#and those were of dubious quality anyway...

[broken-clover]

Regularly frustrated by the fact that most of my fixations aren't mainstream enough to have much in the way of official merch, but for the sake of both my sanity and my wallet, that's probably a good thing

[doormatty3]

The King's Broodmare (Orm Marius x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Summary:

[Orm Marius x Female Reader] [Orm Marius x You] You hate him and what he stands for - Orm Marius, the current King of Atlantis. In your eyes he doesn’t deserve the title with his arrogant behaviour and short fuse. So you decide to openly defy him by showing up to a ball with Atlanna’s crest proudly stitched onto your dress. However, your act of rebellion does not sit well with Orm. He doesn’t like the blatant display of disrespect, and he’s determined to make you worship him - one way or another. OR: Orm *makes* you submit to him and turns you into his perfect pet.

Wordcount: 14,173

Warnings: 18+, extremely dubious consent, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, vaginal sex, smut, dirty talk, face fucking, blowjob, fingering, spanking, bondage, rough oral sex, biting, edging, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, nipple play, trident fucking

A/N: This story is for you guys and the people sitting next to me on my multiple-hour train ride - maybe this will be a lesson to not look at other people's screens.

Anyways: This whole story is extremely problematic, emphasise on extremely - I was debating putting a rape warning on the story but ultimately decided against it since Reader-Chan is kinda into the things Orm does. But still: HUGE warning if you're sensitive to that kind of stuff.

Part of you actually hates these sorts of events. 

It's not just the pretentious displays of wealth or the shameless indulgence in ego-stroking that gets to you - it's the realisation that individuals like Orm thrive in this environment. 

The adoration the people shower upon Orm, the newly crowned King of Atlantis, leaves you utterly confused. What's there to admire about him?

Certainly not his demeanour; it's as if arrogance itself were personified in him. He's brash, power-hungry, unyielding, and, unfortunately, undeniably handsome. 

With his striking blonde hair cropped neatly and eyes as piercingly blue as the depths of the ocean, Orm embodies the epitome of regality. His very presence commands attention, drawing gazes like a magnet. Yet, it's a tragic irony - his attractiveness seems wasted on a soul so consumed by hubris.

You despise Orm's relentless craving for admiration and his insistence on being hailed as the rightful king and heir to the throne - conveniently overlooking the tragic fate of his mother at the hands of his father and the undeniable presence of his half-brother, Arthur.

You had your run-ins with Orm, and with each and every encounter, the loathing deepens, fueled by his haughty demeanour and unabashed rudeness directed squarely at you.

He carries himself as though everyone is beneath him, as if they are nothing more than insignificant specks of dust beneath his feet.  In your opinion, those are already bad qualities in an ordinary person, but in a king, they are nothing short of disastrous.

Perhaps that's why you made the unconventional choice to adorn your dress with a royal crest. Well, not any crest - it's the emblem of Orm's late mother.

It's your silent rebellion, a subtle yet pointed statement aimed at challenging Orm's delusions of universal adoration and perhaps even tactfully signalling to others that his claim to the throne is not as unassailable as he would like to believe.

In a way, it feels slightly absurd, almost bordering on the realm of eccentricity, but there's an undeniable satisfaction in defying Orm's inflated ego and reminding him that not everyone is enamoured by his ascent to power. Especially now as he seeks to bolster his authority with the title of Ocean Master.

You are a firm believer that all balls are equally dull and monotonous - pretentious people indulge in posh food and strive for favour with the powerful. 

With a soft, resigned exhale, you languidly sip on your champagne, taking solace in the fact that at least you look hot tonight. The flowing dress in a hue of serene light blue enhances your figure flawlessly, the fabric cascading gracefully around your legs, accentuating their slender length.

The dress has short sleeves, the fabric draping loosely around your arms, and a high neckline that conceals your cleavage, yet a daring diamond-shaped cutout just below your breast adds a touch of playfulness. 

And there, proudly displayed upon the chest, rests the embroidered crest. A bold statement, ensuring that everyone in attendance will take notice.

Navigating through the crowd, you engage in polite conversation, exchanging pleasantries and fielding questions about the crest adorning your attire. With each inquiry, you offer a cryptic smile, enjoying the subtle intrigue your choice of embellishment stirs among the crowd.

As you spend time in the palace, you can't help but marvel at the grandeur of your surroundings. 

The opulence is palpable, evident in every meticulously placed decoration and intricately designed detail.

Despite your reservations about the event itself, you can't deny the sheer beauty and attention to detail that has gone into the decorations. It's a testament to the wealth and power of those who call this palace home, a stark reminder of the world you find yourself navigating tonight.

After some time, the grand doors swing open, and the room falls into a hushed reverence as the soldiers' announcement reverberates through the air, signalling the arrival of Orm. 

Despite the soldiers' commanding tone and the murmur in the room, you can't bring yourself to think of him as King Orm, not even in the depth of your mind - because, to you, he is not your king.

The crowd obediently parts, creating a path leading to the imposing throne standing at the room's far end.  With a commanding aura, Orm strides forward, his every step echoing with a sense of entitlement that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. His presence seems to cast a shadow over the assembled guests, a reminder of the power he wields, whether rightfully or not.

"Bow to the king of Atlantis - your king," the soldier's voice booms out once more with an unmistakable command. 

But as you observe the people bowing to him as he passes by, you remain rooted in defiance, refusing to bend to the will of a ruler whose legitimacy you refuse to acknowledge.

You observe with a mixture of disdain and begrudging admiration as Orm strides through the throne room, flanked by an entourage of Atlantean soldiers. His appearance is as impeccable as ever, a testament to his penchant for grandeur and ostentation.

Clad shining gold armour, every inch of Orm's attire seems meticulously chosen to accentuate his imposing stature. The chest plate and arm guards gleam in the light, casting a radiant glow that highlights the strength of his broad shoulders and chest, while his flowing gold cape adds an extra layer of majesty to his ensemble.

Atop his head rests a crown of matching gold, a symbol of his supposed authority, nestled amongst his thick, lustrous blond hair. 

As he moves through the room, his piercing blue eyes sweep over the assembled crowd, a self-satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips. The sight of people bowing in deference only seems to fuel his ego, confirming his belief in his own superiority and entitlement.

As Orm passes by where you stand, your eyes inadvertently lock for a fleeting moment, and it feels as if a bolt of lightning has struck you. Despite your disdain for him, you can't help but be momentarily captivated by the depth of his gaze, reminiscent of the vast expanse of the ocean itself. 

Yet, beneath the surface allure, he remains nothing more than an arrogant tyrant, unworthy of your reverence - and unworthy of you bowing to him.

You hold his gaze with steely determination, a silent defiance etched into your expression. You notice a subtle shift in his demeanour as his eyes flicker to the crest adorning your chest. He raises his eyebrow as if to say really? - a bit surprised and amused by your audacity. 

But you hold your ground, unyielding in your silent protest.

As he moves away, continuing his procession towards the throne, you exhale a breath you didn't realise you were holding. Glancing around discreetly, you confirm that no one else seems to have caught the exchange. In your mind, you know that it took no more than a few seconds but it felt like ages.

You watch with a mixture of relief and frustration as Orm continues his journey towards the throne, his demeanour unmarred by the brief encounter. 

As he settles onto his throne, his voice resonates with authority as he addresses the gathered crowd with a sense of self-assurance. "People of Atlantis, have I not been a good king? Have I not shown kindness and care towards our merfolk?" His words echo through the room, eliciting nods of agreement from many in attendance.

But while others seem to be swayed by his rhetoric, you remain unconvinced as you observe the scene unfolding before you. 

Suddenly, Orm's gaze locks onto yours, and a chill runs down your spine as he continues, his tone turning icy. "Well, not everyone thinks so," he declares, his words laced with disdain. "There are those among us who dare to support the half-breed-bastard Arthur."

Your heart races in your chest, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. It's as if he's singled you out, his cold gaze boring into your soul. At that moment, you can't help but question the wisdom of your silent rebellion, wondering if the crest stitched onto your chest was indeed a mistake.

"Bring her forth!"

Orm's command freezes you in place, sending a shiver down your spine as you stare at him with wide eyes. Panic courses through your veins as a guard forcefully walks through the crowd towards you. Instinct tells you to run, to hide, to do anything to escape. But deep down, you know there's nowhere to go and no way to avoid the inevitable conflict.

So instead, you stand your ground, determination etched into every line of your face as you hold your chin high. You meet Orm's gaze with unwavering defiance, determined not to let him see the turmoil churning within you.

You refuse to yield.

As the soldier drags you forward, your heart pounds in your chest.  You meet Orm's gaze once more, finding him seated on the throne with a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

Orm's voice cuts through the tension, loud and dripping with arrogance - a force that seems to reverberate off the very walls of the throne room. "I'm giving you one last chance - kneel," he commands, his tone daring you to defy him.

But you refuse to relent, your own voice rising defiantly in response. "No," you declare, the word ringing out loudly in the stunned silence of the room."I'll only bow before the true king."

The gasps that ripple through the crowd are like a chorus of disbelief as you openly defy his command. As the weight of your opposition hangs heavy in the air, you meet Orm's gaze once more, and you can see the flicker of anger in his eyes.

His azure gaze darkens, the once bright blue now clouded with a menacing intensity. It's as if a storm is brewing behind those eyes, a tempest of fury and resentment ready to be unleashed. 

In an instant, Orm rises from his throne, towering over you with an imposing presence. His face looms just inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, his voice dripping with a chilling mixture of admiration and menace. "You're brave, I'll give you that," he murmurs, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "But that won't matter anymore."

As his proximity envelops you, you find yourself engulfed in his scent, an intoxicating blend of something heavy and heady, as if the essence of power itself intertwines with the very air around him. It's as if his aura radiates off him in waves, filling the space between you with a palpable sense of authority and dominance.

It overwhelms your senses for a short moment - the sheer attraction you feel almost too much.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you gulp, the gravity of Orm's fury looming over you like a storm cloud. You had anticipated his displeasure, but the sheer ferocity of his anger catches you off guard. You hadn't imagined that a simple crest could provoke such a visceral reaction from him.

"What? Can't handle some opposition?" The words slip from your lips before you can stop them, fueled by a mixture of defiance, apprehension and the fog in your mind from him being so close.

A gasp escapes your lips as Orm's hand darts forward, seizing the crest on your chest with a swift, decisive motion. You feel the material of your dress constricting as his warm hand curls around the emblem, his grip firm and unyielding.

In one quick and brutal movement, Orm tears the crest from its place, the sound of tearing fabric echoing loudly in the room, exposing your chest to the cool air of the throne room.

The sudden rush of air against your bare breasts sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively cross your arms over yourself, a futile attempt to shield your exposed skin from the prying eyes of the crowd.  Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as the gaze of the bystanders bears down upon you, their murmurs of shock and disapproval echoing in your ears.

You struggle to find your voice in the midst of the chaos as your mind goes blank, unable to process the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you. 

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm as Orm's strong hands clamp around your wrists, pinning them firmly at your sides - a shiver courses through you at the touch of his commanding grasp. 

Orm's eyes linger hungrily on your exposed tits, his gaze dark with desire as a predatory smirk curls at the corners of his lips.

He leans in close, his voice a low, menacing whisper that sends a thrill of apprehension down your spine. "You're gonna wish you didn't defy me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "In the end, you'll yield."

His words hang in the air like a warning, you feel a surge of heat pooling low in your belly. Despite the embarrassment and vulnerability of the situation, there's an undeniable undercurrent of arousal coursing through you, fueled by the raw power and intensity of the confrontation.

Before you can even process Orm's words, his command reverberates through the room with chilling finality. "Guards, take her to my chambers. I'll deal with her later!"

Panic surges through you as the reality of the situation sinks in. His guards move with swift obedience, closing in around you like a vice. You try to pull away, to cover yourself once more, but before you can react, one of the soldiers seizes your wrists and wrenches them behind your back with a brutal force.

As the soldier spins you around to face the crowd, a wave of humiliation crashes over you as you're shoved forward, stumbling ungracefully with each step. The gazes of the onlookers feel like searing daggers against your bare skin, and you can practically feel the heat of their scrutiny as they take in the sight of your exposed breasts.

Every instinct screams for you to cover yourself, to shield your nakedness from their prying eyes, but the grip of the guards is unyielding, and your struggles are in vain. With each push and shove, you're propelled further through the crowd with your tits shamelessly on display and bouncing with each unsteady step.

You feel a deep flush of embarrassment suffuse your cheeks as you pass by the sea of faces, their eyes lingering on your jiggling flesh, their whispers like a chorus of mockery echoing in your ears. As you make your way towards the exit of the room, you can't help but wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole, sparing you from this public spectacle of humiliation.

_____

"You can't do this!" you scream at the guards, your voice laced with desperation and defiance, an attempt to reason with the guards, "you can't fucking do this!"

Your protests echo off the walls of Orm's chambers as you struggle against the iron grip of his guards, but their hold is unyielding, their hands like vices as they snap metal cufflinks around your wrists and ankles.

The weight of the restraints bears down on you, making every movement a challenge and leaving you feeling utterly helpless and confined. You continue to fight against the bonds, your muscles straining against the guards' hold and the metal. 

Terror grips you as the guards snap an iron cufflink around your neck, the cold metal pressing against your skin like a vice. You're frozen in shock, your wide eyes locking with the guards in disbelief.

"Please... I'm not a criminal,"  you beg, the desperation evident in your voice. But the guards remain unmoved, their faces impassive as they attach the chain from your neck to a hook in the ceiling,  effectively tethering you in place.

As they leave you alone in the chamber, a sense of dread washes over you like a suffocating wave. You're left bound and exposed, chained like a dog, with your wrists, ankles, and neck encircled by unforgiving metal while your tits are still bare.

_____

The creak of the door opening breaks the silence of the chambers, and your head whips around instinctively, the chains around your neck and wrists rattling with the movement. 

Your eyes meet Orm's, and you notice a flicker of surprise in his expression as he takes in the sight of you, restrained and exposed.

"I... I told them to detain you," he admits, his voice carrying a note of genuine concern as he steps closer to where you're standing. "But I didn't mean this," he adds, his words punctuated by a flick of his hand as he gestures to the chains that bind you.

A mix of emotions swirl within you - confusion, anger, and a sliver of hope. Could it be that Orm didn't intend for you to be subjected to such treatment?

But before you can say anything, you watch as he reaches behind his neck to unclasp his golden cape.

"I may not agree with your standpoint or the stunt you pulled in my throne room today," he admits, his voice gruff but tone carrying a hint of respect despite the underlying tension. "But you're still a lady."

With deliberate steps, Orm closes the distance between you, his cape in hand. When he's close enough, he drapes it over bare, exposed breasts. His fingers accidentally graze over your nipples, eliciting an immediate response from your body as they harden instantly under his touch,

A shiver runs down your spine, the brief contact sending tingles of arousal through your veins, and you can't help but gulp as you feel his presence so intimately close.

You feel a surge of conflicting emotions - gratitude for his unexpected gesture, confusion at his mixed signals, and an undeniable arousal that you struggle to conceal. You hate how your body reacts to him, but you can't deny the physical response he evokes in you. 

But in that moment, all you can do is hope that Orm didn't notice the subtle reaction that his touch elicited from you as he covered you with his cape.

You feel somewhat perplexed that he is so nice to you all of a sudden. 

This version of him, displaying a hint of compassion and understanding, is a stark contrast to the tyrannical king you've known before. Yet, you can't shake off the hope that perhaps you can use this opportunity to persuade him to release you from your restraints.

His piercing blue eyes meet yours, studying you intently, and you take the chance to return the gaze, examining him up close. 

Despite the circumstances, you can't help but appreciate the way his eyes sparkle in the soft light of his chambers, reminiscent of sunlight dancing on water, scattered beneath its surface. His features are regal, with a straight nose and plush pink lips that are currently not twisted into a sneer or mocking smirk.

For a fleeting moment, you find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him before swiftly scolding yourself internally for such thoughts.

You notice a subtle stubble on his cheeks and neck, barely visible yet adding a rugged charm to his otherwise polished appearance. His lush blonde hair remains perfectly styled, and the crown atop his head serves as a reminder of his status.

There's no denying that he's attractive, a fact that both intrigues and frustrates you.

Despite his physical appeal, he's still the king you hate, a false king who has caused you so much distress - man that shouldn't be sitting on the throne. 

You shiver again, your hands twitching involuntarily as the chains around your wrists and ankles rattle with the movement, drawing Orm's attention, his eyes flicking over the metal cuffs.

"Let me get you out of those," he declares, surprising you with his offer as he gracefully sinks down on his knees to start with the cuffs on your ankles.

Your heart quickens at his proximity, and you can't help but tense up as his warm fingers brush against your bare legs. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you try to steady your breathing, but the sensation of his touch sends a shiver down your spine.

It's surprisingly gentle, almost tender, as his hand closes around your calf. You notice the size of his hands - broad palms and long fingers that effortlessly encase your leg, sending an electric sensation through your veins.

You're grateful that he doesn't look up at you, his attention focused on freeing you from the cuffs. You're also relieved that it seems like he hasn't noticed the effect his touch is having on you. 

But as he tightens his hold on your calf, a wave of arousal washes over you, causing you to involuntarily press your thighs together as desire pools low in your body. 

"Stop that," he commands, his muscles visibly tensing as he struggles to maintain composure. "If you don't want to make me lose it."

Orm's warning tone sends a jolt of apprehension through you, his strained voice hinting at a volatile undercurrent beneath his calm exterior.

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, your mind clouded by his presence and the palpable tension in the air -  reeling from the intensity of the moment. "Lose what?" you ask, your voice breathless even to your own ears, unable to resist the urge to provoke him further. "Your crown? I hope you do."

His reaction is immediate, his head snapping up to meet your gaze. The barely restrained desire and anger in his eyes send a thrill through you, even as you realise the dangerous game you're playing.

"Enough," he snarls, a warning laced in his tone.

But you're too far gone to heed his warning, your mind clouded by his presence and the surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins. "You can't tell me what to do. You're not my king anyway," you retort defiantly, the words spilling out without restraint.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you sense the gravity of your mistake. But instead of backing down, you double down on your defiance, spitting on the floor just inches away from him to underline your disregard for his authority.

You brace yourself for his explosive reaction, expecting anger or a sharp rebuke. Yet, to your surprise, Orm remains strangely calm, his grip tightening around your calves as a smirk plays on his lips - reminiscent of a calm before the storm.

"Oh, I'll make you worship me, don't you wait," his voice drips with anger and a hint of sadistic pleasure.

Your heart races as Orm reaches for the chain connected to the cuff around your neck, a surge of panic coursing through you as he pulls on it.  Instantly, your hands fly up to your neck, instinctively trying to relieve the pressure and prevent yourself from being choked. 

With a gasp, you rise to your tiptoes, the chain taut, your eyes widening in alarm as you meet Orm's icy blue gaze. His eyes hold a steely resolve, unforgiving and unyielding, sending a shiver of fear down your spine. 

Automatically, your legs close in a reflexive attempt to maintain your balance, but Orm refuses to grant you respite. With a firm tug on the cuff around your ankle, he commands, "Spread them, or I'll help you," his voice carrying a menacing edge that leaves no room for negotiation, "And believe me, you don't want that."

The internal struggle between defiance and submission rages within you, but in the end, the intensity of Orm's gaze and the palpable aura of dominance he exudes leave you with no choice but to comply. With a hesitant nod, you reluctantly spread your legs as he instructed, feeling a mixture of apprehension and anticipation coursing through your veins.

As you adjust your stance, you're rewarded by a low, rumbling hum that seems to emanate from the depths of Orm's chest. It sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through you, fueling the arousal that pulses steadily through your veins. 

With the slight adjustment in your position, you feel the tension in the chain connected to the cuff around your neck ease slightly, granting you a moment of relief.

As he steps closer to you once more, his intoxicating scent surrounds you, enveloping you in a haze of desire and confusion. It clouds your mind, leaving you dizzy with need as your eyes flutter closed involuntarily, overwhelmed by the sensations that wash over you in his presence.

Orm's deep voice resonates through the air, sending a shiver down your spine as his words penetrate your consciousness. "You like this," he asserts, his tone carrying a hint of smugness as he observes your reaction. The warmth radiating from him is palpable, drawing you in despite your instinctive urge to resist.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes to meet his intense gaze, feeling a flush of heat creeping up your cheeks under his scrutiny. You want to deny his accusation, to assert your defiance, but he speaks again before you can come up with something. 

