#mean while in bronze

[thebrainrotsreal]

Gsgw HC designs :D Not entirely canonically accurate tbh, took liberties. I'm totally right guys tho, trust. Saheon implied to have dark eyes? Smh, they're gold, guys, source? Trust me bro. Minseong totally has a mole + double dimples, Haje rocks a bob, J3 has long hair, and gov't agency standard suits are open suit jackets with warmer color palette leaning into dark purples/brown, while corp has blue/grey with closed/button up. Youngeun has curly hair guys, trust me :/ she told me.

But, had so much fun with these omfg? Fought the same-face demons and actually won, I'm so happy messing with shapes! Literally kept drawing until I got winded/stuck.

[camellcat]

aughh rewatched my favourite ep today and !! vamp willow still sort of confiding in xander even after she realized he wasn't her xander. he asks if she's okay and she straight up tells him no because everything is so horribly wrong and he obviously doesn't know what's going on because he's alive now but he still cares about her, doesn't he? yes. clearly. so maybe they can stick together like she's used to. and then she shuts down the moment someone else walks into their bubble

feeling very normal about this

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

theres probably a statement to be made on how they released two greek servants in like 5 months of each other and the more famous one is a 3 star and the one thats kind of a side character in another person's story is a 5 star

[djsangos]

//TRIUMVIRATE AT HIGH TIDE??? ARE YOU KIDDING??? ARE YOU KIDDING??? ARE YOU KIDDING?????? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING????????

[lunarblazes]

also for the record i started my entire pjo/hoo binge to re-evaluate people’s opinions on jason grace. i was like surely he can’t be that bad we must just be mad at him because he’s not percy.

i’m on the lost hero now.

i’m joining the war on jason hate on the side of jason hate THIS BOY—

[spurbleu]

it’s over the minute you start playing hide and seek.

johnny has a big family. his siblings have kids, his parents siblings have kids who also have kids, which means a holiday leave offers limited privacy and abundant chaos.

he’s learned to embrace it. adores it, even. kids stroke his ego like no other, and the more he can see his parents the less he pays attention to the new wrinkles and the reality he only has so much time to hold their hand. to be someone’s son.

but you? the sweet, unassuming bird who he met by happenstance, who’s the first person he’s brought home for an approaching decade? he winces as he grabs your bags from the trunk- already expecting the fawning- the embarrassing prattles they’ll throw your way.

he was not expecting you to navigate it though.

the adults love you. turns out all the same charms that had him whipped works fairly well with his relatives. three glasses of wine in and he can still hear his aunt laughing. genuinely. that’s a miracle.

and don’t even get him started with the nieces and nephews.

stole all his thunder and he isn’t even mad about it. watches as they chase you in the backyard, cartwheeling around while you catch your breath.

his sister nudges him in the side and he starts.

“how’d ye catch a bonnie like tat?”

you send him a lopesided smile from across bronzing grass. you’re glowing.

yeah, he’s a goner. “couldnae tell ye.”

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

☆ : thinking about filthy and rough sex with Phainon’s second form.

Phainon towers over you, his body a brutal masterpiece—rippling muscles shining like molten bronze, skin glowing under his wings of blazing gold fire. His eyes burn deep, wild and hungry, and that thick, swollen cock between his legs is already dripping, aching to fuck you raw.

He grabs you hard, like you’re nothing but his plaything—his big hands digging into your waist, lifting you up and smashing you against him. His wings flare wide, casting flickers of heat that make your skin crawl with desire and fear all at once.

His scruff-covered jaw is tight with hunger, lips curled into a savage snarl. He yanks your hair so hard your head snaps back, exposing your throat to his grip—his fingers pressing down, cutting off your breath, making you gasp for air.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick and dark like hot whiskey. “So wet, so fucking needy. You’re my Angel, and I’m gonna break you wide open.”

His cock slams into your dripping pussy with savage force, stretching you wide, pounding deep and merciless like he owns every inch of you. Your pussy clenches around him, slick and trembling, and he loves the way you scream and beg, tears mixing with sweat on your flushed cheeks.

His golden wings flicker behind him as he fucks you harder—harder than you ever thought possible—each thrust shaking the room, his body a storm of raw power and hunger. His voice cuts through the haze, rough and commanding.

