leak out of you, down your thighs with your own shining arousal.

The princess had been collared, cuffed, and his, inside and out.

"Thank- thank you, Oliver Quick," your voice is demure and grateful among your sniffles and whimpers, and Oliver can't help but smile to himself. His pride in you extends only to your final show of submission, though it's pride nonetheless.

"Good girl."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

in the mood for angst today but imagine nikprice having to hide their relationship and trying to act 'normal' (as they can be) because what if the news of a british captain and a russian criminal/fugitive gets out and becomes a scandal?

Your wish is my command.

cw: SAS-style shovel talk?

John stood in front of Major General MacMillan's desk and watched the second hand tick by on the clock above the Major's head. Waiting. He knew what this was about. He could feel the nausea roiling in his gut like poison, more full of dread than he had been before Pripyat.

"'M sorry tae have tae ask ye this, John. I wouldnae if it were not a matter of national security," MacMillan said. Mac was a pragmatic man and he had enough spine to look at his protegé when he asked. "Are ye an' Nikolai an item?"

John swallowed the knot in his throat and dropped his gaze to meet the Major General's eye, his fingers tightening on his wrist behind his back. There was no point in lying. MacMillan knew. This was only to hear it from John's mouth before telling him it had to end. The poison felt like it was clawing up John's gullet. He wanted to be sick. "Yes, sir."

MacMillan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, his clean shaven jaw, and then looked at the wall on his left. It was covered in photographs, certificates and medals of valour. There was only one image he was looking for. The photograph they took after surviving a bad encounter in the Congo; the relief to be alive was palpable from the look on their faces alone. "Aye, well, tha' complicates things," he said finally.

John said nothing. His eyes fogged over and he swallowed again. Keeping it together through sheer willpower and self discipline forged through twenty-one years of service. He would rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment, including a KorTac detention site.

MacMillan tapped the files on his desk, fingers drumming like the herald of an execution in John's ears. "Ye need tae keep it quiet. Be discreet," MacMillan said. "Ye understandin' me, John?"

John let out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping tighter. "You're not tellin' me it has to end?"

MacMillan snorted. "An' if ah did tha', would it?"

John said nothing.

"Aye, thought not," he said. "This is damage control. He's 'n international arms dealer, a criminal, John. With links tae our feckin' enemy, I--"

"He's not like that." It came out of Price's mouth before he could stop it, and MacMillan levelled him with a disgruntled look. "Nik would never." Price had never felt such faith in something in his entire life. Nikolai would never betray him. Not for anything in this world or the next.

"Love makes us blind," MacMillan said. "'M sure he's an upstandin' fella, but if this gets out, then there will be talka honey traps, of spies, of..." He waved his hand and slumped back in his chair. "Ye stupid bastart, couldnae get yersel' a bonnie northern lad, eh? Had tae be the insane Russian fixer."

Price said nothing. He tried. His mouth opened, but there was a knot in his throat choking the words. Was it relief? He wasn't sure.

"Aye," Mac huffed. "'Course it had tae be. Shouldn' expect 'nythin' else." He stared at the wall again and then shook his head. "'e's good tae yer, by reports."

"Yessir." It didn't surprise John at all that Mac had collected his intel first. He would have spoken to the 141. In fact, Ghost had told him as such only two days ago.

"Good. Ye deserve tha'. Deserve someone tae treat yer right."

John drew in another stuttering breath, trying to read his superior's face. Mac had changed through the years. A desk did that to a soldier; the politics wormed under the skin and injected its venom, and suddenly you were doing and saying things the soldier in the field would have never dreamed of. It was difficult to predict which way he would go, but it seemed some of the old Mac that had fought at John's side was still there.

"This is ye only warnin'. Discreet. Keep all yer emails locked down, everythin'. He has no passwords, no access. No social media, no introducing him to your folks, nothin'. Don't gimme tha' look. This is due diligence."

"Sir."

"If this gets oot, even tae th' wider service, people bigger 'n' me will be lookin' tae broker a more permanent solution," Mac sighed. "Dismissed."

John turned to leave. His eyes stung. As his hand reached the door handle, Mac called over.

"An' John," he murmured, picking up his pen, "if ah get even a sniff tha' he's betrayed us, that he's turnin', 'll put a bullet in him mesel'."

John nodded.

Actually, there were two things in life of which John Price was certain: that Nikolai would never betray him, and that Major General Rory "Baseplate" MacMillan wouldn't even blink when he pulled that trigger.

[ladykailitha]

The Magic of Christmas Part 2/8

You know how in the first part I told you Steve's experiences were a lot like mine? Well his opinions on alignments in D&D are also mine.

Just the best friends looking out for our boys. They'll come around.

Part 1

***

Eddie came bounding up the stairs to his loft, contract clutched in his hand. He threw open the door to see Chrissy on their sofa munching on leftover Chinese food right out of the box.

“Sir Edward the brave!” she greeted. “How went the meeting with the dragon?”

Eddie tipped over the arm of the couch, landing face first next her, his legs bent at the knee straight in the air.

Chrissy ran her fingers through his hair. “That bad?”

Eddie held up the paper and she took gingerly. She set her food down on the coffee table and began to read the contract.

“Shit, Eddie,” she whispered. “This is insane. He’s basically offering to pay for all your bills for the next six months so you can work on his commission without worry.”

“Aswllasexpnses...” he mumbled into the sofa cushion.

Chrissy’s eyebrows shot up. “All your paint, brushes and canvases?” Eddie nodded. “Is this guy touched in the head? Like more money then sense?”

Eddie brought his knees underneath him like a worm and sat up. “No. He’s really sweet. I looked him up on the way to the meeting. He inherited the business and his money from his dad. The business actually lost money for the first two years he took over because he made the company private again. He bought all the stocks and closed it on the stock market. Then spent those two years doing away with all the shady business shit that his old man had built the business on.”

“An ethical business man?” Chrissy asked skeptically. “Isn’t that like an oxymoron or something?”

Eddie shrugged. “I guess. But seriously he was super sweet and like is my biggest fan. Like unironically.”