"Don't deny it, I can smell you," he declares, his words sending a jolt of arousal through you as you realise the truth in his statement. It leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable, your body betraying your desires in ways you can't control.

With deliberate intent, Orm runs a hand over your arm, his touch igniting a cascade of goosebumps in its wake. You feel the electric charge of his fingertips against your skin, each caress sending waves of sensation coursing through your body. His gaze remains locked on your face, his deep blue eyes reflecting the desire that burns within him.

Caught in the intensity of the moment, you find yourself unable to look away, drawn to the magnetic pull of Orm's presence, captivated by the raw intensity of him. 

Orm closes the distance between you with a fierce determination, his lips crashing against yours in an aggressive kiss that overwhelms your senses. His scent, his taste, his warmth - all engulf you in a whirlwind as he kisses you.

You find yourself momentarily lost in the passion, succumbing to the intensity of his kiss as he asserts his dominance with every brush of his lips and sweep of his tongue,  exploring every crevice with arrogant confidence, leaving you breathless and unable to resist his commanding presence.

He kisses you like he rules - unwavering and ruthless.

Yet, amidst the fervour of the moment, a surge of defiance courses through you, spurred by the realisation that you won't succumb to his dominance without a fight. 

With a sharp bite, you capture his bottom lip between your teeth, drawing blood in a bold act of rebellion. The metallic tang mingles with the taste of him, a potent reminder of the boundary you dare to challenge.

Instead of pulling away, Orm responds with a low growl, his hand tangling in your hair as he pulls on it forcefully. The sharp tug forces your head back, breaking the kiss and leaving you gasping for breath.

Your chest heaves with the intensity of the encounter as you watch him through hazy eyes and you find yourself mesmerised by the sight before you.

Orm's pupils are blown wide with desire, his unruly hair falling over his face in disarray. A small trickle of blood stains his lip where you bit him, and you watch in silent fascination as he runs his tongue over the wound, a primal glint in his eyes. 

"Feisty... I like it," Orm growls, his voice rough and laden with arousal. The words send a thrill through you, and you're startled to realise that he's just as turned on as you are. 

He begins to circle you like a predator, his movements slow and deliberate, each step heightening the tension between you. His eyes never leave yours, and the glint in them makes your heart race. It's as if he's ready to pounce, to claim what he sees as his.

The steady beat of your own arousal pulses through you, an undeniable rhythm that matches the anticipation building in the room. You stand there, chained and exposed, feeling like prey under his watchful gaze, yet there's an inexplicable thrill in the way he looks at you as if he's savouring every moment of your defiance and vulnerability.

Orm moves behind you, his presence a menacing yet tantalising force. His nose brushes lightly against the curve of your neck, sending shivers down your spine while the warmth of his breath contrasts with the cool air of the room and heightens your sensitivity. 

With a swift motion, he pulls off the cape, exposing your breasts to the air once again. The sudden bareness sends a rush of vulnerability and arousal through you and you let out a shocked gasp.

His hands come up, rough and possessive, to cup your tits. He plays with them expertly, his touch both firm and teasing. A quiet moan escapes your lips, betraying your surprise and reluctant pleasure.

"You like that, don't you?" Orm's voice is a low, taunting whisper against your ear.

He bites down on your neck, the sharp sensation making you gasp again. At the same time, his fingers pinch your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. Without thinking, you push back against him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass. The heat of him, even through his clothes, is undeniable, and your body responds instinctively, craving more of that contact.

Orm growls softly, a sound of approval, and his hands continue their merciless teasing. His fingers roll and tug at your nipples, heightening the waves of arousal that are crashing through your being. 

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your mind a hazy mess of defiance and desire. Every touch, every bite, every whispered taunt pulls you deeper into the intoxicating web he's weaving around you, leaving you aching and wanting despite yourself.

Suddenly, Orm's hand snaps away, delivering a stinging slap to your ass that makes you yelp in surprise. The sharp pain mingles with the pleasure coursing through you, a potent mix that leaves you breathless. He strides back in front of you, eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

Without warning, he captures your mouth in another kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a brutal passion. You return the kiss, hot and heady, your mind a swirl of sensations. 

As his tongue invades your mouth, his hands move to your dress, ripping it further apart. You gasp into the kiss, feeling the fabric tear away, exposing more of your trembling body.

"It's ruined anyway, pet," he murmurs against your lips, his voice dripping with possessive hunger.

With one final, forceful tug, he rips the dress down the middle so it slides off your body. Before you can protest, his hand moves between your legs, cupping your cunt possessively. The roughness of his touch sends shockwaves through you, making you shudder.

"You're so hot and wet... I can feel it, whore," he growls, slipping his fingers beneath the seam of your panties. The sudden intrusion of his thick fingers plunging into you makes you moan loudly into the kiss. The pleasure is overwhelming, your body reacting instinctively to his every touch.

His fingers move inside you with practised skill, curling and thrusting in a rhythm that has you arching into him, desperate for more. The kiss grows more frantic, your moans muffled against his mouth as his fingers drive you closer to the edge. The chains rattle with your movements, a stark reminder of your helplessness, but all you can focus on is the intense, raw pleasure he's giving you.

Orm breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, "You belong to me now." The declaration sends a fresh wave of heat through your body, and you can't help but moan again, your body betraying the fierce defiance still lingering in your mind.

He swallows your sounds, his mouth hot and demanding against yours. His fingers pump into your cunt with hard, relentless thrusts, each stroke driving you wild. 

The rough pad of his palm grazes your clit with every plunge, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through your body. The friction is deliciously unbearable, and despite your hatred for him, you can't help but surrender to the sensations he's forcing upon you.

Your body betrays you completely, your cunt clenching around his fingers, as if drawing them in deeper, craving more of the forceful friction. Each thrust seems to push you closer to the edge, your moans growing louder and more desperate.

"You want it," Orm's voice is a harsh whisper against your ear, his breath hot and tantalising. He nips at your earlobe, sending another shiver down your spine. "Your body says one thing, even if your mouth says another."

You bite back a retort, too overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch. His fingers curl inside you, finding that sweet spot that makes your vision blur and your legs tremble.

Orm's fingers move faster, harder, driving you towards a peak that you can't deny. Your breaths come in short, ragged gasps, your body arching against him, desperate for release. He seems to revel in your responses, his eyes dark with desire and dominance.

"You're mine," he growls, his voice a possessive rumble that sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. The words should infuriate you, but instead, they only push you closer to the brink. 

You tremble as you feel the crest of your orgasm building, the sensation growing more intense with each stroke of Orm's fingers. His relentless rhythm hits that perfect spot inside you, making you see stars and sending electric sensations through your entire body as your mind goes hazy, overtaken by the sheer pleasure he's giving you.

The room fills with the sounds of your ragged breaths, the rattling of chains as your body shudders in response, and the wet, obscene noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt. Your body reacts instinctively, clenching and fluttering around his fingers, chasing the climax that's just within reach.

But just as you teeter on the edge, your orgasm almost within grasp, Orm pulls his fingers out abruptly, denying you the release you so desperately need. The sudden emptiness leaves you gasping, a sound of protest escaping your lips as your hips buck involuntarily, seeking the pleasure he so cruelly withheld.

Your eyes fly open, meeting his intense gaze, and you see that his pupils are blown wide, his hard cock straining against the constraints of his pants. Your gaze wanders over his fingers, and you see the wetness glistening on the thick digits.

The smirk playing on his lips is infuriating, his eyes dark with both desire and a twisted sense of satisfaction. "Did you really think I'd let you come that easily?" His voice is low and mocking, sending another shiver through your body. "You need to learn your place, pet."

Your body trembles with need, the denied climax leaving you on edge, every nerve ending screaming for relief. The ache between your thighs is almost unbearable, your cunt still clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction he took away. Your breaths come in short, frustrated gasps, your chest heaving as you try to regain some semblance of control.

You glare at him, anger and arousal mixing in a volatile cocktail inside you. "You bastard," you spit out, your voice shaking with unspent desire. "Finish what you started."

His hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face up so you're forced to meet his gaze. "You don't get to make demands," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "But I will make you beg for it."

He pulls away, and you watch, mesmerised, as he pops his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. Your cunt clenches around nothing as you see his tongue tracing the shape, and he lets out a pleased grunt. "Delicious."

A needy whine escapes you, your body pulsing with unfulfilled desire. Part of you can't believe how desperate you are for him, but there's something about Orm that makes you feral with want. 

But it doesn't matter how hot he is or how much you want to feel him inside you - you won't beg. 

You are proud, and you will not submit to the wrong king of Atlantis. 

As if he can hear your thoughts, he smirks. 

Orm steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "You think you can resist me?" His voice is a dangerous whisper. "You think you can deny what your body clearly wants?" He runs a hand down your side, his touch sending shivers through you.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "You will beg for it," he promises, his voice a dark, seductive growl. "I will make you scream my name."

Orm's words send a chill down your spine, a shiver of unease mingling with the lingering arousal. His touch leaves a sticky trail of your essence and his spit on your cheek, and you can't help but squirm against the chains that bind you. 

"In the end... your mind will be empty except for me. You'll desire nothing but my touch," he continues, his voice dripping with arrogance and confidence. 

The promise unsettles you, stirring a sense of foreboding deep within you. Despite the haze of arousal clouding your thoughts, you know you need to get out of this situation. But the cuffs around your arms, legs, and neck hold you firmly in place, rendering you powerless to escape.

Fear and arousal war within you as Orm steps back, his smirk widening as he watches your struggle. It's clear that he revels in the control he holds over you, and the realisation only fuels your determination to break free from his grasp, so you close your legs a bit, trying to regain some control of the situation.

But that attempt is swiftly met with Orm's retaliation. His hands, big and warm, force your thighs apart, his grip firm enough to leave bruises. 

"I told you to keep them spread… but since you can't hear, I'll make sure they stay spread," he says, his tone more amused than angry at your futile resistance. It's as if he anticipated your reaction all along.

You can do nothing but watch as he pulls away from you and fastens the chains around pillars, spreading you out completely. Your breath quickens as the realisation sets in that you're completely exposed, your cunt open to the cold air - and to him.

Meeting Orm's eyes once more, you're met with that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. You're consumed with the desire to wipe it off, to regain some semblance of control in this twisted game he's playing. But bound and helpless, all you can do is endure his taunts and wait for an opportunity to break free.

"This is how a whore should look... spread out for me to use," Orm's voice resonates with a low, husky tone as he closes the distance between you once more. 

Before you can react or comprehend what's happening, he brings his hand down with a swift and forceful motion, the flat of his palm connecting with your sensitive, wet cunt in a hard, audible slap. 

The sting reverberates through your body, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lips as the sensation overwhelms your senses. The pain mingling with the ache of arousal deep within you.

It takes a second for the pain to set in as you look at him with wide eyes, your pussy throbbing from the blow. 

Before your brain can catch you and process it, he does it again, harder this time. The flat of his hand connects perfectly with your clit and you can't help but let out a yelp that morphs into a moan, which makes him bark out a laugh - the sound echoes around the room, dark and mocking.

"Oh, the whore likes having her dirty cunt spanked?" he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Fuck you," you manage to grind out, your pussy throbbing intensely. God, yes, you like it - the way it stimulates your already sensitive clit sends waves of pleasure through you. But fuck, he doesn't get to do this to you. He doesn't get to have this power over you.

Orm's expression shifts to one of displeasure. He shakes his head slowly, making a disappointed tsk sound. "And here I thought you had learned something," he says, his voice filled with cold amusement.

With that, he brings his hand down again in a hard, swift motion, connecting sharply with your pussy. 

You cry out, the sound a mix of pain and unwilling pleasure. 

He doesn't stop there. 

Over and over, his hand slaps against your pussy, each blow precise and unrelenting. The sensation is overwhelming; it hurts so bad but also makes you even hornier, the pain blending seamlessly with the pleasure. Your clit, already sensitive, throbs with each hit, sending shockwaves through your body.

Orm's eyes never leave your face as he continues, watching every reaction, every wince, every moan that escapes your lips. His pupils are blown wide with desire, his cock straining against the constraints of his pants. He's getting a kick out of this -  watching you squirm and suffer and, worst of all, enjoy it.

He doesn't stop until you're reduced to a whimpering and shaking mess, your body trembling in the chains that hold you in place. Your pussy is raw, red, and swollen, every nerve ending singing with a mix of pain and pleasure. The once defiant fire in your eyes has dimmed, replaced with a hazy, submissive arousal that you can't control.

"That's better," he says finally, his voice a mix of satisfaction and dominance. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. He lifts your chin with a finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Now, are you ready to beg like the whore you are?"

You swallow hard, your throat dry. Part of you wants to defy him, to spit in his face and curse his name. But another part, the part that's throbbing with need and aching for release, wants to give in. You hate yourself for it, but the desire is there, undeniable and insistent. You're caught in his web, and he knows it. 

He's waiting, watching, his eyes daring you to defy him again.

You take a shaky breath, your body still trembling from the punishment. "I..." you start, your voice faltering. You can see the triumph in his eyes already, the cruel anticipation. "I won't beg," you manage to say, but even to your own ears, the words sound weak and unconvincing.

Orm's smirk widens, and he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Oh, you will," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging for my touch, begging for release. You'll be begging to serve your true king."

His hand trails down your body, his touch both gentle and possessive. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're powerless to stop him. You can only hope that somewhere, deep inside, you'll find the strength to resist him. But right now, as his fingers trail over your swollen, aching pussy, all you can think about is the pleasure and pain that he's promised, and the desperate, burning need for release that he's denied you.

You feel it throbbing, and you hate that you feel so close again. It's one thing to cum from him fingering you, but to cum by him beating the shit out of your poor, sensitive cunt? No. You don't want to give him that satisfaction.

But Orm seems determined to make you cum, or at least push you towards the edge, if the look of concentration on his face is any indication. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense and unyielding. He's studying every reaction, every twitch of your body, and using it against you.

"I can see it in your eyes," he murmurs, his voice low and menacing. "You're close, aren't you? I can feel how your body responds to me, how you can't help but want this."

He brings his hand down again, a sharp, stinging slap against your already throbbing pussy. Your body jerks involuntarily, a whimper escaping your lips. You bite down hard, trying to suppress the sounds, but it's no use. Your body betrays you, hips bucking slightly, seeking the friction even as you hate yourself for it.

"See?" Orm says, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."

He slaps your pussy again, and again, alternating between sharp smacks and more deliberate, pressing touches. The mix of pain and pleasure is driving you mad, each slap sending jolts of sensation through your already overstimulated nerves. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal slick against his hand.

By the time you're close again, your mind is completely hazy. At that moment, you don't care that it's Orm, the man you hate. You just care about how good his fingers feel, how the sharp, rhythmic smacks are pushing you closer and closer to climax. Your legs shake, and you know that with his next move, you're going to cum.

But instead of letting you climax, he pinches your clit harshly and painfully, making you yelp and twist to get away from him. The pain is sharp, a cruel interruption to the pleasure you were so close to achieving.

"Only good girls get to cum, slut," he hisses, his hot breath against your ear. You didn't even notice him coming closer, so worked up and shaken by your once again ruined orgasm. Your clit throbs painfully, the denied pleasure leaving you frustrated and desperate.

Orm's voice is a low growl, filled with sadistic amusement. "Look at you, so needy. I told you I'd make you beg."

He steps back slightly, watching you with a satisfied smirk. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, your body still trembling from the denied release. You glare at him, defiance mingling with the haze of arousal in your eyes.

"I won't beg," you manage to say, though your voice wavers. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

Orm laughs softly, a dark, knowing sound. "Oh, you will. You're already so close. It won't take much more to break you."

He leaves wet kisses along your jaw until he reaches your mouth. You look into his dark blue eyes, filled with desire, as you feel his breath on your lips. His hands find their way into your hair, gripping it tightly.

Then he kisses you again, showing his dominance by slipping his tongue into your mouth and moving his lips against yours. You can't help but kiss back. This time, you don't bite, too worked up and too needy for him.

This time, you get to taste him properly, and gods, he tastes divine as he kisses you. His fingers, tangled in your locks, move towards your tits, and he starts to fondle them while he kisses you. He weighs your breasts in his hands, pinching and twisting the nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make you moan into his mouth.

The sensation of his hands on your sensitive nipples sends electric jolts through your body. You arch into his touch, the pleasure mingling with the pain in a way that makes you crave more. He breaks the kiss briefly, looking into your eyes with a smirk.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Me playing with your tits?"

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a moan as his fingers continue to tease your nipples. Your body betrays you, arching into his touch, silently begging for more.

"Answer me," he commands, his voice firm but filled with desire.

"Yes," you whisper, unable to deny the truth. "I like it."

His smirk widens, and he leans in to kiss you again, more passionately this time. His hands roam over your body, exploring every inch of your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You're lost in the sensations, your mind hazy with arousal and the need for more.

As his kisses travel down your neck, he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin, leaving marks that will remind you of this moment long after it's over. His hands continue to knead your breasts, the sensation almost too much to bear.

"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. "Now, let's see how well you beg for more." 

With that, he kisses you again, your lips colliding in a passionate kiss as he trails his fingers over your bare skin.

His ministrations make you buck your hips, seeking friction, but he steps back and breaks the kiss, denying you the chance to grind on his hard cock straining against his pants.

"Ah ah ah," he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep, husky, and dominating. "You take what you are given and say thank you for that - nothing more."

You want to fight back, want to give him an earful, but you can't think straight. The sensation of his nimble fingers on your nipples and the throbbing of your overstimulated cunt are enough to haze your mind. You're caught in a whirlwind of pleasure and pain, your body betraying you at every turn.

"You're so desperate, aren't you?" he taunts, his fingers now tracing the curve of your waist, making you shiver. "Begging for it without even realising."

You bite back a retort, trying to gather your thoughts, but his touch is relentless. He circles your nipples with his thumbs, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you moan involuntarily.

Your needy, high-pitched moans and the rattling of the chains that bind you are the only sounds in the room. You never thought it possible, but he brings you closer and closer to the edge again just by playing with your tits. Your skin tingles under his touch, your nipples aching and oversensitive as he twists and pinches them with a sadistic glee.

You know you'd instantly cum if he were to just tap against your neglected cunt once, but he doesn't give you the satisfaction again. Instead, he pulls away, leaving you hanging on the precipice of an orgasm that never comes. You whimper in frustration, your body trembling with unfulfilled desire.

Orm's smirk is infuriatingly smug as he watches you, his blue eyes dark with desire. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a dangerous purr. "So desperate, so needy. You can't even think straight, can you?"

You grit your teeth, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it's futile. Your body is betraying you, every nerve ending on fire, craving his touch. You hate how easily he can manipulate your responses, how he has you completely under his spell.

He steps back, circling you slowly, his eyes never leaving your form. "I could keep you like this forever," he muses, his tone contemplative. "Teasing you, denying you, watching you squirm. It's quite a sight."

You want to deny it, want to scream that he's wrong, but your body responds to him with a truth you can't ignore. The wetness between your legs, the way your nipples harden under his touch, and the way your hips arch towards him all betray your deepest desires. So you just stay quiet.

"Good girl," he murmurs, rewarding you with another searing kiss. "Let's see how well you can behave."

He steps back, leaving you feeling exposed and desperate for more. His eyes rake over your body, taking in every detail, every shiver, and every moan. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, adding to the arousal pooling in your core.

He steps closer again, his hand trailing down your stomach, teasing the edge of your panties. You tremble with anticipation, knowing that you're at his mercy, yet craving whatever he decides to give you. His fingers dip below the waistband, grazing your wet folds, and you can't help but moan, your body arching towards him, seeking relief, but he pulls his hand away, making you whimper in frustration. 

"No, no," he chides softly. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And you're not nearly desperate enough yet."

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me how badly you want it," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Tell me what you'd do for me, and maybe, just maybe, I'll consider it."

"Please," you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it. You hate yourself for it, but you need his touch, need the release he's been denying you.

A triumphant smile spreads across his face. "There it is," he murmurs. "That's a good start, pet. But I want to hear you beg properly."

He withdraws his hand, leaving you aching and desperate. You know he won't give you what you need until you do as he says, and the realization makes you shiver. Taking a deep breath, you swallow your pride.

"Please," you say louder, your voice trembling with need. "Please, I need you."

"Good girl," he purrs, stepping closer and rewarding you with a deep, passionate kiss. His fingers return to your panties, slipping inside to find your aching clit. He rubs slow, teasing circles, making you whimper with need.