“Say my name. Say it like you mean it.”

You choke out his name, broken and desperate.

“Good girl,” he snarls, biting down hard on your lip as he drives in even deeper. His hands are everywhere—one crushing your throat, the other dragging you closer, his chest pressing tight against yours.

Then his mouth crashes down on yours—biting, sucking, tasting every desperate moan as his cock fucks you like a god damn beast. His muscles flex and pulse, wings beating slow and heavy behind him, trapping you in his fire and fury.

When he finally pulls out, thick and dripping, he doesn’t let you go.

He shoves you down to your knees, eyes blazing with cruel hunger.

“Clean me up, angel,” he commands, voice cold and unforgiving.

You don’t hesitate. You want this. Need this.

You take him in your mouth, swallowing every inch, tasting your own wetness on him as you worship the savage god who just claimed your body—hard, filthy, and completely fucking his.

He groans, fingers tangled in your hair, fucking your face as you suck him like the desperate whore he’s made you.

“Mine,” he growls. “Forever.”

His golden halo hovers above him, pulsing with a fiery glow that bathes your skin in its wicked light. It’s like the goddamn sun itself is watching you get fucked raw—holy and filthy all at once. The heat from it mixes with the fire in his wings, wrapping you up in a blaze you can’t escape.

Phainon’s chest heaves, sweat gleaming on that bronze skin, muscles tight and flexing as he holds you firm. His eyes lock onto yours—dark, hungry, burning with something savage and possessive. Every inch of him is alive with power, and you’re drowning in it, desperate and dripping around his cock.

He yanks you up, spins you against the wall, the halo’s glow tracing every curve and every slick drop sliding down your thighs. His hands are brutal, ripping your clothes off, exposing your trembling skin to his scorching touch. You’re his—marked by his heat, his hunger.

He slams into you again, harder this time, his cock filling you deep, pushing past every limit until your screams echo off the walls. The halo blazes brighter, like it’s feeding off your desperate cries, making everything around you glow golden and filthy.

His mouth finds your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks beneath that burning light while one hand crushes your throat, the other gripping your hips so tight you know he could snap you in two—but he won’t. Not yet.

“Goddamn, you’re mine,” he growls against your skin, voice thick and ragged. “Under this light, you belong to me.”

[sjyuns]

MY LOSER BOYFRIEND — LEE HEESEUNG

loser!heeseung x fem!reader established relationship in which everyone questions your taste in men, but there's nothing you love more than a hot loser boyfriend who's deeply obsessed with ramyeon, keyboards, and you (especially you) mikaela's i love hee i need him in my life | collection

I WANNA BE YOURS — how he confessed (how you forced him to)

loser!heeseung who thinks he's super cool and nonchalant with the way he strategically chooses to sit next to you in class as if you can't see him spasm every time you lean in to talk to him, sweaty palms of his leaving obvious marks on the table.

It's cute, you think, so cute.

You can hear him catch his breath, as if it was a sin to breathe every moment you were near and you wonder if he knows that he's got you wrapped around his finger.

Heeseung thinks he's getting it all wrong, even though the obvious signs you've been hinting at of liking him couldn't be any clearer. He feels hot all around because you’re so hot and he's such a loser — there's no way on earth that you'd ever like him or even consider him when you have people lining up just to see you.

As cringey as it sounds he akins it to a tier list like those in ranked games; him a mere bronze level loser while you were in an unreachable challengers tier. He'd need at least 10,000 hours of gameplay and upgrades to ever be able to even touch you.

So, when you have him cornered in your grasps, questioning him if he liked you, Lee Heeseung is nothing but nerves, spouting out complex analogies about how much he liked you.

"It's like laning phase dominance," he starts, and he's so nervous looking at you to the point that he wants to look away but he can't because his body feels out of his control (and you look so pretty today just as you did yesterday). "I'm playing mid lane with my champion I really want to win but my enemy's playing a better champion than I am but I really want to dominate the mid lane so b—"

You cut him off with a kiss, his pouty lips too inviting not to. Heeseung freaks out and he wants to pinch himself to see if this isn't one of his late night put-him-to-sleep scenarios about him bagging you.