She blinked at him. “And he doesn’t want anything...well sexual from you?”

“We joked about that,” Eddie said with a huff of laughter. “But no. He’s just painfully earnest.”

“Oh my god,” she hissed. “You’re already half in love with this guy, aren’t you?”

Eddie blushed. “I’m trying hard not to be. Like really, really trying.”

Chrissy sighed. “You better take it. You know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you turn this down. What’s the subject matter?”

“D&D.”

“Christ!” she spat. “If there was a honey trap designed especially for you, this would be it. Hot guy, because he is, isn’t he?” Eddie nodded, pursing his lips. “Hot guy, rich, willing to pay for everything for six months for you to do a major D&D piece. The only thing that would make it perfect is kids or your NSFW shit.”

Eddie blushed. “It’s not exactly kids. But the painting is for these guys he used to babysit when they were kids and they’ve had these characters since they were fucking twelve.”

Chrissy sighed. “Are you should you’ve never met this guy, because hot damn, Eddie, he’s got you all figured out.”

Eddie barked out a laugh. “I think I would remember that face if I had. He is too good to be true, sure. But like you said, there is no way I’m going to get a better offer this year. This lifetime even.”

She grabbed her purse from the side of the couch and dug around for a pen. She pulled it out and handed it to him.

Eddie nodded and signed the contract. There. It was done.

*

Their next meeting was a bit more formal. As in it was actually on the books instead of Steve trying to get around Robin so she wouldn’t tease him about hiring his favorite artist to paint something for his little nuggets.

Eddie had pulled his chair up to the desk so that he could put his notepad on it. He cracked his knuckles.

“All righty,” he said cheerfully, “whacha got for me, Stevie?”

Out of another leather folio Steve pulled out four pieces of paper and slid them over.

“These aren’t the originals,” he explained. “I got Dustin’s mom who works at the library to make copies while he was in class.”

Eddie picked up the papers and gasped. “Their character sheets! Holy hell, man. These are like the holy grail. Why did Dustin have all four?”

“Lucas has the habit of losing his and Mike tends to forget his at home,” Steve explained, “and Will has never done anything wrong in his life, but they all agreed since they play at Dustin’s house all the character sheets are kept there.”

Eddie laughed. “Fair enough.”

This would make it easier to design the characters. By a lot.

Steve bit his bottom lip. “I have something else that might help you, but I don’t know how you feel about basing your art on other people’s work.”

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Steve pulled out another piece of paper, this one showing four characters fighting a beholder. It was good, but not even on the level of Eddie’s earlier work.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“Will,” Steve replied. “But I didn’t want to ask him to do it because it was partly for him, too.”

Eddie nodded. “No, actually this will help.”

Steve lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a big smile. “Knowing what they think their characters look like will help makes sure I don’t fuck it up for them.”

Steve relaxed. “Oh that’s great. I’m so glad. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s shoes with this. I really want everyone to be happy.”

“I will do my best,” Eddie promised. “But you know, I have to ask...why a purple dragon?”

“Oh,” Steve said with a blush. “It’s because they can shapeshift into human-like creatures.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you play D&D, Stevie?”

Steve shook his head. “No, but I like to read the handbooks. They’re interesting. Plus, I like looking at your artwork.”

“All chromatic dragons are chaotic evil, you know?” he said with a smirk.

Steve scoffed. “I always thought that was bullshit. If other sentient beings like elves, dwarves, humans and gnomes can be any alignment then so should dragons.”

Eddie laughed. “Only the handbook says that other than humans each race tends toward neutral, chaotic, or lawful.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Which is also ridiculous. It’s like saying only humans can be of any alignment because they don’t live long enough to be set in their ways. Like a dwarf who had lived for a couple centuries couldn’t be chaotic? Or an elf?”

“You certainly have a lot of opinions for someone who doesn’t play,” Eddie said with a smirk.

Steve flushed. “Dustin is one of those people that will steamroll over top of you if you can’t keep up with the conversation.”

“Ah.”

Eddie knew several players that were like that. Most of them were insufferable know-it-all rules lawyers. He had a feeling that Dustin was like that too.

“He’s their wizard,” Steve said. “Mike is a paladin, Lucas is a ranger, and Will is their rogue.”

Eddie nodded as he shifted through the papers Steve had had given him.

“What’s your favorite color of dragon?” he blurted out.

Steve blinked at him for a moment. “It’s really stupid.”

“Hey.” Eddie kicked the desk and he startled. “No limiting yourself. That includes thinking your favorites are dumb.”

Steve blushed deeply. “Yellow. It’s my favorite color. Plus it’s super rare. Then I found out chromatic dragons are all evil...”

“And suddenly your favorite is considered sus,” Eddie said with a nod of his head.

“Also how are metallic dragons the good ones?” Steve asked. “Like wouldn’t they be the greedy ones?”

Eddie smiled. “How many people told you picking the gold dragon was the same as picking the yellow one?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. He licked his lip slowly and then bit down on it.

“All of them, huh?”

Steve nodded. “It’s ridiculous. But I just don’t think that gold and yellow are the same color.”

“Oh they absolutely aren’t,” Eddie said, his smile growing wider. “And if anyone gives you hell about it send them my direction.”

Steve clasped his fingers together and leaned on his forearms. “That’s something else. They are going to find out that I am meeting with you on reg.”

“So what’s the cover story?” Eddie asked.

Steve ducked his head and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up.

“I was thinking of your charity, Roll for Initiative,” he admitted. “My kids...I can’t keep calling them that, they’re adults. But anyway. Having a large empty house for them to play D&D in when they kept getting kicked out of places to play. First their high school and then Mike’s parents house.”

Steve shrugged.

“But I know they were lucky because they had me. And I know that kids just like them would be kicked out their schools and libraries in the most conservative parts of the country. If they were allowed at all. I want to help you branch out more than just local.”

It was Eddie’s turn for his jaw to drop. “You want to help my charity?”

He had been wanting to take it on a national level, but never had the manpower to do it. And here was Steve offering to do just that.