"That's it," he murmurs against your lips. "Beg for it, pet, and I might just give you what you want."

The way he pushes you to submit causes the haze in your mind to clear again a bit, the thick fog thinning out, making logical thought possible again. And the first and foremost thought is that you can't and won't let him win - it's bad enough already, considering how far he's pushed you already.

As if sensing your rising defiance again he withdraws his fingers from your aching, wet cunt and takes a few steps back, giving you the moment to look at him wholly again.

It's obvious that this is also taking a toll on him, his cock is probably painfully hard and you see how it's straining against his pants. Yet he's still fully clothed while you are completely naked, exposed, and vulnerable.

You're breathing heavily, your skin slick with sweat, and your entire body is overstimulated and needy. Your mind is clouded by denied pleasure, and you can't help the little unconscious whines and whimpers that escape your lips as you watch Orm.

His eyes are dark with lust as he pulls off the tight shirt he's wearing, revealing his muscular torso. The sight makes your cunt flutter around nothing, the need inside you intensifying.

He's delicious.

You watch the hard lines of his muscles, how his broad chest rises and falls with his deep breaths. You trace the defined ridges of his six-pack with your eyes, following the treasure trail that leads into his pants where his cock strains against the fabric, begging for release.

He lets out a husky laugh when he sees how you're eyeing him, a mix of amusement and satisfaction in his gaze. "Like what you see, pet?" he taunts, his voice low and rough. He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming, and you can't help but nod, your body betraying your mind.

Orm's smirk widens, and he reaches for the waistband of his pants, slowly undoing the fastenings, drawing out the moment. Your eyes are glued to his hands, anticipation and need coiling tightly in your belly.

Finally, he pushes his pants down, freeing his cock.

It's thick and long, with prominent veins and a red, angry, wet head. It sits in a neatly trimmed nest of blonde hair, and the sight of it makes your heart race.

Your cunt clenches in response, desperate for him, for anything that might bring you relief.

He takes his dick in hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "You want this, don't you?" he asks, his voice a seductive purr. "Tell me how much you want it."

Your pride battles with your desire, but it's a losing fight. You're too far gone, too desperate to resist. "I want it," you breathe, your voice trembling with need. "I want you inside me. Please, Orm."

His smirk deepens, and he steps closer, the head of his cock brushing against your swollen, aching pussy. The touch sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you moan, your hips instinctively pushing towards him, seeking more.

"Oh no, you have to earn that privilege to be fucked by your king," his voice is teasing and he's clearly revelling in how far he's pushed you already.

With a swift motion, Orm finally loosens the chains binding you. The sudden release sends you collapsing to the floor, your knees hitting the cold stone tiles with a yelp. The chains rattle around you as you try to collect yourself, the shock and the overwhelming arousal clouding your mind.

By the time you manage to come to your senses, Orm is standing before you, his hard cock right in front of your face. 

You open your mouth to tell him off, but he shoves his dick in, making you gag and look up at him with wide, shocked eyes. The sheer size and force of it are overwhelming, and you struggle to breathe around him. He winks at you, grabbing your head and forcing his cock deeper into your mouth. 

You gag and splutter around it when he bottoms out, his heavy balls resting against your chin. He lets out a pleased growl, touching the bulge of his dick in your throat. "That's a good pet…taking my cock so well," he praises, as you choke and gag around him.

He holds your head firmly, controlling the pace as he fucks your mouth. Each thrust is brutal and unrelenting, driving deep into your throat, making you gag and choke. Tears stream down your face, but he shows no mercy, his pleasure evident in the way he uses you.

You try to push him away, your hands feebly pressing against his thighs, but the chains still limit your movement, and you are powerless to stop him. Your struggle only seems to excite him more, his cock hardening further as he watches you suffer.

He thrusts deeper, his balls slapping against your chin with each powerful movement. You feel spit pooling in your mouth and around his cock, dripping down your chin in a messy display of his dominance. Your vision blurs with tears, and black spots dance at the edges of your sight as your airway is repeatedly blocked.

He keeps it in until you feel like you're going to pass out. 

He hushes you, petting your head like you're a pet, keeping his cock lodged in your throat for a few more agonising seconds before starting to pull out. Relief is fleeting as he only pulls out until just the head is inside.

You take a few gasping breaths around his dick before he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest. His thrusts are rough and forceful, always ensuring to thrust deep into your throat, making you gag.

Orm's grip on your hair is unyielding, keeping you in place as he uses your mouth for his pleasure. You hear him groan, the sound vibrating through his body and into yours. "Just like that, whore," he praises, his voice rough."Let your king use your mouth."

Your mind is hazy, overwhelmed by the pain and lack of air. You try to relax your throat, to accommodate him better, but it's an almost impossible task. His thrusts grow more erratic, and you know he's close.

"Pet, I'm going to cum, and you're going to show me and then swallow," he groans. "That's an order from your king." 

Maybe you would have complied but the sentence and his just downright arrogant commant light a flame of defiance inside you again.

A few thrusts later, he pulls out until only the head is in your mouth and cums with a loud groan. The salty taste of his cum fills your mouth as it hits your tongue. 

He rides out his orgasm and milks his dick to ensure every last drop of cum has hit your tongue before pulling his cock from your mouth. 

Even flaccid, it's impressive, wet with your spit and his trimmed public hair glistening.

You gasp for breath, your throat raw and sore. You collapse to the floor, coughing and sputtering, feeling utterly defeated as Orm looks down at you, a satisfied smirk on his face. He kneels beside you, his hand caressing your cheek almost tenderly.

"Show me, pet," he commands, reaching down and caressing your cheek. Obediently, you open your mouth and show him the cum pooled on your tongue. He groans appreciatively. "Now swallow."

Instead of swallowing, you gather your strength and defiance, spitting his load out in a forceful motion. It hits the floor near his feet with a wet sound, and you feel a sense of satisfaction when you see his shocked face.

But then his face contorts in anger, and you are afraid. He's been angry and unforgiving, but now he looks like he means business.

"How dare you waste your king's cum," his voice is cold, his blue eyes icy. He steps forward and delivers a hard slap against your cheek.

You yelp at the force, pure pain blooming across your face. "I'm going to make you regret that." He steps away and strings you up with the chains again. You struggle against it, but his hold and everything about him is unforgiving. 

He secures you tightly, ensuring there's no room for movement, the chains biting into your wrists and ankles. "You're going to learn your place," he growls, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "And you're going to beg me to forgive you."

You hang there, breathless and terrified, as he steps away to fetch something from a nearby table. The room is silent except for your ragged breathing and the clinking of chains. When he returns, he holds his trident poised menacingly in his hands. 

The gold metal glints ominously in the light of the room, a stark contrast to the dark intent in his eyes. 

"You will learn respect," he says, his voice a dangerous whisper. He brings the trident close to your skin, teasing the sharp edges against your flesh. You flinch as the cold metal grazes you, leaving small, stinging cuts in its wake.

The first cut is shallow but painful, a thin line of blood welling up. He drags the trident slowly, deliberately, along your body, each new cut a sharp reminder of your vulnerability. "Do you understand now?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Your defiance only brings you more pain."

You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. The trident moves to your inner thigh, the sharp points biting into the sensitive skin there. You can't help but let out a gasp of pain, your body trembling in its bonds.

He smirks at your reaction, clearly pleased with your suffering. "You will beg," he promises, his voice filled with dark certainty. "And when you do, it will be because you have no other choice."

He continues to torment you, the trident tracing a path of pain across your skin. Each cut feels like fire, your body tensing and shuddering with every new wound. You try to stay silent, to deny him the satisfaction of your cries, but it becomes increasingly difficult.

Finally, he pauses, looking at the trident and then at your trembling form. "Are you ready to submit?" he asks, his voice almost gentle, a cruel mockery of kindness.

You meet his gaze, your resolve wavering. The pain, the fear, the humiliation - all of it is overwhelming. But deep down, the defiance still burns. You take a shuddering breath, trying to gather the strength to resist just a little longer.

Seeing your hesitation, Orm's expression hardens. "Very well," he says, his tone icy. "If pain won't break you, perhaps pleasure will." He sets the trident aside and steps closer, his hand reaching out to grip your jaw tightly. "I will make you beg for release," he vows, his eyes boring into yours with relentless intensity.

Without another word, he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, his dominance clear and unyielding. His free hand moves to your body, fingers finding and pinching your nipples, reigniting the fire of arousal even through the haze of pain. The contrast of sensations is dizzying, your mind a chaotic mix of agony and desire.

You moan into his mouth, the sound half protest, half need. His touch is maddening, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. 

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locked onto yours, daring you to defy him. Your body is a trembling, aching mess, every nerve on fire. The urge to give in, to beg for the release he's withholding, is almost overwhelming.

But you hold on, just barely, a flicker of defiance still burning in your eyes. And Orm, seeing that last spark, smiles - a cold, predatory smile. "We'll see how long you last," he says, his voice a soft, sinister purr.

With that he turns the trident around, and your eyes widen in shock as you realise his intent. The blunt end of the weapon presses against your cunt, the cold metal an unwelcome intrusion. 

Without warning, he shoves it inside your wet and neglected pussy. 

Your body tenses, a mix of pain and unexpected pleasure coursing through you. The sensation is overwhelming, the trident's unyielding surface stimulating you in a way you hadn't anticipated. You can't help the loud moan that escapes your lips, a raw, guttural sound that fills the room.

Orm moves the trident moves a harsh rhythm, fucking you mercilessly.

Your moans grow louder, uncontrollably echoing in the room despite yourself. Orm's eyes darken with satisfaction at your helpless reactions. He doesn't let up, the trident driving deeper with every thrust, each movement a reminder of his dominance over you. His eyes gleam with satisfaction at your reaction. 

He grabs the crest he ripped from you earlier; its fabric now a symbol of your degradation. "Open wide," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. 

You barely have time to comprehend his words before he stuffs the crest into your mouth, effectively gagging you.

The taste of the fabric is bitter, a stark reminder of your humiliation. Your muffled cries and moans reverberate in the small space, each sound a testament to your helplessness. Orm thrusts the trident inside you with relentless force, his movements calculated to bring you to the brink of ecstasy and pain.

Your body betrays you, responding to the brutal rhythm despite your mind's protest. The blunt end of the trident rubs against your most sensitive spots, sending waves of pleasure and pain through you. The combination is dizzying, and your mind is a haze of conflicting sensations.

Orm's grip on the trident tightens, his eyes never leaving your face. He watches every expression, every twitch of your muscles, relishing in your torment. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dripping with contempt. "A moaning, writhing mess, stuffed with your own crest. How fitting for a defiant little slut - silenced by what you once stood for."

Your body reacts despite your mind, hips bucking against the trident. The friction, the pain, the overwhelming sensations - all of it drives you closer to the edge. You try to bite down on the crest, to keep yourself from making any more sounds, but the pleasure is too intense. Muffled moans escape around the gag, and tears of frustration and arousal sting your eyes as he inches you closer to a climax you know he might deny again. The chains rattle with your every shudder, every attempt to writhe away from or into the sensation.

Orm watches you with a predatory gleam in his eyes, clearly enjoying your torment. "You see, pet, you can't fight what you truly are," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "A whore who enjoys being used, who craves the touch of her king."

He increases the pace, thrusting the trident harder and faster, each movement sending jolts of unwanted pleasure through your body. Your moans become more desperate, your body betraying you completely. The gag muffles your cries, but the sound is still there, echoing in the room.

Orm's free hand moves to your breast, pinching and twisting your nipple brutally. The added sensation pushes you even closer to the brink, your mind a hazy mess of pain and pleasure. You feel your climax building again, uncontrollable and inevitable.

"So close, so desperate. You want to cum, don't you? But remember, pet, only good girls get to cum." Orm taunts, his voice a harsh whisper. 

You glare at him, the defiance still flickering in your eyes, but it's weaker now, drowned out by the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body and the number of times he's already edged you and denied your orgasm. 

He smirks at your struggle, clearly enjoying your torment.

"Are you ready to submit?" he asks, his voice a dangerous purr. He twists the trident slightly, changing the angle and making you cry out against the gag, your body arching in response. "Just give in, pet. Beg for it, and maybe I'll let you cum."

The cruel reminder of his earlier words sends a wave of frustration and anger through you, but it only heightens the pleasure. Your body is trembling, on the edge, and you know that if he stops now, the denial will be unbearable.

But just as you think he might relent, might finally let you have your release, he slows down, the trident moving in and out of you with agonising slowness. The pleasure recedes just enough to keep you from the edge, leaving you hanging in torturous anticipation.

Orm leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Beg for it," he whispers, his voice a dark, seductive command. "Beg your king to let you cum."

Despite everything, the words are on the tip of your tongue. The need is overwhelming, the humiliation almost a secondary concern now. But deep inside, the spark of defiance still burns, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Orm watches you struggle, his eyes filled with a mixture of amusement and desire. "You will break, pet," he promises, his tone soft and lethal. 

His relentless assault with the trident continues, pushing you to the brink of orgasm over and over again but never letting you cross that line. 

The blunt end stretches and fills you, the rough movements making you gasp and moan against the spit-soaked crest gagging your mouth. Your body is trembling, muscles taut from the denied pleasure, and the room echoes with the wet, rhythmic sounds of the trident plunging into you.

Finally, he pulls it out with a wet noise, leaving you feeling empty and aching. 

He steps back, his eyes never leaving yours, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watches you struggle to regain your breath. With a swift, almost casual motion, he tugs the crest from your mouth, and you gasp for air, gulping down deep breaths.

Your mouth feels dry despite the saliva, and your is jaw sore from being stretched around the fabric. Your breaths come heavy and ragged, chest heaving as you look up at Orm. His gaze is dark, filled with a mix of lust and cruel amusement. He tosses the spit-soaked crest aside, his hand moving to his now hard cock, stroking it leisurely as he takes in the sight of you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Breathless, desperate, and yet still defiant." He steps closer, the head of his cock brushing against your swollen, throbbing entrance. "But I'm not done with you yet, pet."

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the raw power and dominance he exudes. Your body is hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with sensation, and the touch of his cock against you sends a shiver of anticipation and dread through you.

"Do you want it?" he asks, his tone mocking. "Do you want your king to fuck you, to make you cum?" His fingers trail down your cheek, the touch almost gentle but with an underlying threat.

You swallow hard, your throat dry and raw from the gag. Despite everything, the need is overwhelming, the ache inside you impossible to ignore. But that spark of defiance still burns, a last shred of resistance in the face of his cruel domination.

Orm's eyes narrow as he reads the conflict in your gaze. "Still holding out, are you?" he says, his voice a low growl. "Let's see how long that lasts."

He teases your swollen, throbbing entrance with the head of his cock, brushing against your most sensitive spots. The teasing alone sends jolts of pleasure through your overstimulated body, and you can barely hold back the whimpers of need escaping your lips.

"You want this, don't you?" Orm's voice is a low, taunting growl."You're desperate for it."

You try to deny him, to keep some semblance of dignity, but your body betrays you. A whimper escapes your lips, and you can't help but push your hips towards him, seeking more.

"Pathetic," he murmurs, but there's a dark satisfaction in his eyes."Beg for it."

Your pride flares, but so does your need. "Please," you whisper, hating the tremble in your voice."Please, Orm."

"That's better," he says, a cruel smile curving his lips."But not good enough."

Then, without warning, he thrusts into you, filling you completely. The sudden, overwhelming sensation is too much; you cum instantly, a powerful orgasm ripping through you without any chance to resist. Your cunt clenches around him, milking his cock as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you shocked and breathless.

"There you go," Orm sneers, his voice a mix of triumph and lust. "Cumming so quickly like a desperate slut."

You can only moan in response, your body already trembling from the intensity of your release. Orm doesn't pause to let you recover. He fucks you hard and brutally, each thrust driving deeper inside you, hitting all the right spots with unerring accuracy. The force of his movements makes your chains rattle, your moans and cries filling the room as he pushes you to the brink over and over again.

"Do you like this, pet?" he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you like being used like this?"

"Yes," you gasp, barely able to form the words.

Your admission only spurs him on, his pace becoming even more relentless. Your body convulses with each orgasm, the pleasure blending with the pain of overstimulation until you can no longer tell them apart. Orm takes you relentlessly, his pace unyielding, and you lose track of how many times you cum, each climax leaving you more exhausted and overwhelmed than the last.

"You're nothing but a toy," he continues, his voice rough and dominating. "A plaything for your king. A hole to stuff and breed."

Finally, you reach a point where you're completely fucked out, your body limp and trembling, barely able to respond to his continued thrusts. Orm's grip on your hips tightens as he chases his own release, his cock throbbing inside you.

With a final, deep thrust, he cums inside you, filling you with his hot seed. The sensation of his cum spilling deep inside you triggers one last shuddering orgasm, your body clenching around him as he groans in satisfaction. He stays inside you for a moment, riding out the waves of his own pleasure before finally pulling out.

As he withdraws, you feel the thick, hot cum begin to drip from your gaping cunt, pooling on the cold floor beneath you. Your body is utterly spent, your mind a haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure. Orm steps back, admiring the sight of you, thoroughly used and debauched, his seed leaking from you.

He looks down, his fingers tracing the marks he's left on your skin, a satisfied smirk on his lips. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with dark satisfaction. "Completely ruined, just like a good pet should be."

You can barely muster a response, your body and mind too overwhelmed to do anything but breathe heavily, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Orm's presence looms over you, a constant reminder of his dominance and your utter submission.

"You'll remember this," he says, his tone softer but no less commanding. "Remember how easily I broke you."

A shiver runs through you, not just from the lingering pleasure but from the promise in his words. You know you'll never forget this, the way he took you, claimed you, and left you a trembling, satisfied mess.

"Now," he continues, standing tall and looking down at you with a mixture of pride and ownership. "Thank your king."

"Thank you, my king," you manage to whisper, your voice shaky but sincere.

Orm's smile widens, pleased with your submission. "Good girl," he says, before turning and leaving you to recover, a satisfied smirk still playing on his lips.

You hang there, utterly spent, your body a trembling mess of exhaustion and lingering aftershocks of pleasure, so weak you would definitely fall to the floor if not for the chains holding you upright.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and through half-lidded eyes, you watch as Orm reaches for his discarded clothing. From a pocket, he pulls out a gleaming gold signet ring, intricately designed with the crest of his house.

He holds it up, letting the light catch on its polished surface, making the emblem shimmer ominously. "This," he says, his voice steady and commanding, "is my crest. The symbol of my power and my claim. From now on, it will mark you as mine."

You shiver at his words, a mixture of trepidation and curiosity stirring within you. Orm walks over to a small furnace burning in the corner of the room. He places the signet ring on a metal rod and holds it over the flames, heating it until it glows red-hot. 

Your eyes widen in horror as you realise his intentions. "No," you whisper, but your voice is weak, your body too drained to resist or protest effectively.

Orm returns to you, the heated ring glowing ominously. He gives you a cruel smile. "You will wear my mark, pet," he says, his tone final and unyielding.

He grabs your hip, forcing you to turn over and exposing your ass to him. The metal rod holding the ring hovers over your skin for a moment, the heat radiating off it palpable and terrifying. Without further hesitation, he presses the signet to your flesh.

The pain is immediate and searing. You scream, the sound echoing off the walls, your body bucking against the chains that still hold you in place. The smell of burning flesh fills the air, mingling with the remnants of your arousal. Tears stream down your face as the agony overwhelms you.

Orm keeps the ring pressed against you for a few more torturous seconds before pulling it away, satisfied. 

He steps back to admire his handiwork, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He watches you with an intensity that makes you shiver. Slowly, he reaches out and runs his fingers over the fresh, searing brand on your skin. The pain flares again, causing you to wince, but the touch is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality you've just endured.

"Marked as mine", he murmurs, his voice a mix of pride and possession. "You're nothing but an animal now, a pet for your king - free to use and free to breed."

His words cut deep, piercing through the haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure. You feel a profound sense of humiliation, of being reduced to nothing more than a branded possession. His touch, while gentle, is a stark reminder of the power he holds over you, a power that now feels absolute and inescapable.

You try to avert your eyes, but he grips your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't look away," he commands, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "You need to understand your place, pet."

Tears blur your vision as you look up at him, feeling completely exposed and vulnerable. Orm's expression softens slightly, but the underlying dominance remains. "You're mine now," he repeats, almost gently. "You will serve me, please me, and wear my mark with pride."