"So am I the mid-lane in that analogy?" you ask, teasing him as your lips separate from his.

"No, I mean—" Heeseung panics and he thinks he's losing you over a stupid League of Legends playing tactic. "Yes, technically but you're nothing like a lane physically you're so much prettier and—"

"You think I'm pretty, Hee?" He melts, cheeks dusted a rosy red as he tries to catch a breath, eyes darting around in innocence.

"Yeah, I do actually."

DOMESTICITY — living with him

loser boyfriend!heeseung who walks around the house in loose sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt not knowing what it does to you and your heart.

"Hee," you call and he comes running immediately, going so far as to abandon his game for you.

"Yes, baby?" he answers and he knows from the look on your face that you're hungry so he cooks for you. It's anything but special yet it warms your heart, how he's nothing but willing to do anything for you.

You remember the first time you complimented him on his cooking, the ramyeon in your bowl gone after no more than five slurps and Heeseung's beaming, almost glowing at your satisfied expression.

"I told you babe," he grins, long fringe hovering over the crinkles of his eyes, "shin is so good with the egg cloud but you should never ever put egg inside neoguri. I've tried it and the seafood broth covers the beauty of it."

"Hee," you call and he stops to look at you, bambi eyes glistening under the studio lights of your shared apartment, "you're spiraling again."

"Sorry baby," he gives you a sheepish grin, "I'm just so excited that you like my ramyeon. I've always wanted to make it for you."

"I guess you're my ramyeon slave now," you grin, "because I'm eating this even in my grave."

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY — when he gets jealous

hot loser boyfriend!heeseung feels green venom boiling in him when you get approached by idiots who can't seem to grasp the fact that you're taken, even when he's standing right beside you.

His grip on you tightening as you leaning closer into him, kindly rejecting the boy standing in front of you. "I have a boyfriend," you tell him, looking over to Heeseung who can't help but give the poor boy death glares.

And you really don't think you should be salivating at how hot your boyfriend looks when he's mad in such a situation but you find yourself doing just that, staring at him in adoration as he wraps his arms around you possessively, not wanting to let you go.

"I can't believe that guy, how can one have such low IQ," he grumbles, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, brows still furrowed in frustration.

"Right," you answer, totally unaware of what Heeseung had just said, mind focused on your boyfriend's face and you wonder how Heeseung has never been asked out before because he's so pretty: like an angel from heaven.

"Right, and the audacity? I was here first and you're literally my girlfriend, if he wants a girlfriend he can take a pick from the other less pretty ones, how — baby, are you listening to me?"

You hum, looking up at him with eyes of innocence and he folds, instantly. Pent up anger vanishing into thin air as you envelope him with happiness. "You look so hot right now," you tell him, and he gives you a slight look of concern.

"Baby, how's jealousy hot?" Heeseung almost laughs at your words, unable to wrap his head around what you found hot about him.

"Well, because you said that I'm yours." You point out and he ponders.

"I mean yeah, isn't that a fact. You're my girlfriend." He states, like it's always going to be this way, "just like how my keyboards are my keyboards and not anyone else's. I mean no two people can have one thing."

"Hee, you're so ruining the moment," you whine and he flashes you the goofiest grin.

You love your hot loser boyfriend and the best part is that he loves you more.

© SJYUNS

[sixeyesonathiel]

love & war — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

part 2 of all’s fair. 18+, YEARNER gojo, LONG HAIRED GOJO I REPEAT, LONG HAIRED GOJO. jealous & sort of possessive gojo, he breaks your wedding ring. cunnilingus while u sit on ur throne, squirting.

the feast is decadent.

ambrosia drips like honey from silver goblets, pooling at the edges like nectar too sweet to swallow. laughter rings through the marble colonnades of mount olympus, reverberating against pillars gilded in gold, lilting and hollow—like a song sung too many times, a chorus with no soul. but the gods don't care for meaning. they care for spectacle.

and tonight, you are the show.

you sit at hephaestus' side, spine straight, expression the picture of benevolence. the torchlight catches in your hair, setting it aglow like strands of molten gold. the chiffon draped across your body slips just so—revealing the curve of your thigh, the soft swell of your shoulder, the shadow between your breasts. suggestive, never vulgar. worshipped, never touched.