Steve nodded. “Yeah,” he said with smile. “Just let us handle it. And we can combine meetings to go over the charity and you can show me your progress on the paintings.”

Eddie nodded back. He didn’t have the words. He squeaked his goodbyes and left.

Chrissy was going to freak.

*

Robin watched the flustered Eddie head to the elevator with more than a passing interest.

She calmly got up and walked into Steve’s office without even a knock or any notice she was coming in.

Steve raised an eyebrow at her.

Robin slid into one the chairs into front of his desk. “You gonna to keep blowing that poor man’s mind or are you going to ease up at some point so that he has the capacity to do this painting of yours?”

“I did my homework when it comes to the guy,” he huffed, “so what?”

Robin’s eyes went wide. “You put less effort into wooing your dates then you did trying to get this painting done. You have to see that’s a problem.”

“Only if you make it one,” Steve groused. “I admire this work.”

She scoffed. “I’ve seen his work. My personal favorite was female elf getting pegged by the female orc barbarian.”

Steve blushed. “Shut up. You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” she pushed. “This isn’t lord of the manor fucking his live-in artist.”

“I’ve already made that joke,” he sniffed. “He found it funny.”

Robin snorted. “He seems like the kind that would. Only it’s not funny if he hollers sexual harassment.”

He had been facing to the side and he turned his chair to face her directly. “That implies two things. That I’m trying to get into his pants and that he would be against it.”

“It wouldn’t matter if he consented, Steve,” she hissed. “You literally own him. He is a kept man.”

“You can’t have it both ways!” Steve snapped. “Either I’m paying for all of him, including sex or he can’t consent because I’m his boss.”

She threw her arms into the air. “Why are you even doing this?”

He glared at her. “I don’t have ulterior motives. I just wanted to do something nice for the kids. They’re going to be spreading far across the country after they graduate from college. Some to get advanced degrees, others to start their careers. I just want something special that they could take with them to remember everyone by.”

Robin sighed. “Okay. I get it. You’ll miss them, too. I keep forgetting they’re not the little twerps that used to beg for rides.”

“Yeah.”

She reached over the desk and took his hand. He gave hers a squeeze.

“I’m going to miss them something fierce.”

“I know, dingus,” she murmured. “I know.”

***

Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @itsall-taken @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @redfreckledwolf @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child @carlprocastinator1000

[kindagayfish]

General (Stampede) Wolfwood x reader headcanons cause he makes my brain go brrrr

Also, reader is gn and there is some nsfw below the cut!

You’re in the car when Meryl hits him, and the first one to his side to see if he’s still breathing. When he looks up at you and sees the sun haloing your face, he thinks he’s died and gone to heaven

Nickname’s you “angel” for the day

“And that just leaves the last one for me and the angel.” The dark-haired man flashes you a grin, nodding towards the fourth chamber inside the giant worm.

“Wait, hang on, why do I have to go with you?” You stammer out, heat rising to your cheeks.

“You guys don’t trust me right? Wouldn’t it be smarter to keep an eye on me then?”

“Would be better if I went instead,” Roberto cuts in, eyeing the man.

“Sorry old man, you’re not really my type.” He waves Roberto off before heading towards the opening of the chamber. “Now we don’t have any time to waste standing around.”

“Y/n” Roberto tosses you his gun. “Shoot’em in the knees if he tries anything.”

“Yes sir”

You’re surprised when he’s the one who pulls you from the giant worm’s guts. And after thanking him, he gives you his name.

Falling asleep on Wolfwood’s shoulder in the car is just a habit that wordlessly happens after he joins the group. At first you would just lean your head back and try to stay upright while squished between Vash and Wolfwood. However, this will lead to your head bobbing a lot and not actually being able to fully fall asleep so after watching it happen for the tenth time, Wolfwood just guides your head down gently onto his shoulder. Vash would definitely raise an eyebrow at him but Wolfwood would ignore it with the deepest blush on his face.

When you ask him to do something for you the first time, he’ll ask for a kiss as a reward.

If the request flusters you, he’ll laugh saying he’ll put it on your tab and wink. If you take him up on the request, he’ll completely lose his composure and be stuttering out nonsense (honestly didn’t think you’d actually do it).

Keeps his white shirt unbuttoned even more than normal after catching you staring one day (I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN’S TITS?????)

Will sometimes just hand you his cross just to see you struggle with holding it up. Thinks it’s hilarious and always waits until you beg for his help.

WILL MANHANDLE YOU JUST LIKE HIS GUN THIS MAN LOVES HOW STRONG HE IS AND WILL SHOW OFF EVERY CHANCE HE GETS

While running from danger Wolfwood will legit throw you over his shoulder and carry his weapon under his other arm

If you are getting shot at though, he will use his god-given strength to throw you out of the way. You might still get hurt, but better to be alive with a broken arm than be dead full of bullet holes.

I think every time he uses one of his vials, it also heals the damage in his lungs from that nasty smoking addiction and that’s why he can still sprint at full speed without wheezing

Will finally have his Oh shit I’m in love with them moment after you get hurt for the first time (I have a fic im writing for the confession and it’s so good omg) but keeps it to himself because he isn’t sure you feel the same. Probably thinks you wouldn’t ever want to be with a man who calls himself an undertaker.

Even before his big realization, Wolfwood was very protective of you. If you got into a disagreement at a bar, he knew you could handle yourself, but that didn’t stop him from hovering behind you with a deadly aura, his eyes threatening any man who dare approach you.

A nsfw treat >:)

I honestly believe this man is the definition of a switch

Like I feel like he himself would be such a brat, but also could dish it out to a brat partner???

SUCH A TEASE

Praise and body worship!!!!!!!! Literally your body is a temple to him

I feel like he would have some silly and serious moments with you. Like this man makes LOVE to you, but also just loves to tease and fluster you and loves when you get shy/embarrassed.