His fingers continue to trace the edges of the brand, the touch now more of a reminder than an infliction of pain. The symbol of his house, seared into your flesh, is a constant, throbbing reminder of your new reality. You are no longer just yourself; you are his property, his marked pet.

A mixture of emotions churns within you - fear, shame, and a strange, unwanted thrill at the intensity of his claim. The weight of the brand, both physical and symbolic, presses down on you, leaving you feeling more trapped than ever.

"But how will the people know who you belong to?" he muses aloud, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. "We can't have you walking around with your ass exposed all the time, now can we? I have a better idea."

The fear in your eyes must be evident, but he pays no heed to it. With deliberate slowness, Orm reaches for his signet ring again and heats it over the furnace. The room feels stifling, the anticipation of what's to come making it hard to breathe.

He approaches you, and with a firm grip, he pushes you back against the cold stone floor. Your skin prickles in protest, but you are too weak and too bound to resist. He holds the red-hot signet just above your breast, the heat radiating from it causing your heart to race.

"Hold still," he commands, his voice devoid of any softness."This is important."

Your breath comes in shallow gasps as you brace yourself for the inevitable pain. When the searing metal meets your flesh just above your breast, the agony is immediate and all-consuming - and somehow worse than the first time. 

Orm's eyes are fixed on the mark as he presses the signet firmly against your skin. He seems to take a grim satisfaction in your suffering, his gaze never wavering. The metal burns into your flesh, leaving the crest of his house as a permanent brand. He holds it there longer than necessary, ensuring the mark is deep and unmistakable.

"There," he says, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction."Now everyone will know who you belong to, even when you're clothed."

Tears stream down your face as you struggle to catch your breath, the pain throbbing with every heartbeat. Orm watches you, his fingers once again tracing the fresh brand, the touch almost gentle in its cruelty. Each contact sends waves of pain and humiliation through you, reinforcing the new reality of your situation.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his tone filled with possessive pride."You're truly mine now, marked for all to see. Everyone will know you exist solely as my whore and pet. Fit to use however and whenever I want."

Orm's voice softens as his fingers trail down from the brand to your breasts, groping them with a mixture of roughness and reverence."I can't wait until they swell with milk for my children," he continues, his tone taking on a sickeningly sweet quality."You're going to be my perfect broodmare. And until you're pregnant, I'll have fun breeding you as often as I can and then some more."

His grip on your breasts tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over your nipples."You'll learn to love it, pet," he whispers, his voice a dark promise."You'll learn to crave my touch, to beg for it. And when you finally give in, when you finally accept that you are mine completely, you'll find peace in your submission."

Orm's hands travel down your body, his touch lingering on the fresh brand over your breast. He admires his mark on you, a visible sign of his ownership."You're beautiful like this, you know," he murmurs."Marked, claimed, and filled with my seed."

Despite his harsh words and the pain he's inflicted, there's a strange tenderness in his actions now. He wipes away your tears with surprising gentleness, his fingers lingering on your cheek."You're mine," he whispers, almost as if reassuring himself."You've always been mine - my whore, my pet, my future queen. And I promise you one thing: you will never be empty again."

[taevescence]

Misunderstanding | Kim Taehyung

a/n: I'm so bad with titles lol. At least you get the idea a bit :). In one part it is mentioned that Y/N is not a public figure like Taehyung, even though she is a chaebol. This is because her family is somewhat like that of Samsung's owners, they keep their children's identities secret until they make their own place in the company.

Summary: It's basically your reaction to hearing about the dating rumours between Taehyung and Jennie while the two of you are still in a relationship. And obviously, he is trying to fix things as quickly as possible.

wc: 2.9k (I didn't think it would be so long honestly).

When you started dating Taehyung, you never thought it would be a big problem. You knew that his schedule was complicated, but you didn't have any drama with that because yours was pretty much the same. You also knew that you wouldn't be a public couple because of the criticism you might get, but that was even better for you because you didn't like being in the public eye either. Problems on tour? Phones were there for a reason, not being able to have children? You were too young, can’t go out in public? Loved the cozy, private dates, little quality time together? Even better! Every moment with him would feel even more special because of how exclusive it was. Yes, you were willing to accept all these disadvantages because you never saw them as an insurmountable problem. At least until now.

You and Taehyung started dating in 2020, during the pandemic. You met him at the concert in cooperation with Lotte Duty Free, one of the companies your father founded, because yes, you were the youngest daughter of the Shin, the family in charge of the Lotte company and all its subsidiaries.

The two of you got along very well while preparing for the concert, so you decided to exchange numbers to keep in touch. It only took a few months before you started dating him officially, and you were very happy at first. 

His schedule was busy, of course, but he had time for you. He would greet you with a big smile, hug you from behind, and take you to the dining room where he had a whole show set up for you. Jazz in the background, scented candles, rose petals everywhere, and two plates of food of dubious origin that you would enjoy anyway because your boyfriend made it. 

You were willing to put up with all those cons if he gave you moments like this every chance he got, moments where it was just you and him. 

Once the pandemic was over and your schedule returned to normal, things got complicated.

And no, time, work, dating, none of that was the problem, because it didn't even have anything to do with you two as a couple.The problems were caused by a third person. Kim Jennie, one of the members of Blackpink and one of the most beautiful women you will ever meet.

You never had any problems with her. You had bumped into her once or twice in the hallway on your way backstage, but obviously she wouldn't recognize you, you were always covered from head to toe.You thought that your friend had the same relationship with her, something casual that couldn't even be called a friendship because you barely said hello to each other when you were together, in fact Taehyung never looked at anyone when he was with you.So why did this happen now?

Your boyfriend was on tour and it was the time of his concert, so you couldn't just call him and ask him about it. You looked at the screen of your cell phone for the sixth time, the headline in big, dark letters seemed to mock your feelings.

"Dispatch confirms, V of BTS and Jennie of Blackpink are in a relationship," you muttered to yourself, trying to get your brain to catch the words, to process them, to react. It didn't.

You scrolled down the page until you stopped at the myriad of photos they had as proof. None of them looked doctored. 

You saw the blue short-sleeved shirt with flowers that Taehyung was wearing in the photo and put your phone down to go to the closet you shared. You pulled out all of his clothes until you found it. You grabbed it and crumpled it in your hands. 

Only then did you burst into tears. You covered your eyes with your shirt and screamed until you felt your throat couldn't take it anymore. Your heart hurt so much that you even had trouble breathing. 

You looked around the room you both shared, trying to understand why he would do this to you. You thought you were fine, everything seemed fine, so why were there hundreds of videos and pictures of your boyfriend with another girl? You felt like all these people were making fun of you by being happy for them. What about you, why don't they think about his real girlfriend who had to put up with years of being locked away in secret while these two were fearlessly dating?

The sadness soon turned to anger, and it wasn't long before you got up and grabbed the biggest suitcase you could find, whether it was his or yours.

You stuffed it with as many clothes as you could, taking your time because you knew he wasn't coming. You lifted the suitcase as high as you could and carried it into the living room. You looked at every single picture of the two of you as a couple. Another few tears fell from your eyes and you let them out as you took the frames and threw them away. 

You threw out everything you could. Mugs, matching pajamas, pictures, rings, absolutely everything. When you were done, your eyes were dry and your head hurt too much, but you didn't care. You grabbed your suitcase and headed for the door.

The only thing that stopped you from leaving was Yeontan, who stood in the doorway, staring at you while wagging his tail from side to side.

"Tannie, mommy has to go do something, okay?" you nuzzled behind his ear and sobbed softly. You knew he wouldn't understand. "Don't worry, I'll visit you every day until your owner comes."

You stood up, took a breath, and walked away. You didn't know where you were going, but that apartment was no longer an option. 

You stood in front of the buildings where you lived and watched for taxis to pass by. Just then you received a phone call. For a moment you thought it would be Taehyung, but no, it was just Jimin's girlfriend, Soyeon, to whom you had become very close over the past years.

"Yes?" you mumbled hoarsely.

"Honey, it's me, Soyeonie," she said in a much calmer voice than usual. She was probably aware of your situation. "I read the news, are you okay?" You opened your mouth to reply, but she interrupted you so quickly that you didn't have time to say anything, "Of course you're not," she sighed, remaining silent for a few seconds, "Look, I know maybe I shouldn't pry, but I understand that you're hurting and the last thing you want is to be in a place full of... him."

You sob softly, wiping your cheeks as quickly as the first tears came.

"I haven't sold my old apartment yet, it has some furniture, enough to live decently, why don't you stay there for a few weeks?"

"Soyeon-ah," you cried, wanting to hug her until you fell asleep. That's what you needed, a long nap.

"Relax, everything’s gonna be okay, Unnie will come and see you there, I'll send you the address, just wait."

"Okay," you nodded, even though you knew she couldn't see you, "thanks."

"It's nothing."

And she hung up.

You looked around. It was full of cars and buildings that looked too big. 

You felt so stupid as you mentally wished that Taehyung was here to comfort you.

You saw a taxi coming your way and you made it stop. You weren't sure if this would be the end of your relationship, you were willing to hear his side, but you weren't willing to have to live with him or a place filled with his presence.

This was best for you.

Taehyung called you the next day, about twenty times, not counting messages. You didn't answer any of them, mostly because you were asleep until 4 pm. You had a hard time falling asleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see the two of them holding hands, together in the car, on a date to some kind of zoo. You cried every time your brain projected those images.

Your phone rang for the 21st time. You were still a little groggy from sleep, but you answered it anyway.

"Y/N!" You turned the phone away from your ear. It was too painful to hear his voice so loud with the headache you were feeling, "Oh God, I was so afraid something bad had happened to you. I called the girls, but none of them knew anything about you, so I got worried and..."

"Why did you call me?" you asked curtly. You thought maybe you were being a little cruel, but you didn't care. Answering him like that wouldn't make him feel a thousandth of the pain you felt and still feel since last night.

He was silent for a few seconds. You'd never answered him like that before, you guessed that's why he was so quiet.

"I..." he cleared his throat, sounding a little more tense than when you answered him, "I was a little worried, my manager told me about the news and I thought maybe you were feeling a little depressed-".

You interrupted him again, but this time with a mocking laugh, "A little depressed? Is that how you think I felt? A little depressed?" you laughed again. You had completely woken up this time, "Tell me, Kim, how would you feel if overnight it was all over the news that I was dating an idol? Huh? What would you do if this news came to you on the fucking Dispatch, while I was on the other fucking side of the world enjoying a concert? Would you be a little depressed? A little hurt? Would you even have taken the fucking trouble to answer my calls?" you began to raise your voice with every word you said. You didn't even notice at what point your voice broke. "You have no idea what I'm going through, and you never will, because unlike you I'm not a public figure! I could be fucking any man in Korea and you're never going to see an internet media outlet post it and 'celebrate' my relationship, you're never going to see any fan of mine go on social media and celebrate my relationship with someone else while you're behind the curtains" You sobbed, wiping your cheeks awkwardly.

"Honey, I know it's-"

"Don't you dare call me like that" you growled, clenching your jaw, "I don't even want to hear you say my name, do you understand?"

"Y/N" he muttered, his voice trembling. You assumed that at some point in your verbal vomit he had started to cry, "Just give me 1 minute, I'll explain everything, I promise."

You tried to control your anger by taking a big breath of air, it worked enough to stop you from sending him to fuck off... for the second time.

"Do you want me to listen to you?" you mumble, looking down at your hands, remembering all the times he came home late, wondering if all those times he was at her house, doing god knows what while you tried to stay awake just to see him before bed. 

"Y-yes, please, I just need a minute".

"Fine," you smiled half-heartedly, "then come and explain it to me in person. If you're really sorry and say it's a misunderstanding, come here and tell me."

Your more conscientious side chided you for your request. It was his job, you couldn't just order him to make a trip from the United States to Korea just for you. Maybe that's why you gave him that condition. You knew he wouldn't come all this way just for you.

The line went silent, you could barely hear his breathing. You ended your conversation.

"I thought so," muttering much calmer than at the beginning, "I guess Soyeon was right in saying that the only one who would have to make sacrifices for our relationship would be me."

And you cut the call short.

You put your phone on airplane mode and plopped down on your bed, ready to go back to sleep for the rest of the weekend.

It had been a day since you heard the news, barely 17 hours since you last spoke to Taehyung, because yes, you counted the hours. You hadn't eaten anything, you'd barely had a glass of water, and the only thing you felt like doing right now was taking a very long shower and then crying yourself to sleep. Yes, it sounded like the perfect plan to try to get over your ex, if that's what you could call it.

You got in the tub at 10am, didn't get out until 12:30, and when you did you could barely feel your fingers and toes. At least your muscles had finally relaxed.

You dressed more slowly than usual, in just your pajamas, the only ones that weren't your partner's, and went to bed.

Until the doorbell rang.

You changed direction, confused. You were sure that no one besides Soyeon knew you were here. It crossed your mind that maybe she was worried about you and that's why you'd decided to open up and politely turn her away.

Except she wasn't the one waiting for you on the other side.

"Y/N," Taehyung said, trying to regulate his breathing. "You really were here," he whispered, entering the flat and closing behind him. It wasn't until the door rattled that his arms wrapped around you so tightly that you almost stopped breathing. "Why did you leave home? I got so worried when I saw our stuff in the trash and the wardrobe almost empty" he cupped your cheeks, inspecting your face.

You didn't understand what exactly was going on.

"What are you doing here?" you mumbled, letting him search your face. 

"You told me to come" he looked into your eyes and, almost instantly, his eyes began to fill with tears. "I couldn't let you because a misunderstanding made you hate me to the point of breaking up with me, I... I don't want to be without you, at this point I don't think I can be," he bent down until he could place his forehead against yours, his thumbs caressing the skin of your cheeks, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, I don't plan on losing you over something stupid like this."

You looked at Taehyung, still not understanding what he was trying to say. 

"The pictures are real" he exhaled deeply, "but it's not like you think" he pulled his phone out of his trousers pocket. His hands were shaking slightly. You wanted to hold them, but you completely erased the thought, "We dated for a few months, it was a very short thing, about two or three months before we met".

He showed you some conversations from a few years ago. He was asking her to bring him the shoes he had left at her house last time, and that he would appreciate it if she would bring the leash they had bought Yeontan. You also saw the last messages they sent to each other, it was only a few days ago.

Jennie told him that someone had hacked into her phone and most likely found the pictures they took the time they went to the zoo. She apologized and sent him stickers of crying puppies, saying that the lawsuit against the hacker had already started and that she would try to speed up the process so that he wouldn't be affected. 

"I totally understand how angry you were, and obviously I also understand that you want to talk about this face-to-face, so I took the first flight I could find so I could come talk to you and-".

You didn't let him finish. You couldn't do that, not after everything you've been feeling the last few days. So you did the only thing you could think of since he came into the flat. You kissed him.

It was much more awkward than your kisses usually are, but you didn't care. You were so relieved that it was all a misunderstanding that no matter what kind of kiss it was, it would still be amazing to you.

He followed your kiss as soon as he came out of his surprise. He clung to you as if his life depended on it. He was the one who deepened the kiss and lifted you off the floor so he could kiss you better.

"I'm so sorry" you whispered in the middle of the messy kisses he was giving you, "sorry for doubting you" you sobbed softly, hugging his neck with all your strength.

He shook his head, holding your cheeks, "Don't apologise, it was a normal reaction, you said it yourself, I wouldn't have even answered your calls if I had been in your place" he kissed your shoulder softly, letting out a soft sigh. It felt so good to have you with him after all the tension he experienced during the flight.

"You were right about everything you said" he murmured, pulling away enough to look you in the eye, "so please don't apologize to me".

You nodded a little calmer, closing your eyes as you felt Taehyung's nose on yours.

"Now let's go get your things, I don't want to go back inside the house and not see your things in it."

Masterlist.

[featherdusterbelphie]

Please take me out, darling

C/W: love confessions with a side of guns and threats. dubious consent/content ahead!

A/n: based on an intrusive thought that occurred while interning for my SHS school. also also happy valentines :>>

Word count: 1.37k words total.

It was another day interning at the school you were enrolled in. You were in the campus' only faculty room, trying to finish the recent task that your supervisor left you to do. You glance at the text on the bottom part of the monitor, it reads 10:45 AM. It's still a long way to go before the lunch break, so there's no need to rush especially since no one here cares enough either way. Though sometimes you wonder how your internship would've been like if you'd taken a different path….

A knock on the door brings you out of your thoughts, and one of your classmates peeks his head in. You peek around your chair to see Belphegor.

Your classmate's eyes wandered around the room, before landing on you, who was waiting on him awkwardly. You don't speak much with him, he seems very reclusive and picky with the people he hangs out with. You were still technically a newcomer at this point, three months in since you were forced to attend face-to-face classes in this school despite not paying for that originally.

You also have trouble trying to understand what his expressions mean, they all look the same to you despite what his twin says. He's called "Belphie" by his twin and his friends, but you don't dare attempt to be so forward and assume he's chill with you as he is with everyone else. You imagine he'd murder you if you tried. You swivel the chair around and ask, "Hi…." You try, clearing your throat at how weak your voice sounded. "Belphegor, how can I help you?"

He takes a minute to just stare at you. Again, you can't tell what he's thinking but from the look in his eyes, judging you like he always does when you're near him. "Is your supervisor here?"

You glance at the empty desk to the right and shake your head, while Belphegor stares at you the entire time. "I need you to follow me," he motions for you to come closer, and you stand (thinking it must be important) as he opens the door wider for you to exit the room. He ignores you when you try to ask, heading up to the third floor with you in tow. He leads you to one of the quieter hallways, a glance up notes the lack of a surveillance camera. He leads you further down, closer to the stairs that go up to the right wing of the fourth floor which looks like it hasn't seen the light of day in years. His finger points at the ground beneath the first step. "Stand there."

Confused, you follow his request and stand on the stairs, looking down at him from your elevated position. He was quiet again, staring at you, and you stare back at him, expectant. What the hell is he planning?

"Sit down."

You slowly lower yourself down on the step above where your feet are and await Belphegor's next command. You look up at him and took the chance to try to guess what goes on in his sleepy eyes as he shrugged his bag off and rummaged through it. This is the first time that he has sought you out himself, most often it was you who tried to communicate with him or his twin helped relay the message for you, so it was indeed a curious situation.

Pulling you out of your musings was a crisp white envelope with a high quality wax seal. What…?

"Open it."

You glance up at him, brows slightly furrowed as you try to piece together what it was. Was he asking you for funds because he was assigned to be the school's treasurer and you weren't aware? Was this an elaborate prank? Or is this something important? You decide to open it up anyway, to sate your curiosity.

Inside is a piece of folded paper. It was one of those expensive, colorful paper that had beautiful floral embellishments on the surface, and a scent to match each color. A quick whiff of some flower you're not familiar with snakes its way into your senses as you unfolded the lavender colored paper. Inside, you catch a simple message written in neat, impressively aligned handwriting;

"I like you."

You blink, staring at the words incredulously. He…what? He likes you? What- how- when?? You guys haven't exactly been on the best of terms at all and you were barely acquaintances, only ever being in the same room because of class or because his brother invited you over. How did he?? You've barely spoken to each other! This was a mistake right?

A glance up has you glancing down again, sheepish as you catch Belphegor's intense eyes staring down at you, as if he's scrutinizing every expression on your face. You gulp, suddenly nervous. Oh god… look, there's a reason why you're fumbling with this. It's not because he's ugly or anything, or that he's not your type. Honestly, you don't know what your type is as you've never really thought much about these things before, let alone actually get a love letter in your entire life.

You just don't know what to do.

How do you handle something that you've only ever watched happen around you?

Belphegor is cute, certainly, in a very gloomy and sleep-deprived way. He looks like someone who prefers to stay in bed surrounded by the world's softest pillows and blankets, instead of socializing with everyone else, which you respect. Every time you bump into him you wonder how much effort he puts on himself to look good yet also extremely haggard at the same time. He's napping or yawning most of the time, curled up in one of the lobby couches or slouched on a bench.

Then again, you're a very oblivious creature when it comes to these things. Had he been deliberately giving you hints of his feelings and your dumbass didn't catch up? Were the times he was staring into your soul as if he hated you was actually the opposite?

You're certainly not against the idea of whatever this confession will lead you to, but you weren't exactly prepared for it….

"So…" You slowly lower the letter, thumbs nervously rubbing against it's smooth surface, feeling the indents of the paper's design on your fingertips. "Uhm…"

"Did you not read it?"