But Wolfwood is also so easy to fluster too so it’s just a battle of who can shut the other person up first

He’s got some hot breathy moans (lord have mercy)

Wolfwood will say a prayer before going down on you

He’ll have you naked, situated on the bed so that your legs hang off the edge while he’s knelt in front of you on the floor

“Oh heavenly father, I have come to thank you-”

“Nicholassss what are you doing?” You laugh as you prop yourself up on one elbow to give him a look.

“Uh, thanking the lord for this meal? You’re ruining it. Now I have to start over.”

He’ll trail kisses up your leg and thighs while finishing his prayer, before finally bringing his eager lips to where you need them the most.

[accio-victuuri]

my mostly calm(er) reaction and reflection post on the magnolia awards nomination list 🥀

sir i don’t understand. why aren’t good people rewarded? // as the old saying goes, evil doers get gold belts and good people can’t even keep their corpses. { war of faith episode 24 }

the quote above is one of my favorites from the show and i feel the truth to it now more than ever. i have already posted about my initial rage and that hasn’t changed, it’s not okay and will never be. i’m mostly a pacifist but i’m not a doormat. there is a reason why the WOF account or the other nominees like the director and “best actor” have not posted their thanks as soon as the nominations were out because they are guilty. it speaks volumes and they should be ashamed of themselves. if you look at the most recent post for WOF weibo account, they are being torn apart. not to mention blog accounts and the same audience who supported the drama calling them out.

this should not be a surprise to those of us who watched the show and understood it’s meaning. because this is what the show thought us, to not stay quiet when there is injustice. much like how wei ruolai said that he is ashamed to be in this mountain. how he was not afraid to leave his dream and literally walk back to Jiangxi for what he believes is the right thing to do. i don’t think you will fully understand the hurt, this is not just me being a yibo stan but someone who saw myself in Wei Ruolai.

the drama was about how the youth can change the world. the reality, and what just happened is proving otherwise. i’m sharing this quote here cause it perfectly explains the problem:

"If the youth are strong, the country will be strong" but the truth is the youth are strong, but you don't recognize it.

this incident exposed the problem with these acting awards. i daresay, not only that, but with other industries where everything has to be about seniority. which in turn makes the younger generation feel burned out and contribute to wanting to lie flat. because what’s the point if the game is rigged. the CCP have always given importance to the youth. often inserting the message of why you all should have kids now because they are the future. they are important blah blah blah — but this simple award? you can’t even show fairness? Wang Yibo is the poster boy for CCP’s propaganda on how an upstanding Chinese Youth should be. He has been in the most recent years, we all cannot deny that with how prominent he is showing up in nationalistic programs tied to the “youth”. So if someone as popular/well-known/talented as WYB can’t be treated fairly. can’t be rewarded with his efforts, then what more for a normal citizen?

WOF team and Magnolia Awards really opened a can of worms here. It goes deeper than nominations and a fandom. In a way, it’s good how this exposed the corrupt system and contributed to why people are so angry. The tag for him continued to stay on top because a lot of netizen can relate, even if you didn’t watch it, i bet they had something to say. It’s been happening for some time but definitely is magnified because of Yibo’s popularity and it made them look really bad.

I am aware of Yibo’s chances with the history of older nominees when it comes to this Awards show but I am confident that he had a good chance of getting it. What made me livid was Wang Yang taking the nom. You can slice and dice it however you want, but Yibo carried that show. He is the main lead. The story is about Wei Ruolai. If Yibo didn’t get it i will still speak up but with the betrayal, not only to him but also the screenwriter — i can’t stay silent and be the “rational” vic that most of you are familiar with. WAR OF FAITH is still one of my favorite dramas with how it affected me and is largely contributing to why i’m reacting the way i do.

I’m not gonna defend anyone. Only Wang Yibo. Honestly. Fuck them all. I watched the show and supported it for WYB — everyone else don’t matter. I won’t post any hate message on their accounts but they get no love from me either.

So now let me get to the good part. Because no matter how hurt we all are, there is still a lot of good that came out of this. The silver lining(s) if you will.

1. Everyone who said that WYB has some backers can fuck off. This proves that he hasn’t. He has no background. There is no big-name pulling the strings for him. He is where he is because he is WANG YIBO. His name alone is enough. WOF got the green light because Wang Yibo’s name was on it. Now more than ever, it is proven that he is where he is because of who he is and what he can bring to the table.

2. We are reminded once again that producers are not our friends. LOL. if you know, you know. it’s all business. So don’t kiss their ass.

3. The fact that he trended #1 for hours, and still is right now at number 4 is proof of how great he represented the character of Wei Ruolai. People now recognize him as an actor who deserves a nomination and a win. The general public are now on his side. He is the underdog and there is nothing more that we want to see than a beaten down person rise above it and win. In a way, this creates more buzz and anticipation for his next movie that will be out. 🫶🏼

4. This has really set him apart from his peers of idol actors who crossed over to being professionals. He did it so effectively and in a short span of time. What happened is sad, but he won people’s hearts and those who already do stan him are more geared up to support him in the future. 💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼

I’m happy for WOF’s nomination. If i’m being honest, it was a sure thing. I’m proud WYB was part and led this amazing drama to what it is. He will continue to give us more excellent works because that is his gift to the audience who always support him.

In the next coming days, if WYB or most likely YBO puts something out, that’s what i’m gonna follow. The most i will do is congratulate WOF, but the others? no thank you.

[biohazard-anon]

Summary: You try to break your bond. Apophis takes a team to help search the woods.

Content warning: none

(check pinned post for masterlist)

Tagged: @kit-williams @sleepyfan-blog

@egrets-not-regrets @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Authors note: sorry my writing takes so long now, here's the next chapter!

Chapter 10

You put your truck in park before hopping out and heading towards the front door.

Walking in you take your shoes off and go to sit on the couch. You brush your hands through your hair as you think on what to do.

Eyeing your phone on the table you pick it up and open your web browser and start typing into the search bar.

Hitting enter the results pop up. You soft through the answers and pull up and a forum on astartes.

You scroll through it until you find what you were looking for, an instructional guide on breaking bonds.

You skim it until you reach the bottom.

Breaking a bond usually only requires a distance between 5 and 50 miles, anything more requires the intervention of an astartes librarian.

"Great, more driving," You say with a sigh as you get up, and head over to where you left your shoes, exhausted but determined to get this over with.

~

Abraxas makes his way towards the group of marines surrounding a table. Two astartes make room for them to stand in the circle.

Apophis taps something into his helmet before it displays a map of the town and forest surrounding it.

He points to a large outlined spot on the top half of the map.

"This is where the body was found, we'll start there before sweeping the left side and making our way through the forest before moving downward. Everyone will be split into teams of two except for-"

Apophis is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"I hope I am not too late, I forgot to ask where the search team was meeting!"

Zykord comes into view and steps towards the table, he nudges in between two marines.

"That's because you weren't invited, Zykord." Apophis states.

"Oh really? I just had a talk with your captain and he says your team is a marine short. Besides, you need my expertise."

The group of salamanders and word bearers look amongst themselves before looking to Apophis.

"Aren't you confined to the base after your little incident?"

"I am, unless I have an escort. Which your team can provide."

Apophis is silent for a few minutes until he replies suddenly.

"And why would we need you?"

"Isn't it obvious? What we're dealing with clearly isn't human or astartes, but something else entirely."

The entire group tenses at the idea that was spoken aloud.

"I mean, if you want to send a team of marines to their certain doom I won't stop you. But I do not think your captain would be pleased with your decision."

Apophis disengages the map as he steps away from the group and comms his superior.

"Captain, I have Zykord here trying to worm his way into my team, should I allow him to join?"

"I actually recommended that Zykord join, it would be good for him to think about something other than his bonded." Kel'ath says.

"Of course captain I will keep an eye on him myself."

Apophis turns and steps back into the group and begins to speak again.

"Alright Zykord, you're in. As I was saying, everyone will be split into teams of two. We'll form a perimeter around this spot before stretching outward, then sweep downward through the town before ending here. After the sweep everyone will regroup at the base to debrief. Am I clear?"

He is answered by the group of nineteen marines with unanimous calls of yes sir from around the table.

"Let's move out."

The group of marines begin moving through the hallways and out the main doors of the base. Abraxas has to duck to make it through the door.

The squads continue down the road and into town, passing around buildings and cars as they travel.

They continue out amongst the suburbs and eventually make it to the edge of the woods.

The group goes further in, traversing the uneven terrain until they stop at a clearing when Apophis calls out.

"Alright! Everyone start splitting into pairs, Abraxas I need you and a few others to set a perimeter. Zykord you're with me."

Abraxas nods once and sets off to gather a group while Zykord comes over to Apophis.

"Where do we start?" Zykord responds.

Apophis simply turns to the left and begins walking. Zykord follows behind him.

Apophis searches the surrounding area as he walks, looking carefully over anything and everything from the patches of flowers and grass to up in the trees.

Zykord follows closely behind until he spots what looks like a line of scorched earth towards the right.

He pushes past a small bush and steps forward where the line connects through a series of circles and lines intersecting on the ground.

Zykord leans further towards the ground and observes the carefully constructed writing where the lines meet and the circles cross.

"Apophis! I found something!" Zykord calls out as he travels further into the area.

Apophis backtracks and steps where Zykord was just standing.

"You recognize any of this?" The false salamander asks.

"Barely. It's definitely post Monarchia though I am not sure what year, That's all I can really say, I will however be taking pictures so I can study it further once we get back to base." Zykord answers.

"Good, I want to be the first to know what this thing is."

Apophis stands back as Zykord takes pictures. First of the outer circle, then the other circles and lines in it before taking extra care with the words.

"That should be enough, shall we head back?" Zykord asks.

"No. We still have a lot more ground to cover." Apophis replies.

Apophis pushes the underbrush aside and steps away from the sigil on the ground.

With a heavy sigh Zykord follows him back out to continue their trek through the woods.

~

With a yawn you hop out of your truck and close the door then you head towards the front door.

You step through and begin shuck your shoes and coat off before plopping on the couch and kicking your feet up on the couch.

Within a few minutes you pass out into a deep sleep.

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Since prompts are open again, it's time to launch the Unholy Trinity + Evil Fourth Thing - please gift us with your hc or drabble on the adventures of Bucky, Curt, and Bubbles, featuring their secret accomplice Gale "absolutely batshit, actually" Cleven.

(This is also me enjoying Jack Kidd torment)

The thing is, and I cannot stress this enough: No one ever fucking believes Jack when he says, "I don't fucking care what Bucky, Curt, and Bubbles are fucking doing. Come find me when Buck's tagging along. THAT'S where the trouble is."

And the response is always the same: "Sir?? Cleven?? Calmest, coolest, most disciplined man in this entire air army? Surely he'd be a good influence."

"I need you to stop and think for five seconds, then answer this question: Why would the first three allow a good influence anywhere near them?"

Is Buck a good influence on literally everyone else on base? Yup. Great officer. Top-notch leader. And it's not even that he's a BAD influence on Bucky, Curt, or Bubbles in normal circumstances. Jack will be the first to admit that Bucky would have been in the drink (because Jack threw him there himself) if Buck didn't actually have some ability to contain him.

And Curt, well he's just rowdy like a lot of the boys. And Bubbles, he only gets rowdy if someone's there first. It's not three idiots and a braincell. It's low impulse control (Bucky & Curt) and perfectly fine unless he's feeling a little fighty (Bubbles), and then Buck. Who is a fucking chaos demon turned human by a witch that Jack is certain his great-grandda must have pissed off just before leaving Ireland. It's the only explanation.

Rowdy, Jack can handle all day. Big family, lots of cousins. He's been stopping fights and redirecting energy since he was in short pants. Nothing to it. And, of the boys, Bucky, Curt, and Bubbles are actually pretty okay. The one most likely to actually get into a fight is Curt, and he punches like a mule kicks, so Jack never worries there, either.