"I did- uhm, it's just…."

"Just what?"

You try to open your mouth, but you quickly close it up when no response comes to your mind. Well, other than hopelessly making flustered noises from your throat as you try to find a way to get out of this corner (but that's embarrassing so you won't be doing that!).

It seems Belphegor gets impatient when he shuffles on his feet. "I like you. Can we date?"

"Oh, uhm- well, you see-"

It was quick, you're barely given any time to react when you feel something cold and hard press into your neck. Your breaths are shaky, bordering on hyperventilating, fingers clutching tightly unto the now forgotten letter as you stare up at your classmate in shock.

"Can we date or not?"

"A-ah…. Wait…."

There was a click.

"I like you. Can we date?"

You shakily nod, acquiescing to his demands. The gun doesn't lower or move away, but instead terrifyingly presses into your neck even more, and you bite your lip to swallow down a whimper. Fuck fuck fuck what the fuck?!

"Good."

He finally takes the gun away from your neck and shoves it back inside his bag after a click, then he grabs your hand and starts dragging you down the stairs back to the faculty room. "Get your stuff, let's get out of here."

You only dazedly follow after him, still reeling from the shock of it all, numbly picking up your things and grabbing your bag, murmuring a small excuse of "family emergency" to your supervisor before once again being dragged out of the building by your new boyfriend. As you cross the street, hand in hand, you wonder what choices led you to this point. You barely remember that you have to text your mom to let her know what's happening as you're pulled into a black car.

(AO3 version :)

[idioticidoms]

Benders Over Silverlake pt.3

|Schlatt x Afab!reader x Ted Nivision|

Summary: The morning after Ted's was brutal. You know what could soften the emotional turmoil? A coffee date with your asshole of an ex-boyfriend!

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: alc mentioned, mutual yearning, more sexy wrist grabbing (tm) lamenting by the sea, swearing. 18+, minors dni

((part 3 is out sooner than part 2! it is coming i swear! but yeah for ny schlatt girlies out there, this one's for u))

The morning after Ted’s party was a rude awakening. In a vain attempt to fight off your hangover, you decided to take a walk in your neighborhood. Walking has always been a pleasant pastime of yours. It's nice to remember that you're not alone in the world, to revel in the kindness of strangers. Magnolia trees lined your neighborhood sidewalk scattered their white petals before you. Everything that happened from the night before was dizzying, a fuzzy pink blur. The ghost of a kiss lingered on your lips as a dubious memory. If Ted was only willing to kiss you drunk, then he wasn't willing to kiss you at all…so you concluded. Vino veritas be damned.

The soft California sunlight bathed your skin, the warmth reminding you for a brief moment the many lazy Sunday mornings spent at Schlatt's. Schlatt had a habit of kissing your sun lit shoulder to gently stir you awake. Despite what he believed, it wasn't the tenderness of his kiss that encouraged you to wake up but rather the playful tickling of his facial hair. Those languid mornings feel spiteful in the wake of their memory.

Like eerie clockwork, your phone buzzed with a notification. You knew who it was before even checking. Schlatt's texts, even when you were dating, have always been brutally concise.

"coffee here?"

Nice to know old habits die hard. You sighed, mentally sizing up the pros and cons of meeting up with your crude ex-boyfriend. Were you the kind of person who could be friends with their ex? Was Schlatt the kind of guy who could manage being cordial for two minutes? There's only one solid way to find out. Plus, you’ve been meaning to try that new coffee place anyways. 

"sure. see you in 45."

Schlatt's punctuality threw you off guard. He arrived earlier than you did, already sitting at the only halfway decent table waiting on his order. You walked over to sit your purse down before going to place your order, but you felt his hand tug lightly at your wrist. 

"Already ordered for you."

"You remember what I like?"

Schlatt smirks slightly, almost to himself.

"You're a consistent person."

His compliment hung dryly, but still you sat down. Schlatt looked annoyingly handsome. Dark eyes glistening, soft hair begging to be touched. Schlatt’s handsomeness had the recurring quality of pissing you off.

"Thanks for inviting me." you said, nodding a thank you to the waitress as she set down your coffees.

"Thanks for coming." 

"Chuckle week treating you kindly?"

He laughs. The sight of it almost kills you. Lips crinkling his perfect face into an even more perfect sight.

"Relatively. How's Ventura?"

"I live by the ocean so there's literally no problems in my life ever." 

"Is that so? Sounds like bullshit." The foam of his latte paints his mouth a bit too erotically for your liking. It took too much strength to avert your gaze as he licked it off. 

"Hot surfers and salty air cure any woe." You said, trying to muster a sarcastic tone to save face. 

Schlatt rolled his eyes at you, unimpressed. The playful banter rolls on, switching topic to topic, trading insults for sweeter injuries. The hours trudge by, feeling as comforting as those lost Sunday mornings.

After you’ve both drained at least two coffees, the conversation dies down. Comfortable silence looms over impending unasked questions. No one is really sure who asked who, but at some point you found yourself in the passenger seat of Schlatt's audacious rental car. You typed in an address, then off the car sped. 

Drives with Schlatt are always serene. Despite the many times his driving nearly killed the both of you, you missed these drives. You missed the smell of his truck’s leather seats, the rosary that hung from the rear view mirror. The drive was relatively quiet, with the exception of a few of your backseat driving complaints. Alongside the canyon road, you rolled down your window for a brief moment. Schlatt turned his head slightly to look at you puzzled.

"God bless the Santa Ana winds." You smiled, feeling the breeze whip your hair around aimlessly.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could've sworn you saw him gazing at you. Was it a fluke?

The GPS spat the car out in the middle of Harbor Cove beach. He parked, you gathered whatever random sweaters he left in the trunk. As though it were routine, you both headed towards the beach.

Golden hour illuminates Schlatt's face with a beautiful orange tint. His sunglasses glinted down towards you as you slipped into his old sweater and out of your shorts.

"What are you doing?" Schlatt asked, his tone more curious than accusatory. 

"Gonna dip my feet in the ocean."

His expression is difficult to read, so you don't bother. Not daring to look back at that unrelenting face, you scurry off to the shore/ The waves break just before your feet, scattering the sweet cool ocean water around you. The seagulls caw an old familiar song. The ocean has greeted you once more.

This kind of life wouldn't have been possible with Schlatt, you reasoned as you sunk further into the cotton of his sweater. The fabric envelops you, guarding you from the thrilling cold. A moment of soft peace is found for a moment. The ocean, Schlatt's lingering cologne of pine trees and soft musks. It feels tangibly bittersweet, because the small hope of more that would've popped up if you weren;t exes was cruelly shattered by the fact that you were. But hope is sticky. It causes you to daydream about that impossible future. More drives around Ventura, more dinners by the harbour, more secret kisses accompanied by the swell of the sea. No doubt there would be endless complaints about California and its litany of ridiculous expenses, damned liberals and horrid drivers. But if Schlatt stayed, it meant he loved you. Really, really loved you.

You took a moment to gather yourself before heading over to see the infuriating gorgeous man once more. To your surprise, you notice his face is hidden by a camera. It doesn't look like the traditional Youtuber(TM) vlogging camera, rather something a bit more antique. You decide not to question it. Your footsteps feel heavy as they trudge through the beach sand. He departs from his camera when he notices you're standing right in front of him.

"Ready to go?" You smiled.

"Nice underwear."

You try to refuse the blush that wishes to dust your face, but it’s in vain.

"Dinner?" Schlatt said, tilting his head.

With a face like that, how could you possibly refuse?

But you thought about Ted. You thought about the idea of having dinner with your blissfully handsome ex-boyfriend. The sun was almost done setting. Who knows what could be possible when the night came? You’ve had enough emotional turmoil this week, so you decided. 

“Another Chuckle week. Can you take me home?”

You see his face drop slightly, so subtle you’re not entirety sure it even happened. He nodded. 

"Sure."

The drive back is calm, noticeably a little bit slower. Schlatt in domesticity is always a man of little words, but of action. He didn’t say any of his burning questions, but he did open the car door for you as he pulled back into your apartment. He did carry your purse for you as he walked you to the door. The few words he did speak as he bid you farewell haunted you for the rest of the night. 

“I missed this.”

[maxrowave]

The long-awaited drarry cannibalism writing

This is only a snippet and is part of a much bigger thing, albeit the quality of the writing is a bit dubious because when writing, I'd never intended on them being read, I will provide some context for this + other notes at the end. I would also like to mention that this writing does contain the contributions of a writer who has requested to remain anonymous.

Draco has been subtly manipulating Harry to resent among his closest friends, because of orders from Voldemort; Draco puts Harry into a situation where he needs to either kill Seamus or Draco. Harry chooses to kill Seamus however faces lots of regret. It is also snowing and they are outside, disposing of the body.

Harry Potter is a fool. A stupid, ginormous fool. Whenever Draco traced his forearm, Harry leaned into Draco’s touch, craving it like a child craves approval. He still could not bring himself to meet Draco’s eyes, feeling undeserving after the heinous act he had done. Harry killed Seamus with his hands. He could have pulled out his wand, making his suffering minimal, but a part of Harry wanted Seamus to hurt for abandoning him. Harry wanted- Harry became all too aware of the fact Draco was towering over him and slender fingers found their way into his hair, forcing him to look down and not bow his head in shame. Harry had never bowed his head to Draco before out of pride, but now he didn’t cower solely because of the acceptance offered to him.

“You saved me from David. I saved you from Seamus. Now we’re even.” Harry says plainly "Seems righteous."

Harry began averting his gaze to stare at Seamus. Unlike David, Seamus was not beautiful in death. It was the stark opposite. This was the ugliest thing Harry had seen in his entire life. He looked down at his hands, briefly imagining what it would have been like if the roles were reversed. Harry’s hands would be around Draco’s neck instead with Seamus cheering him as he stood behind him, urging Harry to punish Draco for years of torment. Harry would squeeze as hard as he could until that angelically pale face burned red with vessels bursting, but then Draco would only look at him with those inhuman silver eyes and Harry would pull away ashamed. Harry would have spared Draco, feeling guilty for wanting to hurt him.

Draco stepped a little closer to Harry, not intentionally, but perhaps some subconscious animalistic instinct for warmth; a moth to a flame. He was to report in his next letter, Harry had struggled with killing one of his closest friends, yet he'd done so anyway. He'd indulged himself in a sin and his hands were stained, Draco's curiosity burned with where Harry's limits were. How far could he push this lion? Poke and prod it in its cage and teeter on the tightrope of danger as he observed him. Draco wanted nothing more than to break apart his skull and look into that brain of his.

Alas, he kept the thought to himself, the awareness of Harry's crumbling state as he'd killed Seamus for him like a lamb to a sacrifice. There was this slow and steady building of Harry's commitment to whatever arrangement they were calling this, with Seamus's death and Harry finally sealing his soul to Draco.

This was the moment Draco had fully decided on taking Harry under his wing.

___ OTHER INFO AND BITS Throughout the whole actual writing, in Harry's mind, he often refers to Draco as angelic because of his features -- blond hair, and pale skin, Draco meets a lot of conventional beauty standards. However, in a lot of Draco's subconscious, there are a few metaphors about the devil in contrast, with the devil being a fallen angel and all that. All around some religious references because what's sexier amiright? Furthermore, Harry mentions Draco saving him from someone named David -- that is the first person Harry kills, and it is by accident. The name David was chosen because in the Bible he symbolises goodness, obedience and morals, therefore by killing him, Harry has killed his own morality.

[batsplat]

OOH do you have any old motogp forum recs?? I would love to see what fans were saying in like the early 2000s, but I have no idea where to look

lemme check my bookmarks... r1-forum I've gone through a fair bit, threads dating back to early 2004. motogpforum goes back to early 2005. motorsportsforum picks up late 2006-ish, that one I've gone through in its entirety for the early alien era. motorradonline24 is admittedly in german but has the BIG selling point that it goes all the way back to 2001. apriliaforum also goes pretty far back but it takes a little longer for discussion of actual racing to get going. there's definitely more I've checked out - I might make a proper list at some point, but just to start you off

the thing about these forums is that it's undoubtedly interesting and useful to get some context of fan opinions (good mix of actual nuance/worthwhile discussion and just slagging off a bunch of riders)... but if anything they're even more precious as a record of actual *news* that has otherwise been scrubbed from the internet. there's a lot of drama and controversies and anecdotes that only exist on these forums

which... tbh there's been quite a few that I haven't included in my posts just because I'm not entirely sure they quite pass the burden of proof requirements. but man, so many of them are so interesting. it's a tricky balance. just as an example - one particularly nasty thing casey allegedly said about jorge that IF TRUE does feel like it would add something to my understanding of casey. but the article only exists on forum pages... still, it made it to three different forums I can find and is written in the usual tone of the author, so I feel fairly confident the original article existed. but then again, the article itself is just an anecdotal conversation relayed by one bloke. on the other hand, this is a reputable enough commentator you wouldn't expect to COMPLETELY make it up - and funnily enough I have even found a photo of him talking to casey that specific weekend. on the other other hand, it's a colourful anecdote that might have been exaggerated for effect. then again, I can kinda see casey saying it - not least because casey confirmed in his autobiography years later that he was pissed off at jorge that specific weekend. but it does feel like the sort of thing that should have caused a controversy... like if jorge saw what casey allegedly said you'd expect there to be nuclear winter, and there's no further trace of it. hm

so what do you do with that kind of thing, share it or not? the further you go back with this stuff the worse it gets, where I keep finding - plus am being sent - increasingly wild quotes from early noughties motogp. at least most of those are from news sites, some of them of dubious quality, but generally you'd really like to find at least one other source backing up the quotes. which often you won't get!! so yeah, it's all interesting context and gossip, but as ever I'd advise being wary of the specific stories. even the funny ones. especially the funny one

anyway, all that being said. this ask was sent in relation to a post about laguna 2008, so I'm going to take this excuse to actually share some discussion of laguna 2008

so. taking u through the fan chat of the weekend from one specific forum with select commentary... here's the thread starter

reminder that dani was injured at the sachsenring and would eventually opt against racing (effectively ending his title bid, but michelin was useless anyway that weekend)

relatively good reason to believe in english-speaker (and in particular american) overperformance at the track. obviously hayden won there the first two years, edwards even beat valentino to second in 2005 which has got to be the only time that year he finished ahead of vale. often more familiar with the track, or it just suits their riding style better. and ofc vermeulen did bag a distant third. still. valentino in the trenches if people thing edwards will beat him icl

have to say. the idea of the 125/250 riders going down that corkscrew fills me with a visceral sense of horror

'marco' btw as in marco melandri, in the middle of his ducati season from hell

dovi super popular in 2008 fyi, darling of the posters. everyone was obsessed with his rookie season

plenty of solid foreshadowing happening here you have to say

it is very motogp rider behaviour, and also very valentino behaviour, to look at the corkscrew, go 'hm i don't think this is even safe to WALK down', and then fucking hurl yourself at the other guy into that very same corner as you're both travelling at horrifying speeds on a motorcycle. going tentatively through that bit of the track during practise and then in the race he's making his bike go bounce bounce like a trampoline

wow!

*stares at camera*

still nasty work to say this, he repeated it in several interviews I think

okay, no forum posts during the race itself so now we skip to the post-race discussion

which is what the tone from a lot of posters was like

narrator: casey had not calmed down

(if you watch the podium ceremony and see some of the photos without context, you WOULD think they're having a laff. it's just that they're having a laff while casey is telling valentino that he's lost respect for him and valentino is delighted)

two australians on the podium btw

jorge highside cameo

a lot of people were whinging about a lot of 800cc races being boring because a lot of them were. you can copy and paste much of what people are saying about racing these days, if you want to get an idea of the tone

casey fan writes in

again. cannot be stressed enough how casey very much had not calmed down. but that's the fun thing about that rivalry, like they will ALWAYS have a tonal mismatch between their face-to-face interactions and whatever out of pocket things are being said in the press. casey also really big on the pissed off smile which helps

'not even sure that the riders even touched at any point' is. pushing it

yeah the no handshake thing really didn't get a positive response (casey did ofc eventually shake valentino's hand on the podium)

is it really a clean battle if you think someone will fall off

don't want to say that it's a lost cause because casey DID get smarter about this stuff, but ducati certainly aren't doing shit

so much of laguna and its legacy is about both of them threatening each other lol, please allow him

again, podium chat categorically not a friendly conversation. otherwise qualified casey defence

likewise

thought this was interesting in terms of discussion of actual rules - valentino said a few years ago the move wouldn't be allowed anymore and he thinks that's a good thing

“It needs rules,” he said. .”Because the situation with the overtaking manoeuvers and everything is much more extreme now than it was in Laguna Seca in 2008. The routes have changed a lot, now there is no more grass next to the slope, but the green stripe.  “That was done for safety. Because if you catch the grass at that speed, you'll fly away. The asphalt, on the other hand, is less dangerous. In my opinion, however, you have to make a rule and say that you shouldn't touch the green at all - see it as if there were still grass there. “At the level we have reached today, which is extreme in many respects, everyone goes over the curbs and is all green if you don't have a clear rule. I think that's the right thing to do.”

but yeah tbh... I know casey disagrees but I feel like the move WAS probably fine by standards of back then

some more rules chat

and more

"will be hearing big footsteps every time he is in front"

and here we are then. not much that's groundbreaking, but I do find it interesting!! this is a pretty pro-casey audience... most of these forums were generally pretty positive about him. english language speakers were way more hostile towards dani and later jorge for various reasons - you'll also find at least some distaste for valentino in these spaces alongside the usual adulation. so that's the yardstick... this is probably close to as casey-friendly as discussion of the race got among the wider fanbase. it was always going to be a tough sell to air his grievances about this race until a few years had passed. the general reaction was that the racing had been hard but fine, an extremely welcome contrast to the general quality of racing at the time. and almost nobody thought casey should have reacted as he did in parc fermé. interesting contrast with jerez 2005 actually (though admittedly sete not particularly popular in most forums) - sete was low key seen as having a more legitimate grievance than casey. anyway, obviously this blog's stance is that sportsmanship is overrated, but that's how you end up getting the poor bloke apologising in brno

[jakeperalta]

what do you think about romance novels nowadays being so heavily inspired by Taylor Swift? I’m thinking about this bc of Emily Henry’s new book but honestly I don’t even really care that it’s lightly inspired by last great american dynasty. Emily’s also a great writer so I know that she’s not saying it as a gimmick and based on the synopsis she’s obviously made it her own thing. But for other authors it does seem like a marketing tactic to get more swiftie fans. Like books being blatantly named after TS song lyrics. (Especially period/historical books bc named after TS song lyrics, it just feels weird tonally). And of course those books about pop stars/actresses and athletes that are very obviously Taylor and Travis in a different font.

Agreed!! Emily Henry has proved herself as a great writer and doesn't need a gimmick to get sales, so with her it feels like more of a fun little nod to the song whilst still having all of its selling points separately. But it's so obvious when some authors just use Taylor lyrics or Taylor related marketing to try to capitalise on the Taylor hype and it automatically puts me off because I can't help but assume the book doesn't stand up on its own merit. And don't get me started on the Taylor/Travis inspired books, I don't think it's a particularly interesting story idea anyway but especially when it's blatantly hopping on the trends (and some of them were literally (self) published within a matter of months of the relationship existing, which makes me very dubious of how high the quality could be)

[enkisstories]

I just put Chapter 5 of Mutiny on the Steadfast online. Recap: After the battle of Exegol, Poe got captured by the First Order. On their capital ship he gets subjected to a memory altering treatment. But can the enemies' trickery also override his personality? Doubtful.

(Admittedly some of the dialogue I already used in the castaways story. That's how Mutiny started - I wanted to write a somewhat more serious version of the Poe amnesia arc.)

---

Anyway, here's the outtake:

Poe woke up to the smell of… detergents? No, that wasn’t quite right. The air around him had that sanitized hospital quality, while his clothes stuck to his body and several spots in his arms stung from where injection needles had pierced his skin. He was lying on his back on what felt like an exam table. It was moving… Poe opened his eyes just the moment when his head left a tunnel of sorts and was now looking directly into the ceiling lights.

“Ngh…”

Poe pressed his eyes shut again. He tilted his head to the right side and when he opened his eyes again, he met the detached stare of a medical droid.

“Everything is on order, Sir. Please lie still and don’t try to get up until the disorientation has worn off”, the droid said.