The thing Buck brings to the table is a fucking scheming mind. He learned it from his father and doesn't actually like that he CAN come up with a hundred ways to fuck something up if need be. But it was trained into him, and at least it comes in useful for flying. He's glad to put it to use rather than having the skills just itch the back of his head feeling like a really stupid can of worms to open.

But, then, it also turns out that there's types of scheming you can do that don't cause trouble. And can make people laugh. And can lift spirits. And just be fucking funny.

Like when the base got 100 calls in one day because "someone" parked a the Colonel's Jeep up at the entrance to town with a sign on the bumper:

FOR SALE

RUNS PERFECTLY

FIVE POUNDS

And Jack had known the moment he'd heard about it who'd done it. It had Buck Cleven's fingerprints all over it. And, in fact, Jack is certain he knows what happened:

Bucky and Curt drinking.

Bubbles also drinking.

One of them deciding it would be funny if they stole or hid the Colonel's Jeep.

Buck interjected, saying, "Fellas, no, let's not do that."

At which point all bystanders wandered off because, well, Cleven's the responsible one, so fun's over.

And then Cleven thought for about three minutes while the others kept drinking, leaned in and said, "If we do it your way, we get caught. We gotta do it my way."

Agreement. Theft of Army Property. Many, many phone calls.

Jack made sure to be very pissed off when he heard about it.

He also made sure to send Lemmons to retrieve it. Because Lemmons has a face like an angel and can absolutely convince everyone he really did mean to take the sign off the bumper before he brought it back.

While it is sometimes very frustrating that no one believes Jack about Buck, it at least gives him some cover for having a little fun of his own.

He can't play pranks like that. He's Air Exec. And every now and again Buck will meet his eye when a prank goes off with perfection and give Jack a wink.

[chiefdirector]

Looking | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Act One | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21

“Sargent Grey,” Lopez called, trying to catch up with the watch commander, “I had a look at the footage from the main lobby. No I.D. Just seemed like some kid doing an errand, paper boy maybe.”

He stopped in the corridor, brushing his hand over his face in frustration. “Right, okay. Go tell Detective Bradford, liaise with her. See if you can help in any way.”

“Already have. She said that she’s on the phone with a handwriting analysis. Run it through the database and records corresponding to anyone with the initials R.D.”

“That’ll take forever,” 

Angela hummed. “Not exactly. This analysis guy said the writing was female. Already cuts the search in half. It was also in cursive, so we can make the initial assumption that the sender has some form of formal education, if not they are highly intelligent. That’s not too many ‘R.D’’s left to determine. (Y/N)’s also sent it out for prints, see if we can get a hit that way.”

“Good work Lopez,” Grey said, starting to move towards his office again. “Let me know if you find anything. And tell Detective Bradford to stop leaving her damn coffee cups in my office.”

Angela laughed, turning to go back to the detective's bullpen. “Yes, sir.”

----------

Tim and Lucy go back to his house to try to find the location of the picture taker. And any info. Lucy questions tim on their relationship 

Lucy looked intently out of the shop window as Tim drove towards his home. He had been so strict on keeping his personal life out of his professional one, but there was something about this boot in particular that seemed to worm her way in everytime. There was something about Chen that made Tim feel comfortable sharing details, no matter how minute they were. Perhaps it was her forever optimistic nature, or the fact that if it weren’t for her, he probably never would have found (Y/N).

 At one point, he had thought about thanking her but he also knew that Chen was well aware of his gratefulness; and that she would never let him live it down if he did thank her. She was like him in that way, he saw a lot of himself in her. Tim knew that she would go far, she just needed a little guidance to get there.

“So this is where you live, hm?” Chen said, breaking the silence that had resided in the shop for the last ten minutes. “Nice neighbourhood. Seems a little out of a cops price range though…”

“Are you really judging my financial status right now, boot?” Tim snapped, although the sting in his voice was barely there. She was right, it was far too pricey for his, or (Y/N)’s, salary. Even if they were combined they would have no chance of getting a mortgage for this area of L.A. 

“No, no. It’s just that this area is nice. Like nice nice. Not Kardashian nice but like you know.”

“Someone was murdered in our house, three actually.” Tim smiled, deciding to ease up on Chen somewhat, afterall, he knew that Lucy would ask his wife and (Y/N) never spared any detail in this particular story. “We both worked the scene together. Managed to get the price lowered somewhat. Only had to change the floorboards and get a couple drywall boards replaced. Drenched in blood.”

Lucy swallowed at the information, nodding along. She turned to look out at the surroundings again as Tim pulled over to the side of the road. “All these houses have a driveway?” She pointed out.”

“And?” He said, turning the engine off and getting out of the car. Slamming the door behind him, he opened his phone, pulling up the copy of the photo (Y/N) had sent him and moving to the approximate place the photo was taken. 

He ended up halfway into his neighbour’s front lawn. The exact spot would have been covered by shrubbery lining the edge of the grass, it would explain why they didn’t catch a glimpse of their paparazzo this morning. 

“Chen,” Tim moved from his position on his neighbour’s lawn crossing the road towards his home. Calling back towards Chen as he moved, knowing that she would be following him, “Come on, we’re going inside. I need to call Grey, let him know that there’s nothing here.”

“Inside? Like inside your home? I get to see where you live.” Lucy babbled on with excitement. If someone had told her on her first day that she would be invited into Officer Bradford’s home, she would have laughed in their face. “Oh my god. I get to see how you decorate, this is so cool! I need to tell Jackson.”

“I can leave you outside if you carry on.” Tim unlocked the door, letting himself in. He held it from the inside letting Chen make her choice. 

“Shutting up.”

----------

(Y/N) hung the phone up, moving to continue typing up the current additions to the case report. Her fingers practically slammed into the keys as she typed, annoyance flowing through her. Since she left Grey’s office, she had gotten nowhere. No matter who she called, nobody seemed to know anything about who was after her. 

It was infuriating, to be so powerless. Knowing that her life hung in The hands of some mad man that she didn’t even know the name of would cause most anyone to spiral but she knew that she couldn’t afford to lose focus now, not after how far she had come. 

Holding back a sigh, she saved the file and reached for her phone. Quickly, she pressed Tim’s contact and held it up to her ear, listening as it rang and rang and rang until she reached his voicemail. She hung up before she could leave a message and went back to typing. Only stopping when she heard something placed down beside her. 

“Your coffee.” 

(Y/N) looked up, seeing Chen standing beside her. She smiled, picking up the travel mug and taking a sip. 

“Tim asked me to drop it off. He made it when we went to see if there was anything to see back at your place.” Chen leaned against the desk to the right hand side of (Y/N)’s. “He also said to tell you that his phone was nearly dead. He’s charging it now.”

“Ah okay cool.” (Y/N) took another sip, relishing in the warm vanilla taste. Tim always made the coffee in the mornings, recently he had begun making her lattes with flavoured syrups. Vanilla was her favourite, despite how often Tim said it was the most basic option. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah, actually. There is. I wanted to ask you something…”

“Shoot.” 

“I want to do some UC work after my rookie year. I think that’s where I could really thrive and I wanted to know…”

(Y/N) nodded, finishing Chen’s sentence. “If it would be a good fit. Well as someone who has done it, I think it takes a certain kind of person to be able to do it. Personally, I would never do any more long term assignments. I don’t think I’m that person anymore. I lost everything, and I’m still fighting to get it back.” She sighed, placing her coffee down on the desk. 

(Y/N) gestured for Chen to pull up a chair before she continued. “Obviously you’re still a rookie, and I haven’t seen much of you in action. You have got some way to go. But you have that spark and if it’s what you want, I could see if I could take you one day. Show you the ropes, go through some old cases of mine. Let you get the feel for it.”

“Really? That would be great.” Lucy beamed at Bradford’s words. 

“But you will have to consider if it will be worth it. Look at the mess we’re all in because of me. If I hadn’t gone on that assignment than-”

“Then it would be someone else that Regina would have gotten revenge on.” Tim interrupted, walking over to the two women. He quickly reached for the coffee on the desk, not allowing (Y/N) the time to slap his hand away before he got a sip. “But the theory was right. It definitely wasn’t Regina.”

(Y/N) looked up inquisitively at her husband as he spoke. 

“The handwriting analyst made a match throughout the system. I don’t know who but Lopez is getting the report now. She’ll be here soon. Grey wants us all in the conference room.”

Chapter 21 | Chapter 23

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e @malindacath @agentred27 @hufflepuffwhore13 @tessalynni @anaferreira-4

Tags are open :)

[fayes-fics]

Hiii I’m so excited about kinktober! I’d like to request Benedict + regency + praise kink

Kinktober: Benedict + Praise Kink

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Paring: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, anal fingering, masturbation.

Authors Note: Hi Nonny, I hope you enjoy this. It’s far too long lol. Enjoy! 🧡

“Keep breathing slowly for me, my beautiful,” Benedict tutors softly.

The scent of clove oil swirls in the air as you take deep, calming breaths, just as instructed. The crackling from the fireplace across the room is soothing, flames warming your naked skin. You try to concentrate on your pattern of inhaling and exhaling, but there’s a frisson over your skin as you lay face down with his finger sliding deeper into your bottom, your body clinging to him so tightly.

That’s it,” he encourages voice rough. “Oh, you are doing so well.”

You can feel his slightly laboured breath gusting hot over bum cheeks as he concentrates on the task, going slow for you to adjust to this new alien but pleasant sensation.

“Are you ready for more, my sweet? You are being so very good for me,” he murmurs.

“Yes sir,” you exhale, burying yourself into the pillow, your face flushed and butterflies in your tummy from the praise he is showering on you, willing to do anything for him.

“Good girl,” he pats your right cheek gently before you feel a slight twist and then further pressure as another long finger slides in to accompany the first, your responding groan taciturn.

He begins to move his oily fingers in and out, slow but steady. The drag of his knuckles around your ring of muscle makes your eyes roll, wanting to beg for more, feeling your cunt swelling ripe, a heavy tingle around your clit.

“Yes, you are perfect, my sweet one,” he lauds. “You are taking my fingers so well.”

You fight the urge in your internal muscles to expel his questing digits, taking a gulp of air before tentatively raising your hips, a silent plea for more.

“Does my brave little one want another finger?” he chuckles warmly, intuiting your need.

“Yes, please, sir,” you admit mutely.

“Such a beautiful creature,” he flatters as you feel a third stretch your opening and push in, feeling so utterly filled now. 

He keeps up a steady pace, rocking his fingers deep, withdrawing almost to the tip, whispering your praises in a way that makes you effervescent and heady. Over and over, he plunges until pleasure builds so much you are whimpering and soaked, needing release.

“Please, sir,” you beseech, “I… I want to come,” you stutter the truth.

“Touch yourself, little one.”

Instantly you obey, worming a hand under your dewy body. Your arousal is leaking profusely; you moan as your fingertips take a tentative swipe over your engorged clit. Benedict growls, able to see your fingers, even as he never waivers from his rhythm inside your bottom.

“That is perfect,” he whispers with a jagged edge, “make yourself come, my darling girl, come with your sir’s fingers in your bottom.”

You lift your hips off the bed a fraction, tilting your pelvis to take more of him, faster, harder, pushing yourself quickly towards a peak.

“Will you fuck me there too, sir? With your cock?” you pant, breathlessly excited by the very thought as you strum your clit hard.

“Yes, my sweet darling girl. I will,” his reply hushed like he is holding back from doing so immediately.

“When?” you goad, knowing he is smirking crookedly now.

“When you’ve been my good girl and come all over your fingers, then I will fuck your pretty little bottom,” he promises, his breath hitching and ragged, his fingers moving faster as yours do too. “And I need not withdraw; I shall release inside you, darling girl. When we do it this way, there is no fear of leaving you with child,” he explains.

The thought is so appealing that you race towards completion, keen to feel his cock spurting inside you, painting your insides with his cum rather than your tummy or back. You do as bidden, riding your fingertips as he stretches your bottom with his, readying you for his cock. The blend of intense sensations overwhelming.