Not in favor of lying or sitting still in general, and especially not when he was so dizzy that he couldn’t tell whether he was on a ship or planet, Poe clenched his teeth. His back was hurting as if a predator had clawed into it and then salivated on the scratches. The gooey stuff had to be bacta gel. There was the vague recollection of it having gotten applied hastily and just carefully enough to make getting shoved into whatever apparatus that was Poe had exited just now bearable. For extra horror points there was not only blood on his clothes, but it hadn’t even fully dried. Poe realized that he was not in the best of shapes, and him wearing a short sleeved gym shirt with a TIE-fighter print offered little comfort. Now a face appeared in Poe’s field of vision, and then another. They belonged to… woot! A Commander and a General, although their names escaped the patient at the moment. But their familiar uniforms with the code cylinder array put Poe at ease, enough to joke around:

“I think that was my favorite shirt…”

“And I think that dubious honor goes to the one with the X-Wing, Sir”, the female officer, a commander of the intelligence corps, remarked.

“I own…? You must be pulling my leg!”

“Do you know who I am?”

Poe shook his head.

Now the General stepped closer. He was older, light skinned, with black, greying hair, carried himself with the confidence of a capital ship commander and looked at Poe like a predator bird at a mouse. All things considered, this senior officer was probably waiting for the pilot to commit the felony of running in the floor and was ready to dish out detention to everyone short of the Supreme Leader.

“What do you remember?”

Panic rose up in the patient, because there wasn’t much in terms of episodic memories. Poe could name the objects in the room, the common ones anyway, not the specialized medical devices. He had heard of a computer tomograph that sported an iconic half-tube, so he declared the thing he had been in as one. Poe also knew concepts from breathing to taxes, but beyond that? Everything regarding himself and his life so far was covered in a fog of war.

Walking through what seemed to be his most recent memories, Poe gave voice to his confusion:

“Pain, confusion, fear? Not a lot of fear, but definitely present. Being stressed. Walking around half naked. Briefly wearing… is that a Resistance uniform jacket? I can’t really tell. Getting beaten. Very nearly passing out. Troopers carrying me… here.”

“Those troopers and their leader are due a medal. They managed to rescue you from the rebel filth”, the General said. “Given the state you were in, we conducted a full medical examination. You’ll pleased to hear that there was no permanent damage. You’ll make a full recovery and can resume duty soon enough… General Dameron.”

Poe blinked.

“That rank sounds right, yet wrong.”

“You were promoted only recently, for having served commendably during the battle of Exegol.”

“I remember… Exegol. I lost hope in the face of overwhelming odds.”

“The blasted citizens’ fleet steamrolled us, but we made it out in one piece”, the General said. “Anything else you remember?”

“No. I get... impressions. When you bring up a concept or event, I can vaguely contextualize it. But even with those nudges the pictures remain blurry.”

The old General nodded.

“That’s good. It means you can expect to regain your full memory over time. There are treatments that can help with that, but first you’ll have to recover from your captivity at the rebel flagship.”

“The Resistance still has a capital shift left?”

“A corellian freighter.”

Poe chuckled: “Yeah, that sounds more like it. Now that you mentioned it, I can smell the grody floating coffin again. – Can I get up now?”

The General looked at the medical droid, who replied affirmative.

Still feeling a bit dizzy, Poe swung his legs over the exam table’s edge and slid down. Finally solid ground under the feet again! Well, if solid ground had been something Poe Dameron had craved. Blasted rebels, putting him into this predicament!

“Uh… Not to sound disrespectful, Sir, but who…?”

“Pryde. General Enric Pryde. I command the Steadfast. And this here is Chief Intelligence Officer Kandia, aforementioned leader who played a key role in your rescue. Your immediate superior, Admiral Griss, isn’t present in this room.”

Ah. Okay. The General commanded the ship, when an Admiral was present. That was… a bit strange.

“And Steadfast is…?”

“The current flagship and mobile capital of the First Order!”

Poe smiled. Now this General Pryde’s elevated position made sense again. He had to be a member of the Supreme Council, probably the First Order’s interim leader, after Lord Ren had… had… After Ren… Poe groaned as surreal pictures formed before his inner eye, trying to get his attention. There was Supreme Leader Ren in a grimy black sweater. He was grinning and he, Poe, was angry at him for being so cheeky in the face of everything that had happened. But in truth Ren had disappeared, and he certainly never had worn a torn sweater!

“Thank you, Commander”, Poe addressed Kandia. “I owe you a lot more than I’m able to process in my current state. In time I may be able to properly…”

“Thank us by being the hero we were afraid to have lost”, Kandia cut the pilot short.

“I will!”

“As for your memories, Sir, maybe someone else will be able to trigger something?” With these words Kandia looked at Pryde, who nodded. “I’ll get Hux in here”, Kandia said, then left the room.

"That name doesn't ring a bell at all”, Poe admitted to Pryde. “Could it be that I know them under a different one?"

"Armitage?"

Poe shook his head. "That sounds even less familiar. It just tells me that his parents must have lowkey hated the poor kid. - Hey! Now that I said this, it sounds true. Even though I still don't know who Hux is."

"You may remember a fair bit more than you are consciously aware of."

And I must make sure that this doesn't become a problem. A couple more “memory retrieval assistance” sessions should program you well enough.

The door opened again and an orange-haired man entered. Every step and gesture down to the fingertips looked practiced for maximum effect, but the man looking as if the late Snoke had put him through the wringer utterly negated the first impression he was trying for. Bruised, emotionally drained, his clothes in disarray… Being seen in public like this must hurt this man even more than the encounter that had left him in such an undignified state. Poe grinned. Ego, ambition and totally blown out of proportion projects, that withstood the real world by the skin of their teeth only, that was the image he had saved of the one Kandia had called "Hux", and whom he still didn’t really remember.

Pryde gestured into the arrival’s direction. "General Dameron, meet General Armitage Hux. General Hux, meet again General Dameron - sans his memories. You are rivals, by the way."

Rivals? Poe laughed out loud!

"That was a trick, right, Sir? To test how bad my amnesia really is. Haha! As if we could hurt so much as a hair on the other’s head!”

Poe pulled the fellow officer into a tight embrace.

“C'mere, Armi... Hugs!"

"You lose your whole damn memory, but you remember that name for me?!" Hux growled into Poe’s shoulder.

"We hug a lot, right? I think I missed you!"

Muscles tensing, feet planted firmly onto the ground to prevent angry stomping and breath coming out of the nose like a farthier’s snort… Why was Hugs acting as if his parents had instructed him to endure a smooch from an overly doting auntie? When he noticed that the hug wasn’t welcome, Poe firmly grabbed the other by his upper arms and pushed him back a little.

“What’s with the reluctance? Did we argue before I lost my memory?”

Hux raised his chin in defiance. The glare he met Poe’s eyes with was so cold that it was already burning and made the pilot wince. When the General opened his mouth, though, his tone was all professional:

“We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

Poe slowly let go, then nodded.

“That was probably my fault. I think I can be quite foul-mouthed.”

“I...noticed?”

“Of course you would’ve.” Again Poe laughed. “At this point you probably know me better than I know myself! Fill me in about everything over tea!”

Much as he tried to stay composed, Hux couldn’t prevent his lips from curling and baring his teeth. His “Do you really remember nothing at all?” came out as a hiss.

Poe, however, was still totally oblivious to the tension around him. Or maybe aggression was how people in general reacted to Poe Dameron, so he was used to it, Hux wondered?

Diving once again into the swirling mists that were his scrambled memories, Poe fished something out that had been on the forefront of his mind recently:

“I think I had a droid whom I was very fond of. An astromech. White, with orange markings. Her name’s Snowgirl. I painted the little spitball in your image, right, Hugs?”

Tell me you didn’t. Tell me that wasn’t the reason and I can die happy!

To everyone’s surprise it was Kandia, who flared up at the mention of “Snowgirl”: “I’m sick of retrieving that droid of yours over and over! Don’t expect help from me, except in slicing it into half!”

“You weren’t even involved in this to a significant degree”, Hux snarled into the intelligence officer’s direction. Then he faced Poe again, still not exactly a paragon of warm-heartedness, but determined:

“Don’t bother asking them. I will help you find BB-8!”

“Ah, right. Everyone is a number.” Poe blinked. “Do I…?”

Hux’ hands slid behind his back, a familiar sight, although none that Poe had missed. The pose only made his friend look like a chicken with her wings folded. Of course Armitage would claim that he was a hawk or buzzard instead. At the very least a majestic rooster.

“Nah. You’re an imperial scion, like me”, Hux revealed to Poe. “With a family legacy and all that crap.”

Poe shook his head. He got the vague impression that he had delivered a message from his absent mother to Armitage once, but couldn’t qualify her relationship to her son, let alone to Poe himself. He barely remembered his own parents: “Not much is coming back. I vaguely remember that my parents and step-father were in the battle of Endor.”

“So was I”, Pryde quickly chimed in. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Poe heard the reluctance in the older man’s voice when he made that offer, but he wrote it off as Pryde loathing how they were of the same rank now. There seemed to be a deep rift between his generation and the older officers, something that he had overlooked before his memory loss. But now it was plain to see. Oh, well, all the more reason to stick to Armitage!

---

This may have read a bit like a gingerpilot fic, but it isn't. Poe in this AU is with Finn, what leaves Hux for Rose:

“We’re going to execute this rebel, and broadcast it to the citizens’ fleet”, Pryde announced.

The rebel in question, it was Rose Tico, looked up to Hux.

“Again at it? Is this our thing, you trying to execute me?”

[foundationsofdecay]

So let's play

In Sundowning, we get a lot of references to Sleep and Vessel's relationship being like a game they play. It's violent, sure, it has its highs and lows and winning and losing seasons, but even though the most hardcore sports fan may insist their preferred sport is more than just a game... maybe it can eclipse multiple roles, but that doesn't mean that it isn't still a game to be played at the end of the day. It's something both teams are knowingly and willingly engaged in.

Blood Sport, of course, is the most obvious example of this in Sundowning. Rolling the numbers, playing with chance, playing over and over despite knowing you're never going to be the winning team at the end of the season, those are all very prominent aspects to that song. Take Aim is debatable, depending on if you wanted to stretch that to an archery or sharpshooting perspective, though the image of Vessel with the arrow on his head can be a compelling one. In Give, we have talk of fighting fair, a relationship that's like open warfare but uses similar language to war games. More explicitly we see this in Sugar - "you play your twisted little game", "you must be crazy if you think that I will give up the game".

Here's the thing, though: forgive me if I'm mistaken, but I don't think we get a single lyric in a single track on TPWBYT that could be described in this manner. None at all. The absolute closest thing I can think of is vague references to warfare again in something like Missing Limbs - "my polite offenses won't last for very long", for example - but the idea that this is some kind of sport they're engaged in has long since vanished, and it's dubious whether or not he's even referring to Sleep so much as the heavens brought up in the previous verse.

Then again, TPWBYT is pretty unique in its tone and language, or at least marks a major departure from what was established in Sundowning.

Yet, even the two singles dividing those two albums don't use this language. In something like Jaws you can find references to play, but these are far more one-sided. Being "caged and always provoked by prey left unattended" is partly a rather impotent cry and partly an invocation of the image of a child pouring salt over a slug or pulling legs off of beetles. In this game, only one person in truly playing, and what kind of game is that, really?

Given that, what about TMBTE? Were the singles and album after Sundowning a momentary pause, a change in perspective on their interaction based on the broader concept that comes back into the previous focus when we reach the third album?

Well... no. You can see last vestiges of it in something like Chokehold's "you keep me sharp and test my worth in blood", but the duality that was once there is completely gone, just like we saw in Jaws, here more akin to dog fights than anything. You get references to hunting in Aqua Regia, but not of the competitive type either. Perhaps if you framed it in the sense of a game of life and death, but there's an animal quality to that, the result of a force of nature rather than something they willingly and knowingly engaged in like in Sugar.

So, what is it, then? Is Blood Sport the last time we ever see their relationship in that light, or at least the last direct acknowledgement of it? Blood Sport is in and of itself an introspective piece, reading more as internal monologue than dialogue. Though, as said at the outset, even though it's an admission of loss that doesn't necessarily mean the game is going to suddenly end. What, then? Did the game actually end there, or did it stop feeling like a game and more like an obligation? If you didn't call the game, you have to decide: will you save yourself the trouble and refuse to put up a fight, or keep fighting anyways? Do you end it now, or do you let it drag out until the end?

[mermaidsirennikita]

Just started reading Daisy Jones & The Six and I gotta ask - who would you have cast had you been in charge for the TV series?

Honestly, I don't really know. I had people I might've cast at the time (like, four years ago) but so much has changed since then and I don't necessarily feel the same way.

I diiid like the idea of Florence Pugh as Daisy back in the day, and I maintain that. I feel like Daisy needed to be played by someone who could be both realistically battered and realistically ethereal, and... a good actress.... Florence is all of those things. For Billy, in my mind's eye I always pictured more of an Aaron Taylor-Johnson type (not saying ATJ, just talking the Look, though hey, he did play Lennon)--bigger than Sam, obviously beautiful but also obviously a part of the kind of reactive masculinity of the era.

I mean. The show, at certain points, very obviously tried to draw from Jim Morrison and Pamela Courson's aesthetics to an obnoxious degree with Billy and Daisy. And while Daisy was traaaansparently a Stevie rip in the book, Billy, imo, probably had to do not only with Lindsey but with people like Morrison. Because frankly, I don't think Lindsey on his own has the kind of mystique that Stevie has (I mean... I know he doesn't lol) and TJR wanted that for her male lead. However, I think that Sam and Riley were both super poor choices for transmitting that kind of mystique. To be blunt, I think that Riley's heritage went a long way towards ensuring she was cast, and I kind of roll my eyes when they try to suggest that it had nothing to do with it. You're gonna tell me that the fact that she's the granddaughter of "The King of Rock 'n Roll", however dubious that title may be, had NOTHING to do with her being cast in your fake music biopic? ... okay.

And while I don't think Sam is a bad actor, I do think his Billy was such a fucking sad sack. Essentially neutered. Billy was supposed to be this super compelling frontman, capable of being both a good father and husband and of falling into his demons. There was absolutely no edge to Sam's Billy. He gave big "starts crying midway through sex and not in a good way" vibes. But I think that was totally intentional, because they didn't want Billy to be as problematic and aggressive onscreen as he was in the book. They wanted to sanitize this whole deal and turn it into a Billy/Daisy romantic melodrama.

ANYWAY. One thing I do know is that they basically lost the plot as soon as they turned the whole thing into a cash grab with the music. Because I sincerely do not care if anyone in that project could sing in real life. They're supposed to be acting. Like, I don't even think Sam and Riley had Billy and Daisy's vocal qualities anyway, so who cares.....

[floatingcatacombs]

Bro Your Taste....

12 Days of Aniblogging 2023, Day 5

Watching the Elitist Anime Superbowl play out earlier this year on Tumblr reawakened something in me. Seeing Evangelion lose to Mononoke like that in round two felt downright heretical. But why? I started but never finished NGE and I haven’t even seen Mononoke, so I shouldn’t have a dog in the fight. And yet, there’s an unspoken yet established hierarchy in my brain that tells me that Eva is better than Mononoke. These polls were a bit of a wake-up call for me that this isn't actually a common framework or approach anymore! So I thought it might be worthwhile to give an account of what anime elitism meant, and means, to me.

tldr (from KC Green's anime club)

Rather than going through all the shows in the bracket, it may be more useful to start by identifying which internet communities skew elitist in the first place. I started watching anime in the early 2010s, so Usenet and early forums and email discussion groups are lost on me. But I did my time on 4chan, for better or for worse. /a/ is perhaps the textbook example of an elitist community, and I would say that they’re responsible for establishing most of the modern weeb canon. The anime blogosphere, though diminished these days, is also a tastemaker, especially when you start seeking out “hidden gems” to make your taste seem cooler and more unique. I originally considered making Floating Catacombs a WordPress blog to try and link up with some of these folks, but ultimately determined that the baked-in audience of Tumblr would better serve my purposes (and they’re owned by the same damn guy now anyways). Lastly, as those previous communities declined, patchwork groups of elitists began to form on Twitter, where many still reside to this day arguing and ass-kissing amongst one another.

Elitism is, in part, an acknowledgement that the vast majority of anime is dogshit. Just look at any given season and count up the isekai shlock, blatant wish fulfillment high school romances, and mediocre shounens ripping off other mediocre shounens. At least 75% of anime is stuff you’d have to pay me to watch. Of course, this isn't unique to anime, being just as true of live-action TV. The difference is that prestige television doesn't have to compare itself to soap operas or reality TV, whereas anime is still commonly treated as a genre in of itself rather than as a medium. As long as that’s the case, anime elitism will always have a place, as a way to say “oh I like anime but not like that” so your taste doesn’t automatically get lumped in with the most low-quality and/or sexually dubious shows of the time.

And obviously, elitism can just as easily be framed as a reaction against the masses. There’s liking Mushishi for the sake of liking Mushishi, and there’s liking Mushishi because its serenity and thoughtfulness reflect well upon you for being able to appreciate it, unlike those dirty Redditors and MyAnimeList denizens who need fanservice in everything they watch. Unfortunately, this means elitists have a tendency to elevate some truly pretentious stuff that looks cool but just isn’t very compelling or deep under the surface. Ergo Proxy is my personal go-to example of this– how it beat out Stand Alone Complex in that Tumblr poll is a mystery to me. I’d argue that Lain is also overrated in this way, but I don’t want to hurt all the sad neurodivergent extremely online women who probably make up my entire audience.  

One thing I've noticed is that elitist communities don’t make a ton of art or fanfic or other creative works. For them, the primary way to participate in fandom is to argue over whether or not a show was good, or if a given part of a show was good (waifu wars, etc). This makes the output of these sites fairly ephemeral (in particular, imageboards automatically delete threads to make room for new ones), but it also means that people will constantly repeat themselves and get in the same arguments to make themselves persistently heard. We’re still arguing about Evangelion 25 years later, after all! After using shows as a cudgel against other shows for a long enough time, you can start to form a hierarchy of notable anime in ways that you can’t really with Tumblr or Reddit or any other community that largely hops from show to show as they come out.

The canon for anime elitism is mostly contained to the late 90s and 2000s, and I think there’s a few reasons for that. As I brought up in the Patlabor post, the 80s are something of a dark age for broadcast anime, while the 90s contain some of the last beautiful breaths of cel animation. The 2000s were when 4chan had an outsized presence online, so it makes sense that a lot of shows deemed elitist come from the era where their taste was king. By the mid-2010’s, after GamerGate, moot’s departure, and the blatant fascism on every board, 4chan’s cultural clout had effectively zeroed out.

There’s also the blunt argument that simply fewer cool artsy anime get made these days. Ping Pong is one of the last truly “elitist” shows I can point to, and that was nearly a decade ago. Due to the overlapping issues of anime overproduction, poor working conditions, and production committees seeking ever-safer investments, a lot of the stuff that comes out these days has a very workmanlike quality to it, competent but never targeting excellence.

OHHH YEAHHHHH

But my final reason for the decline of elitism is a wholly good one – more people are appreciating the good stuff these days! Watching anime has somehow become a normal hobby for the teens that grew up after me, no longer something that needs to be hidden and consigned to small school anime clubs. While battle shounen still reigns supreme, it’s probably leagues better than the comparable stuff from 10 or 20 years ago (though still pretty damn misogynist most of the time). More importantly, new fans and old-guard elitists actually agree on the good stuff! Works like Mob Psycho 100 and Trigun Stampede were huge hits and bridged the gap between these groups through their quality and style, and in Trigun’s case by re-adapting a classic. The breakthrough success of Bocchi the Rock demonstrates that people can vibe with more experimental animation now, and it doesn’t have to be relegated to its own sphere outside of the anime mainstream. And Oshi no Ko has a difficult “dude trust me” pitch but successfully synthesized the pretentious and the mass-market in terms of both its audience and its themes. (I would guess. I haven’t actually seen Oshi no Ko either. An important, unspoken part of anime elitism is lying about half the stuff you’ve seen and just going with the flow on how people around you felt about it). Combining an old-school 90’s-2000s feel with insane pacing and fights, Chainsaw Man similarly captured a wide audience. Even if people have qualms with the overall quality of the adaptation, that one episode shot like a movie won me over. It’s good that some of the most popular anime can be artsy as well, and if that’s what ultimately does elitism in, it will be a happy ending. May poptimism save us all.

In the meantime, elitism lives on in the manga world, where smug assholes can talk about how they liked a series before it got adapted. Manga is very popular these days, but that's mainly driven by people diving into the source material for anime that they enjoyed. This leaves fundamentally unadaptable manga as the last bastion of elitism, which makes sense when you consider how people talk about Berserk.

I’ll leave you with some rapid-fire hot takes of mine.

Steel Ball Run is not that good and its ranking on MyAnimeList as the second best manga of all time is nonsense. It will receive more proper crit in a few years once the inevitable David Production adaptation shines a light on its more troublesome bits.

After rewatching it this year, I can say with clarity that Everyone Is Sleeping On Concrete Revolutio

Goodnight Punpun kind of sucks! Might just be me.

As far as beloved 90’s psychological anime goes, 4chan and Reddit historically love Eva, while Tumblr overwhelmingly went for Utena in that poll. This whole thing smacks of gender.

The Gundam fandom historically has something of a reputation for misogyny, so it’s really funny and good that my exposure has instead been almost entirely trans women on tumblr. We will inherit the mecha genre.

Actually, screw manga, there is only one vector for anime elitism now, and it’s Thunderbolt Fantasy. You gotta get in on Gen Urobuchi’s Wild Puppet Show.

[armchairaleck]

Alright, I am going totally out into the wilderness, away from anything the Dragon Prince fandom wants to read, to write some totally self-indulgent Viren/Corvus post s5 enemies to lovers.. ticking all my boxes but no one else's.. it’s pretty much consuming all my writing hours because I know it will be blown to smithereens by season 6… and I don't have much to say about it here because I also know it's utterly ridiculous.

ANYWAY sometimes I need a break from two guys discussing the nature of fate and existence around a camp fire (yep, fun times when I go all in on the indulgence..) so I’ve also started to write bits of King Atticus is an utter bastard AU (haven’t really thought of a proper name for this yet…)

Here’s a snippet cut below. I don’t even know if it will make it into the main plot, it's really just a little study of Atticus and Kpp'Ar plotting somewhat dubious stuff for Duren...

“Mmm” Atticus lifted the goblet of red wine to his lips and smiled. “Here’s to new ventures.”

Kpp’Ar did not drink straight away, he swirled the wine a little and let its scent settle in his nose first. The wine would undoubtedly be some of the best the five kingdoms had produced. He might as well savour it.

The first sip didn’t disappoint, rich and heavy on the tongue, mountain wine, grown in the foothills of Del Bar, he could almost taste the sweetness of the first winter frost that they’d allowed to settle on the grapes before harvesting. An excellent vintage, he let it roll slowly around his tongue and watched the king.

Atticus sat regarding him, eyes narrowed. It was often the king’s policy to sit until a silence grew so uncomfortable that it was impossible not to break it, and Kpp’Ar decided to oblige him before it reached that point.

“You seem to have already decided on the mage you want as my successor.”

Atticus leant back in his chair and rotated his goblet slowly between his fingers so that the candlelight glinted off the gold.

“Well, he has certain admirable qualities the others don’t possess. Very dedicated to the kingdom, and my son Harrow seems fond of him, they’re fond of each other, no? You can’t pay gold for that sort of loyalty.” He laughed, and Kpp’Ar felt his usual slight revulsion at the cold, metallic ring of it. “You’ll have time to indulge your other pastimes, research, those puzzles that you like. You can let someone younger do the more mundane magic and worry about politics.”

Kpp’Ar shrugged, it wouldn’t do to let the king see his true emotions, he was like a snake that way, he would swallow them now and digest them slowly later, add it to the list of all the other information he kept locked away inside his head.

This latest move, his retirement, was simply the king rearranging his chess pieces on a board. Kpp’Ar knew he had outstayed his usefulness, there was no point in arguing his case.

“It would be nice to have the time to explore other avenues certainly.” He smiled back at the king.

“Precisely, council meetings were never really your scene, and Viren has a strong sense of… justice.”

“Indeed.”

Kpp’Ar gazed down at his glass, he didn’t particularly want to look at the king, to see the knowing look on his face, the unspoken things that lay beneath his words. There were many things he found it prudent to keep to himself, but he could never be completely certain that Atticus hadn’t already sniffed them out somehow.

“You’ve invested a lot of time in Viren, it must make you proud to see how far he’s come.”

Kpp’Ar took another sip of the wine. There it was, the little flash of the blade. The way Atticus would hold it in his hand and let you see for just a moment before striking.

“Of course.” He let his finger trace the patterns etched around the goblet, finest Neolandian gold of course, and he feigned absolute indifference. Even if Atticus had an inkling of just what Viren meant to him, of the odd complexities that their relationship contained, he was not about to expose that in front of him. “I suppose I’ve grown… fond of the boy.” He wasn’t a boy now of course, he was a man grown and yet sometimes there were moments when Kpp’Ar could still see the burning drive of Viren’s younger self, awkward and eager and full of passionate intensity.

“Yes, you always seemed unusually invested in that one.” Atticus gave him a slow smile, like a wolf it was, all barred teeth. “Don’t worry, he’ll do well, achieve far more than most men of his station. Do you know, I’m even considering giving him a title? Lord Viren, I expect that would sit well with him. You were never much moved by titles were you Kpp’Ar? But then, you came from money, what does a little word mean then?”

Atticus knocked his signet ring against the rim of the goblet in his hand and the sound reverberated in the silence.

“For what would you give him a title?” Kpp’Ar kept his voice merely curious but he knew there would be a cost involved commensurate with the reward. Common boys like Viren did not simply become lords in Katolis.

“For services… rendered. I mean, that’s the usual reason for giving out titles, no?”

Kpp’Ar stilled his features and took another sip of the wine. There were very few angles to playing Atticus, once he had made up his mind about something there was very little dissuading him. Kpp’Ar knew he himself was an aberration, tolerated only for his unmatched skills in dark magic. Of everyone at the court he alone said no to Atticus, everyone else bent the knee, and so here he was, nothing but a piece in a game that could be quietly removed now. There was a new piece to take his place, one that he himself had trained and honed to perfection to suit the king’s needs. In a way he’d always been playing Atticus’s hand, had moved his own pieces exactly where the king had wanted them.

“What service will you be asking of him? It would be better for me to know, in case I need to advise him.”

Atticus placed the goblet back on the table.

“Yes, of course, you might be right. The ambassador from Duren… she’s been getting a little… insistent lately, harvest failures, a blight that’s been spreading year by year. Of course Duren don’t keep a high mage, strictly speaking there are no mages at all in Duren, they see themselves as… above that sort of thing. Enlightened, talk is Del Bar are thinking of curbs at least. Imagine that, soon all the kingdoms might start considering dark magic unacceptable, you know how they love to frown on anything they don’t understand.”

“I’ve heard some rumours.”

Kpp’Ar did not keep in particularly close contact with any dark mages other than those he has trained himself, and yet this news had already travelled to him from a disgruntled trader in Del Bar. It’s true that Duren by advantage of their geographical location have not had to resort to dark magic in quite the same way the other kingdoms have. Most practitioners there are simple healers who keep to the shadows and are recommended only by word of mouth. There are no great mages, no one of the calibre that Kpp’Ar would consider worthy of the title.

“Quite, and yet now that their harvests can’t feed the population, to whom do they turn?”

“To you I suppose.”

“To me.” Atticus’s voice cut like cold steel. “Suddenly their moral high ground is not so lofty after all, suddenly our aid is acceptable. I intend to let them see what a few more years of blight does. Let them come to the pentarchy when their backs are really against the wall. Then we can negotiate.”

Kpp’Ar nodded, Atticus had always been politically ruthless, it had left Katolis almost as powerful as the other four kingdoms put together. The Katolian army is a well-oiled machine, it greatly exceeded the needs of a few border skirmishes that erupted from time to time with Xadia. He ruled with an iron fist, and yet he was one of those rare leaders who can also put on a show of relating to the common man. Kpp’Ar had always been impressed watching him in action, from the humblest peasant to the richest lord he ingratiated himself effortlessly, like some street hawker peddling false cures.

He himself had always struggled to bond with anyone, he had very few friends, and yet for some reason over the years he has known him Viren alone had become something else to him. Something he chose never to quite quantify with words because it was fraught with hidden danger. They have blurred the edges of their relationship in so many different ways now and it was increasingly apparent that these feelings he had have allowed him to be played. He can see no way for Viren to avoid the web that Atticus has spun.

“So you want Viren to put her off?”

“No. I want new ambassador, someone a little more amenable, or better still, no ambassador from Duren. She simply has to meet with an accident, it would be unfortunate, but… well these things happen.” Atticus spread his hands and shrugged.

“What will you tell Viren?”

“Just that, nothing more, he’s a bright enough lad, ambitious, he’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t think you know him that well, he won’t kill someone, not even for a title.”

“Well, the title is only an incentive, a man like Viren has plenty to lose though doesn’t he? That beautiful wife, the son he seems so fond of, a baby daughter too.”

There is a dark look on Atticus’s face now and it is that moment that Kpp’Ar can see how easily he’d been played, how utterly out manoeuvred he had been, and that he is now expendable, he too could meet with an accident if the king willed it. He took another sip of his wine, swallowed it impassively as his mind worked around the problem.

Atticus thought that he knew him, thought he knew every person and all their weaknesses, but he isn’t infallible, he’d always been greedy for magic, for the power that it gave him but also for the knowledge of it too.

“I have a solution that might work, something I’ve been wanting to test for you actually, something I believe you’ll like.”

“Oh yes?” Atticus looked at him, face impassive, but he can see the glint of hunger in his eyes. Kpp’Ar knows something about human weakness too.

“Old magic, elven, I picked them up in Xadia, I had to pay a considerable price.”

Kpp’Ar reached into his cloak and dropped a soft fabric bag on the table, Atticus reached for it, undid the string. He is a man who had always been inordinately interested in dark magic and all its trappings. A small pile of coins dropped onto the table and the king stacked them, one on top of the other, before picking up the top one and spinning it slowly between his fingers.

“What are these?”

“Prisons, very old I believe, they trap the soul, hold it in an different plane. Far more elegant than murder.”

"Hold it how?"

"Trap the soul, transmigrate the body. No trace."

“Alright, so the ambassador is gone, we say she’s been taken by Moonshadow elves. Create a little division with Xadia. Duren could send a hundred spies to scour our kingdom and they won’t find a trace?"

"Correct."

Unlikely another ambassador will be keen to come after that.”

“I'm sure you have ways of getting your wish, Sire.”

Atticus flipped the coin and caught it easily, regarded his own reflection in the polished gold.

“Heavier than a normal coin.”

“Yes.”

“What magic?”

“Star they told me when I bought it, but that’s only because it increases the price considerably. I should say moon, perhaps some corruption of the moon primal. Hard to be sure without more research.”

“Interesting. Fine that plan is acceptable, can you reverse it?”

“Theoretically, I haven’t quite worked that part out yet, there are very few records of this sort of thing. Perhaps if Viren and I could use the castle library I might find something there.”

“As you wish.”

The king placed the coin back in the sack, pushed the others back in carefully and tied the string.

“I think perhaps I’ll let Viren have a few more months under you, so he can get used to the new role, he can attend the council meetings, but I’ll still consult you on the magical side of things. How does that sound?”

“Very good your majesty.”

Kpp’Ar bowed his head so Atticus couldn’t see his expression.

“Oh, and Kpp’Ar, send Viren to me later will you? There are a few things I wish to discuss with him.”

———

What are the complexities of Kpp’Ar and Viren’s relationship?

Viren and Kpp’Ar are carrying on a clandestine affair behind Lissa’s back… I mean maybe.. when I get into the planning of this AU Viren has a lot of affairs, clandestine and otherwise..

[nursingwriter]

¶ … Anne Arundel Medical Center is one of the hospitals in Maryland that offers a report card of its services. In actuality, this medical facility offers a significant amount of more information for customers to decide whether or not they want to use it other than this report card. Additional information includes patient experiences, quality measures, as well as documentation regarding the quality of culture at this hospitable. However, the quantifiable nature of the report card, referred to as quality measure scores, makes this one of the more credible sources of information. Of the 27 different categories available, Anne Arundel Medical center received 6 100 percents, three 99 percents, and four 98 percents. More revealing was the fact that the hospitals scores were largely contrasted with those of the median in the state. It is significant that in only six categories, Anne Arundel was lower than the corresponding median in the state of Maryland. It was even with the state median in three categories; in three categories there were no state medians while in one category (influenza vaccinations) there was no score for the hospital, presumably because the vaccination period scored extends to March. However, due to the fact that there are a wide number of categories discussed, with a favorable showing for Anne Arundel compared to state medians in the vast majority of them, this report card certainly appears to be helpful to consumers. It appears that one could choose this hospital for a variety of conditions -- one of the few exceptions would be for pneumonia treatment, in which the state median was higher than Anne Arundel in two categories. It certainly would help for consumers to research the additional information related to specific medical needs, but for the most part this score card indicates this is a credible hospital for a consumer to attend. There are a number of hospitals within Maryland that have a system of report cards available for individuals to review and determine whether or not they wish to patronize those establishments. However, not all of them are as thorough as the previously discussed one. An excellent example of this fact is provided by Atlantic General Hospital. To its credit, this institution has additional links on its website that can inform consumers about its practices related to quality and safety. There are, however, no patient testimonials, which are of dubious value anyway since these generally function as propaganda. The specific name of the scoring card used for this organization is Hospital Consumer Assessment of Healthcare Providers and Systems. It has only 10 different categories in which it is evaluated. But none of these categories pertain to specific areas of treatment, which was one of the most useful aspects about the Anne Arundel scoring system. Instead, the 10 categories listed on Atlantic General's site pertain to general facets of service that are uniform to medical facilities. Topics include subjects such as proficiency of nurse communication, cleanliness of bathrooms, and the celerity of help received. Although these categories are important, they do not provide as much information in specific areas of treatment as other report cards do. Even more importantly, however, Atlantic General did not score very highly on this quantifiable assessment. It's scored were compared to the median for Maryland and national-based hospitals. Although this extra "participant" in the scoring process allowed for more competition, it is significant that this particular hospital was only highest in one of the 10 fields measured. Moreover, its scores in a number of fields was only in the 70's percentile, which although competitive, is not high enough for me to consider patronizing this institution. https://www.paperdue.com/customer/paper/anne-arundel-medical-center-is-one-of-85708#:~:text=Logout-,AnneArundelMedicalCenterisoneof,-Length2pages   Read the full article

[thatpunnyperson]

I swear, I'll be several tags into reblogging a post, and I'll make one spelling mistake, and the second I go back to fix the typo, the app refreshes and the post whooshed away and it no longer matters that I made that typo or had added a bunch of tags already. It's gone. The post is just fucking gone. I scroll forever and can never find it again. Why is it ALWAYS when I go to fix a typo when this happens.

If you're wondering what post I was just looking at, it was one where people were making fun of southern californian's for playing in the flood waters from the recent hurriquake. And I was griping in the tags that most southern californians know flood waters are incredibly dangerous because we have been getting flash flood emergency alerts our entire lives because when it rains here, it literally causes flash flood every time. Californian's KNOW about floor waters, this isnt a case of "It never floods in california! Those idiots dont know the dangers!" okay, we KNOW. I PROMISE WE KNOW. Everyone is taught and cautioned and scared into knowing EXACTLY what is dangerous about all moving water in general.

The people doing dumb shit in the water and the same kind of people who do that shit on the east coast when hurricanes dump several feet of standing water on entire cities. They're just dumb and optimistic that the water won't get them this time. It's not a california thing, I promise.

Also at every california beach at every entry point to the sand, there are signs talking about the dangers of the water and how to recognize changes in the behavior of the waves to know when disasters are coming. Every fellow californian I've ever talked to about the water (and I'm not exaggerating here, literally every californian I've talked to both in the state and out of the state) knows how to spot a riptide, how to spot an incoming tsunami, knows how to safely walk through several inches to a foot of water, knows not to go into any body of water alone, knows how to properly wash off after going in water of dubious quality (I'm talking the ocean, rivers, lakes, and swimming pools). Like, california has a ridiculous amount of water and the various government organizations have a very vested interest in making sure people stay safe and don't put themselves in danger accidentally.

Anyway, this is the end of my small rant about southern californian's and flood waters. Literally every time it rains here, we get flash flood warnings and all of the ads on social media and the internet and everything change to disaster preparedness and how to deal with flash flooding. We KNOW about the water dangers. Go yell at the Floridians who decided not to evacuate for hurricane idalia. Even the fire department evacuated, come on now

[too-gay-for-marvel]

just this once pt.6.1

a/n: I’m gonna put as many warnings as I can in this one because it’s fairly dark. Idk if it’s considered “dead dove don’t eat” quality, but I’ve got as many warning as possible just in case

Words: 5,351

Warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, slavery/ownership of mutants, trafficking, coerced consent, sexual exploitation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, dubious consent, graphic descriptions of violence and torture, mass murder, swearing, cheating

Pairing: Natasha x Reader

solnishko - little sun

(pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6.1 pt.6.2 pt.6.3 pt.7 pt.8)

“I feel uncomfortable,” you mumbled to yourself as you pulled your leather gloves over each finger.

You were supposed to infiltrate a trafficking ring. Word on the street was that mutants were being bought and sold, for whatever purpose the buyer deemed appropriate. Nick had warned the both of you of the potential sexual elements of the case, and Natasha had noticed the blush spread across your face at the news, but you had nodded in agreement and left.

Natasha would have been more than happy to have just been normal with different names, but people knew who she was and your, hmm, “features” would have been too distinguishable. So those beloved scientists at SHIELD had come up with some ways to hide those features.

You had let them install an implant into the back of your neck, and before you knew it, your gills and spines flat against your skin. Now they just looked like scars, which would fit in well with the trafficking scene. Next was another implant, this time in your hand, that eased the sea tint of your skin to something more natural.  Last was a pair of gloves since nothing could hide the webbing between your fingers.

All Natasha had to do was dye her hair blonde.

“Which part is uncomfortable?” Natasha asked as she finished putting on some killer red lipstick.

“All of it,” you grumbled. “I feel so… human.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Natasha asked again as you both stood up straight. She reached her manicured hands up to straighten the green tie that was around your neck.

“It is to me,” you finished with a huff.

“Before we get started, we need to make our parts clear,” Natasha said softly, her hands still on your tie even though she had already straightened it.

“Gonna make me your pet?” You asked, eyes glued to Nat’s. Those stupid SHIELD contacts hid the depth to them, made them look empty. They weren’t your eyes, and it made Natasha feel like she was talking to a stranger.

Maybe she was.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Natasha shrugged. Her hands had started busying themselves by flattening the wrinkles in your shirt.

“Funny, cause you abandoned me like one,” you said, your jaw clenching and your eyes left hers.

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” Nat asked, finally stepping back to give you a bit of space.

“Until I believe you.”

Natasha huffed. You were right, she knew you were; she had been trying to apologise for the past two weeks while preparing for the mission. Bringing you food, offering to help clean your wounds, verbally apologising a million times a day. But nothing, and even though Natasha knew you were right, she hated it.

“I can be the pet,” Natasha said with a slight nod.

“They wouldn’t buy it,” you huffed, looking down at your feet.

“They might,” Natasha said again, taking a small step forward. You flinched slightly, and Natasha froze.

“You command a certain… authority. Respect,” you said as your brows knitted together. “They’d see right through me.”

“All of the victims are mutants anyway,” Natasha continued your train of thought. “You can relate to them better, whether you look like them or not.”

“Try not to enjoy it too much, yeah?” You asked, a hint of teasing in your voice but Natasha could pick out the malice. It left a knot in her stomach that she couldn’t shake.

You both got in the car and sped off, you in the driver’s seat. Once you arrived, you got out of the car and let Natasha out, slinging your arm over her shoulders. Then you made your way into the club and did what you would be doing for the next however-many months. You schmoozed, you learned the ropes, you met the right people. Sometimes some less-than-socially acceptable actions would be made, but the end result was what mattered.

There were nights where you would both come home and collapse in on each other. The wear and tear of the day would cause the both of you to crash and just hold each other. No words, only physical comfort and the occasional tears. Those were the nights Natasha loved, because you would let her get close again. She just missed being close to you.

Other night you would go back to your safe house and fight, yelling and screaming because you want this to be over, you’re tired, you’re disgusted, you want to go home. You would both yell and throw things and storm off because it was hard. You hated her, and Natasha hated the situation, and no one was happy.

The worst night happened after you had both separated and gone into the back rooms of the club, Natasha with a pet and you with an owner.