A few moments later, the cord of tension curled tightly in your core snaps, fireworks behind your eyelids as you spasm so forcefully that he pauses his litany of compliments to groan. His voice sounds so near yet far away, blood rushing in your ears as you cry out and flutter around him, your whole body tingling as you collapse into the mattress, his fingers stilling. 

“You are so perfect, my wonderful girl,” he murmurs as your erratic breathing calms, his fingers slipping from inside you as he pours more oil, a cold slick over your heated hole. “Are you ready for me?” he checks, clambering over you on all fours.

“Yes sir,” you slur, still strung out from your orgasm.

“Good girl,” he rumbles right into your ear now. 

No taglist as these drabbles are short

[inkstainedheartbeats]

So I’m part of this really chill, really awesome Discord mainly for Steddie and in the prompts/idea pitch channel someone (the darling @yesdangerpls) mentioned Wayne Munson stuck in a time loop. And like… I love Wayne a lot. Took me a bit but I’ve got the first chapter done! Other than spoilers for like the show as a whole I don’t think it needs tw’s or cw’s but if you think it does let me know? Now has a part two!~

Wayne clutches the chain of his nephew’s pick necklace tight in his fist. The world’s gone to shit and one of his boy’s ‘sheep’ have just delivered the news that he’s gone. That Eddie is gone. It just can’t be true. His boy ain’t dead. He can’t be. He closes his eyes, head resting against the steering wheel of his truck, just for a moment. It’s parked outside the trailer them government spooks told him to stay away from. But Eddie ain’t dead, and he knows that he can always come home. That Wayne will be here waiting. So he’s gonna wait here until the spooks make their evening rounds and he has to scurry back to the plant.

Looking down at the necklace he misses the street lights flickering. Thinking it’s his own eyes fluttering with gathered tears Wayne leans back, he doesn’t think the hatted teen lied. There was too much emotion in the boy’s voice for a lie, too much devastation in a scent that hasn't settled. But Eddie can’t be dead. Wayne ain’t about to bury his boy this soon. Ain’t natural for a parent to bury their kid. So Eddie ain’t dead no sir. Wayne refuses to believe it. The old Beta won’t believe it until Eddie is cold under his hands. He looks up in time to see something move in the trailer he once called home.

Gets out of the truck with creaking knees, voice already shouting Eddie’s name. He doesn’t even feel the impact from behind. But he sure as shit feels the teeth.

He wakes to Duncan kicking the chair he’s sitting in. His head hits the table, knocking him out of his doze. The other Beta grins at him cheekily.

“Come on, old man, don’t want the brass catching you snoozing,” Duncan teases.

“Old man my ass. I’m only two months older than you,” Wayne quips back forcing the nightmare, because it had to be a nightmare and the sense he’d done this once before out of his head. Shakes out the pins and needles that settled in his bones like old friends.

Work is monotonous. Go in, make sure the machines behave, make sure cocky newbies don’t get eaten by machines, clock out. So what if he jerked back the new Omega hire before the pipe known for spitting steam spat what would have been a painful ass spurt straight to his shoulder. So what if he knew Duncan’s machine was gonna rattle and spook the man. He’s just good at his job, that’s all.

The drive home his stomach starts to turn. Starts to twist. The nightmare is there. Laughing at him as he pulls up to a trailer with the door wide open. Absolutely cackling as he comes upon the twisted body of a cheerleader. Ain’t no way his boy did that. Even if his boy is an Alpha. Eddie cries when he steps on a worm.

Like a machine he calls the cops. Like a puppet he talks and argues and fights the urge to throttle the cocky son of a bitch that follows the new chief around like a puppy. All the while his nightmare is there.

Talks to the little reporter lady with steel in her eyes and leadership in her stature. Thinks, again, for the first time, she would have made one hell of a lieutenant if she was a man. He searches for his boy, deals with spooks who warn him away. Like a play he never misses a cue. Like a branch stuck in a river he goes with the flow.

It leads to this. To standing in front of a wall filled with posters. Yanking down the defaced visage of his boy. It leads to the limping form of one of his boy's sheep approaching him.

"Mister Munson."

The nightmare comes full circle.

Dustin, the sheep, the lamb, the kid his kid had raved about, rambles on. Says something about never seeing Eddie get mad which is a load of horse shit, Munson's have tempers like wildfires. Calls his boy a hero. Leaves him there on that cot with just a pick. Leaves him soaked to the marrow with transferred scent of despair.

Later he parks outside of his trailer. Pick necklace around his neck. He steps out of his truck, leaves the door open. His boy is still alive. He knows Eddie is. Has to be. Wayne ain't burying his boy. He ain't traveling to the prison that holds his little brother to tell him that Wayne failed. He ain't calling up his momma or his siblings and delivering soul crushing news. Because Eddie is alive. Wayne doesn't know why his boy tricked Dustin. Doesn't care to know. He just knows that his boy is in there. Has to be. So he ignores the goosebumps, ignores the way he shivers like there is a whole flock of geese tapdancing their way across his grave and enters the trailer. Fights back a gag as the smell of rot slams into him like a linebacker. Like Chet fucking Harrington when he saw a poor kid try out for his football team.

The lights flicker. Something to his left squelches. It's a mix between the sound ground beef makes when being formed into patties and stepping knee deep into mud. He watches in sick fascination as something drops from the ceiling into the front room. It ain't his boy. Too small. Walks on all fours. Ain't exactly sure what the fuck it is. No eyes to see but the thing is staring him down. Betty, a shotgun his pa bought him before he went off to war, should be leaning against the door. She ain't. The damn spooks moved her. So Wayne's left to watch as the sightless thing hisses. Makes a noise low in its throat. Reminds him of coyotes, reminds him of the things you don't name up on the mountains. Behind it something breaks through the ceiling. Bigger. He takes his eyes off the smaller thing for a second. But that's all it takes for it to launch at him. He sees it this time, the thing that tackled him in the nightmare and he sure as fuck still feels its teeth.