You had gotten in the car and sped off, absolutely seething. Your knuckles were pale against the steering wheel as the speedometer ticked higher and higher. Natasha wanted to tell you to slow down, but she could see you weren’t going to handle it well, so she kept quiet.

It was only when you parked and had both gotten into the safe house.

“It’s fucking bullshit, Natasha,” you said as you slammed the front door shut. Your neighbours probably hated you by now. “They’re not fucking property.”

“I know,” Natasha had said calmly. “That’s why we’re here.”

“No, we’re here because Fury wanted to get his rocks off by putting us on another doomed mission.”

“Nick cares,” Natasha said, still attempting to keep her temper down even though it was threatening to rise. “He sent the both of us for a reason.”

“No, he sent the both of us because he knows we don’t work together,” you shouted, turning on your heel to jab a finger into Natasha’s chest. “We don’t work together anymore, but he doesn’t like it.”

“What do you mean we don’t work together?” Natasha asked, her voice quaking ever so slightly.

“I mean we don’t work,” you reiterated, your finger jabbing into her chest again. “I fucked you over, you fucked me over, it never works.”

“Don’t say that,” Natasha shook her head.

“Name one mission we’ve gotten right since I fucked you over,” you demanded. “One single mission.”

“We…” Natasha trailed off. She couldn’t think of one. Couldn’t think of something you had both gotten right since… well.

“Exactly my fucking point,” you growled. “But at least on those missions I could fucking stand to be in the same room as you.”

“Excuse me?” Natasha asked as you turned and started to walk back to the shower. “You can’t stand to be in the room with me?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” you shouted back, still not turning to look at her. “I can’t fucking stand it, makes my skin fucking crawl.”

“I’m not the only one who fucked up in this relationship, Y/N,” Natasha continued as she followed you into the bathroom. You had tried to slam the door on her, but she threw it right back open.

“On no, you’re right, how silly of me,” you put your weight on one hip and threw your hand to your chest. “I forgot that fucking you was the same as you leaving me to be tortured.”

“How dare you,” Natasha hissed. You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t say it was the same, I said we both fucked up.”

“I’m not taking responsibility for this one,” you said as you took your shirt off, lifting from the bottom and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. “I said my apologies and did everything you asked of me.”

“Then let me make it up to you,” Natasha said, voice raised and shaking on the last few words. You turned your head and looked at her, and she could see the faint outline of your gills against your neck. “Let me make it up to you.”

You moved quickly. The bathroom door slammed shut at the time Natasha felt her back pressed against the chipped wood. You towered over her with one of your hands by her head and the other on her waist. She could smell the alcohol on your breath and the stench of that owner coming off your clothes. But underneath it all, she could smell the salty sea on your skin as she looked up into your not-quite-yours eyes.

“You wanna make it up to me?” You asked, your breath fanning across her face. But there was no inebriation in your voice; you were painfully sober.

“Yes,” Natasha whispered. You didn’t move, just kept your eyes glued to hers.

“Then do it.”

“I’m so-”

“Not like that,” you said, your voice more demanding. She hadn’t heard you like this since… well, since before Maria. “On your knees.”

Natasha kept her eyes on you but did as you asked. She slowly fell to her knees, ignoring how hard the scuffed wooden floor was. Her pants were still on, but she could feel the occasional splinter or bump through the fabric, irritating her skin.

“Beg,” you ordered. Because it wasn’t your usual voice, it wasn’t soft. There were emotions in your voice now, Natasha could hear it.

“Y/N,” Natasha started, softly, carefully, “please forgive-”

“Not for forgiveness,” you interrupted.

Oh.

Oh.

“What about M-”

“I don’t care,” you cut her off. “Do you want us to come off as master and pet, or not?”

“This isn’t the same,” Natasha insisted. But she had to admit it to herself; kneeling in front of you and having you watch her so intently was making her very uncomfortable.

“You wanted to make it up to me,” you said again. “So prove to me you can handle this part of the mission.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the pet,” Natasha teased with a small smile. But you bent down and wrapped your long, slender fingers around her throat; not squeezing, but reminding her that you would.

“In private, I’m nobody’s pet,” you said slowly, calculating, dominant. “Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Natasha said softly, almost too distracted by the hand around her neck to even get the single word out.

“Then you’d better start begging, Natalia,” you said, letting go of her throat and standing up again. “Before I change my mind.”

You stepped back and leaned your hip against the chipped bathroom counter. Your arms crossed over your bare chest and you waited. Something about your casual yet demanding demeanour that reminded Natasha of all those years ago when the both of you had been together. The kind of you that she had missed, had secretly craved.

“Y/N,” Natasha started. The words got caught in her throat; it felt like she was going to suffocate on the words before she could get them out. Maria’s face flashed in her mind and-

“Keep goin, princess,” you said, urging her to keep going with a raised brow.

Fuck.

“Please let me make it up to you,” Natasha said, her voice turning shaky. You always did this to her. “Please just…,” Natasha hesitated, and you raised your brow once again. “Please fuck me.”

“That can’t be all you’ve got,” you said with an irritating grin. “Try again.”

“I hate you,” Natasha huffed.

“You can pretend to hate me after you beg,” you replied.

Natasha wasn’t going to beg; she wasn’t going to beg you for something so ridiculous. And she was going to keep her mouth shut and pretend it never happened and you could both go back to your mission like nothing was wrong.

But when she kept silent, still in her head, she looked at you. She looked at you and watched your lips turn up into a smirk before starting to unbuckle your belt. Her mouth went dry as you pulled the belt out in one swift movement and set it on the counter.

Natasha’s breath left her in a huff when you grabbed the waistband of your jeans and started pulling them down. Those tight jeans that hugged your ass perfectly and showed off the outline of the strap that had been driving Natasha insane every time you would leave for the night.

“You gonna say it now?” You asked. Natasha couldn’t look up at your face; she was too distracted.

“Please fuck me,” Natasha said, so softly that she was almost convinced she had only thought it.

“No,” you said simply. Even with all the tech hiding your mutations, they couldn’t hide your build. Or how clearly uncomfortable you looked with minimal clothing on.

“Dammit, Y/N,” Natasha said, “please fuck me. I want you to fuck me, to bend me over the counter and have your way with me until I can’t even think. I want you to-”

Natasha was cut off as you moved forward and picked her up off the ground. She yelped at how easily and quickly you could pick her up, and the next thing she knew she was sitting on the bathroom counter and you were standing between her legs.

Your hands held her face and pulled her close, smashing your lips against hers unceremoniously rough. Teeth clacked against each other, but Natasha didn’t care. She didn’t care at all, she had missed your lips on hers, had missed the closeness from those years ago.

She felt your hands left her face before moving down to her pants, unbuttoning them with a precision and speed that reminded Natasha of just how many people you had probably slept with. It nearly made her pause until you slipped her pants off, and her bare legs on the cold counter made her shiver.

Next was Natasha’s shirt, which you didn’t even bother unbuttoning. No, instead you just grabbed the edges and yanked, the buttons flying everywhere. Natasha slapped your arm gently as a scolding, but you didn’t care. You just took the ripped shirt off her shoulders.

Her bra was next, and once it was gone Natasha had expected you to take her panties off next. But no, you didn’t. Instead you pulled her down off the counter, turned her around, and bent her over it. Your foot wedged her legs apart, and Natasha was done for.

“Tell me again,” you said in her ear as one hand held the back of her neck and the other started running down the inside of her thighs.

“Please, Y/N,” Natasha said, barely keeping her voice even. “I want it. I need it. I need you in me.”

She felt, more than heard, you chuckle. As soon as the words had come out of her mouth, you pulled her panties aside, not even bothering to take them off, and inserting two fingers into her. Natasha let out a moan, instantly feeling full from your long fingers.

“Is this what you meant?” You asked as you started finger fucking her, not near fast enough to satisfy her. She almost thought it was worse than not having you at all.

“No,” Natasha said, “I want more.”

“More?” You asked. She could hear the smile in your voice. “What more do you want from me, solnishko?”

The use of the only Russian name you have ever called her sent a shiver down her spine. Your breath near her ear, your hand tight on the back of her neck, your fingers pumping in and out of her. It was all too much, she couldn’t think properly.

“Your strap,” Natasha finally managed to get out before another moan fell from her lips. “Please.”

She didn’t have to wait long to get what she wanted. You pulled your fingers out of her, and she whined until she felt the tip of your strap pressing against her. There was a moment where Natasha thought you were going to tease her, to make her cry. But that moment disappeared when you sunk into her, filling her completely.

Every thought in her head vanished once you were buried inside her. She could feel you moving, could feel you thrusting into her and pushing her against the counter, could feel your fingers flexing against her neck. All of the feelings that she had missed, she had craved, were flooding back and overwhelming her.

“Harder,” Natasha said. Her voice was probably far too quiet and jumbled with moans for you to understand.

But you did understand, because you always understood what she wanted, what she needed. And your grip on the back of her neck moved to hold the front of her neck as you pulled her up flush against your chest. Your other hand held her hips still as you did as she asked, making her body shake with each thrust.

“Open your eyes,” you said in her ear. “You need to watch.”

Natasha opened her eyes and moaned instantly as a sudden wave of arousal flooded her core. Your eyes were locked on hers in the reflection, the eyes she dreamed of so often. They bored into her soul, drawing out every thought in her head.

When she felt your fingers flex and squeeze and press on the sides of her neck, her eyes fluttered closed. She felt lightheaded and dizzy and euphoric, and when your hand left her hip to rub her clit, she lost it. It was too much and she just wanted to-

“Open your eyes,” you demanded again, squeezing her neck a little tighter. “And no cumming without permission.”

It was a struggle to open her eyes and keep herself from just letting go. But she managed, forcing her eyes open and seeing you holding her gaze again. There was a knowing smirk on your face, one that Natasha wanted to slap off of you.

If you weren’t so good at fucking her senseless.

“Please,” Natasha asked in a high-pitched, whiny voice.

“Please what?” You repeated. “That’s not very specific.”

You thrust into her harder, upping your speed while her hips stayed pressed between you and the counter. She was going to have bruises on her hips, she could already tell.

“I want-” she was interrupted by another thrust, another moan. “I wanna cum.”

“You want to?” You asked. Your smile grew bigger. “You can’t cum until you need to.”

But she did. Oh god she did. She needed to cum like she needed air. Like she needed to be around you, to feel your presence, to feel your touch. She needed you to make her cum and forget all of the trouble of the past and be reminded of all the good times.

And when you started circling her clit faster, burying yourself in her, she couldn’t wait.

“Please let me cum, I need to cum, I need you to make me cum, please.”

You didn’t answer, just locked eyes with her in the mirror, smiled, and tweaked your fingers just right over her clit to push her over the edge. To call it intense was an understatement; it was the only thing Natasha was aware of. The whole body orgasm was enough to leave Natasha a writhing and moaning mess, and you kept up your pace through all of it.

Only when Natasha started to go slack in your arms did you slow down to a stop, holding her up with your arms and leaving warm, soft kisses over her shoulders and neck. You were soft; much softer than you had been only seconds ago.

She almost thought she heard you say “I love you.”

——

Things became slightly less unbearable after that night. At least you didn’t hate her anymore. In fact, you two actually got along, and everyone in the clubs seemed to take notice of it. Sure, you still hadn’t really forgiven her, but that didn’t matter because now you could both focus on the task at hand.

And you found yourself making friends with one of the big boy’s pets on the dance floor a few weeks later.

Natasha had been at the bar, flirting her way into a conversation with a connection. He was a perverted creep and just looking at him made her skin crawl, but if it helped move this undercover stuff along, then she would do whatever she needed to do.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a young woman - a mutant, judging by her literal horns - pull you down and whisper something directly into your ear. You stood up slowly, your eyes glued to the lady, then slowly turning to look at Natasha.

She excused herself from the conversation and made her way over to you, her very presence commanding the authority that you had spoken of all those months ago. Everyone moved out of her path until she reached you, her hand instantly going to the small of your back. Under your thin, skin tight t-shirt, she could feel the faint outline of your spines.

“Did you need something, little one?” Natasha asked, eyes drilling into the girl’s soul. She felt a knot form in her stomach when the girl looked down immediately.

“Master took an interest in your pet and wants to meet you,” she said in a soft voice. A voice far too innocent for the situation she had been thrust into.

“Then lead the way,” Natasha ordered. She hoped with all her being that she hadn’t sounded too harsh. The poor girl deserved better.

The girl grabbed your hand and started walking off, dragging you with her. Natasha reached out to grab yours before you could get too far. Even through the gloves she could tell you were sweating by how hot your palm was, and she gave your hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. You returned it.

She led the both of you through the crowd, past the speakers that were blasting so loud Natasha swore she would need hearing aids after this mission. But once you were past, the entirety of the club became muffled and was quickly replaced by laughter, moans, the slapping of skin on skin, the clinking of glass, and the occasional scream.

Natasha couldn’t tell if they were screams of pleasure or pain.

When you were stopped right outside of a room, the girl let go of your hand and turned around. She still didn’t look up to meet Natasha’s gaze, but she did look over to meet yours. It was a secretive look, one that would have gotten her in trouble if she had been caught by anyone else. But it was also one of fear, desperation, silently begging for help.

“Master doesn’t like the pet being in front,” she said. “And she doesn’t like to hear them speak unless spoken to.”

Wait. She?

Natasha looked at you, and you nodded before moving behind her. You were close, but not too close; something you had learned the hard way at an earlier club. You had been close and had gotten a few whips to the back by another owner who proceeded to call you disrespectful.

It had made Natasha see red. She had jumped forward and grabbed the hand that held the whip, threatening him before snapping his wrist. You had shot a look her way, and she felt her pulse race as she realised she might have blown your cover. But all was well when the other owners laughed and praised her for her loyalty over her property.

“You may go in,” the girl continued once you were in position. She stood aside so you could both walk in, and Natasha did her best to maintain her composure.

The woman was sitting on her plush couch, drink in one hand and cigar in the other. She looked both as lavish as Natasha had expected and yet also seeming like a normal person. If Natasha imagined someone at a club, this is what she would have imagined. The normalcy of it all sent a shiver down her spine.

“Please sit, Miss Craft,” the woman said in a slight, indistinguishable accept before gesturing to the couch adjacent to the one she was sitting on.

Natasha’s movements were slow and calculated. She noticed the younger girl move and sit on her knees in front of the woman, back straight. It was the first time Natasha noticed the Raft collar on her neck. Must be a connection, she thought to herself. By the time Natasha had sat down, you had positioned yourself behind the couch, directly behind her.

“You know my name,” Natasha said nonchalantly as she crossed her legs.

“It’s my business to know your name,” the woman smirked.

“May I have the honour of knowing yours?” Natasha continued. She heard you shift behind her, and the woman’s eyes narrowed at you for a moment.

“You can call me Roulette,” she said quickly. “Where did you get your pet?”

Natasha had to fight the urge to look back at you. She didn’t like the look Roulette was giving you; one of desire. But not necessarily lust; more like you were a trophy that she wanted for herself. Why, Natasha didn’t know.

But she was going to find out.

“A personal gift a few years ago,” Natasha shrugged. “Not officially on the books.”

“They’re stunning,” Roulette continued, eyes still glued to you. “Can I see?”

Natasha’s voice stuck in her throat, but she nodded. She gestured for you to move forward, in front of Roulette, and kept her eyes locked on the woman as you came into view. Your hands were clasped behind your back - another hard-learned lesson - and your back was ramrod straight.

“Fantastic,” Roulette said, more to herself.

She stood up and only came to your shoulders. You avoided her gaze, instead keeping your eyes locked to a spot on the wall; a habit you had picked up when anyone studied you. Your shoulders and arms tensed when she walked around you, but other than that you stayed still.

“Lean,” Roulette said, her hand coming up to travel down your arms. “Strong core,” she continued, coming around and putting her hands flat against your stomach. Natasha spotted your jaw clenching and relaxing. “A bit scarred, though.”

Her hands moved to touch the gill outlines on your neck, and you flinched. You had told Natasha at the start that they were still extremely, and Roulette was putting her hands all over them. Running her fingers across each line, moving up to behind your ears.

“Sensitive, little one?” Roulette asked when she touched your gills again. Your eyes flicked over to Natasha, filled with a silent question. She gave you a single nod and prayed to the gods that it was the right decision.

“Yes ma’am,” you answered before swallowing so hard that Natasha could hear it from where she was seated.

“Oh my,” Roulette said, a devilish smile on her lips, “and a voice to match.”

She kept her hands on you as she continued to study you. Her manicured thumb ran over your lips and then into your hair. Those same hands traced your collar bone, your arms, felt the muscles in your back. She was studying you, looking for something, and Natasha could only sit there and watch.

Especially when she went to your front and grabbed the bulge of your strap like she owned you.

“Someone is prepared,” she purred. “How much?”

“Excuse me?” Natasha asked, not having prepared herself for the question. Your eyes widened, but otherwise stayed locked on the wall.

“Would you like cash, or a trade?” Roulette asked again, stepping closer to you until there was no space in between.

“Neither,” Natasha answered. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep a straight face and even tone. “I’m very fond of them.”

“How about a loan,” Roulette suggested, finally turning to look at Natasha. Her eyes were filled with lust. “I’ll even put the both of you up in one of our penthouses.”

Natasha locked eyes with you. This would be the closest the two of you had gotten to the main circle. If she said no, you would have to start all over, work your way back up in another direction. But if she said yes, you would be in. You could learn whatever you wanted to know and could end this operation for good.

“This is unexpected,” Natasha said, rising to her feet and walking closer. “Give me a night to think it over?” She asked with a sickly sweet smile.

“Of course,” Roulette answered. “I would be hesitant to loan this one out, too.” She finally let go of your, and Natasha heard your breath leave your mouth in a rush. “I’ll give you the penthouse for the night anyway, as a sign of good faith.”

“You’re very generous,” Natasha said before turning to you. “Isn’t she, little dove?”

“Yes ma’am,” you said, voice thick, “beyond generous.”

“Well mannered,” Roulette said with a slight shake of her head. “And just when I think your pet can’t get any more perfect.” She didn’t bother looking anywhere but at you. “My pet will give you directions to the penthouse. I expect to see the both of you back here at 8 tomorrow evening.”

Roulette’s pet - Natasha really wanted to know her name - finally got up from the floor after a small nod from Roulette and immediately led them out of the room. You kept your distance behind Nat, but she could practically feel the nerves radiating off your body as you exited the club.

The young lady gave you the instructions, and you quickly opened the car door for Natasha before getting into the driver’s seat. Just like that night so long ago, you sped off, hitting incredibly dangerous speeds. Natasha didn’t call it to attention. Instead, she just got her burner cell and made a call.

“Something wrong?” Maria asked on the other end of the line. She had picked up before the first ring had finished.

“Run a scan of a building for me,” Natasha instructed, quickly giving Maria the address.

“I see video feed but… no audio,” Maria answered after a few seconds.

“You sure?” Natasha asked as you skidded around a corner. Honking quickly followed. “I need you to be absolutely positive. We don’t want to blow cover now.”

“You’re in?” Maria asked, and Natasha could hear typing on the other end of the line.

“Close,” Natasha nodded. You sped around another corner. “If we blow it now, we’re done for.”

“Ran three different scans,” Maria said. “No audio. But video in every room, including the bathroom.”

“I wish I was surprised,” Natasha huffed. “Thank you.”

“Please stay safe,” Maria insisted. There was a tiredness in her voice. “For me.”

“Of course,” Natasha said, trying to convey a smile through her tone.

“I love you,” Maria said. She didn’t give Nat the chance to return the sentiment before ending the call.

You pulled into the parking garage, nearly crashing into the gate before it was completely open. The car flew into the nearest empty space and you slammed on the breaks, nearly throwing Natasha into the console in front of her.

But you didn’t turn the car off. You put it into park, but didn’t turn it off, instead continuing to look out the windshield. Natasha could see the gears turning in your head, could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the tensed muscles in your jaw. So she waited.

“She touched my gills,” you said, your voice rough.

“She did,” Natasha said softly with a nod. You still didn’t look at her.

“She touched them,” you said again. The roughness was making way for shakiness.

“I know,” Natasha said, still talking as softly as she could possibly manage.

“No one touches my gills,” you said, your voice more quiet but still just as emotional.

“I’m so-”

“I’m going to kill her for it,” you said. There was no room for argument in your voice. Natasha could tell by the new energy in the car that you had made up your mind.

And you were going to follow through.

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