you tilt your goblet, fingers tracing the rim like you're tuning a lyre. your lips, red and warm, brush the edge but never drink. your eyes flutter closed as apollo's laughter crescendos, and you feign delight—mouth curling in a smile that could bring mortals to their knees. beside you, your husband remains silent. his hand is steady on his chalice. he forged the ring on your finger with hands calloused from fire and fury, and yet you wear it like it's forged from spider silk—a fragile thing, breakable.

and you don't look at satoru.

not at first.

but oh, you feel him.

his presence seeps into the room like smoke. the god of war is leaned lazily against his throne across the hall, the picture of restraint. clad in armor darker than midnight, trimmed in crimson, his white hair is tied back by a ribbon dyed red, trailing down his back like a war banner, a declaration. but his restraint is a lie.

his goblet remains empty. always empty. he drinks nothing tonight—not wine, not ambrosia—because it is only you that he hungers for.

his blue eyes, pale and gleaming, fixate on you. they don't waver. not once. they drink in every movement of your fingers, every curve of your smile, every deliberate flutter of your lashes. he watches you toy with your ring like it's a sin he's yet to commit. he watches you lean closer to dionysus, watches your laugh tilt toward apollo, watches your bare foot slip from under the tablecloth like a secret invitation. it's cruel. deliberate.

it's punishment.

your favorite dress, ruined. your thighs, bruised. your lips, bitten and left cold in a tent heavy with the stench of blood and iron and war. he kissed you like a man possessed, like a god starved. then he left you aching.

and now?

he aches.

not with the sharp, glorious pain of battle—but something worse. duller. quieter. the kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and gnaws like hunger, like longing.

when the feast ends—when wine-soaked laughter fades into sultry sighs, when silk rustles and marble floors grow slick with pleasure—you do not rise.

you stay seated in your throne, golden and still, carved like a statue of temptation by hands far crueler than fate.

you wait.

and like always, he finds you.

you don't hear his footsteps. only the subtle shift of air. the softest rustle of a crimson sash brushing against bronze armor. then the press of a shadow curling into yours like a secret.

“that's twice now,” his voice comes low, smoked silk and sharpened edge, curling around your spine. “once on the battlefield. now here. you like making me wait?”

his tone holds accusation—but the way he looks at you, moonlight caught in those cerulean eyes, it's not anger. it's reverence. it's ruin. it's worship.

he looks like war incarnate dressed in restraint—white hair tied back by a ribbon the color of spilled blood, pale skin brushed faintly gold beneath olympian firelight, armor kissed by countless hands but pierced by none. and he looks at you like he's starved. like he would gut himself if it meant dying with your name on his lips.

your lashes lower, slow. you don't turn to face him yet. you let the pause bloom between you, heavy with all the words you shouldn't say and all the touches you're not allowed to crave.

then—deliberately—you twist to meet him.

your gaze is lazy, liquid, the wine having turned your movements feline. your dress slips like a sigh over your thighs. your lips curve just enough to wound.

you reach to press a palm flat against his chest, over the gilded armor. his heat hums beneath it. a mortal man would be scalded.

“you ruined my favorite dress,” you murmur, voice hushed and sugared. your fingers curl, tracing the seam between plates of gold. “and left me in a tent that smelled of blood and glory and you.”

he breathes in sharply, jaw ticking once—just once—but it's enough. enough to unravel you.

his exhale is quiet, but charged, like the hush before a battlefield scream. his chest rises with restraint, sinewed muscle tense beneath his black tunic, straps of armor left discarded at the threshold like a promise he intends to break.

he steps forward. slow. deliberate. like the way fire creeps, hungry and patient. another step. then another. the weight of him warps the air. heat blooms in your lungs.

your hand stays raised between you like a shield, but your wrist trembles, traitorous. it remembers the weight of his grip, the way his fingers once mapped constellations into your skin. your mind whispers no. your pulse chants yes.

his eyes flicker—not to yours, but to your hand. to the ring.

“and you think this—” his voice, low and hoarse, curls at the edges like smoke, “—wearing this ring makes us even?”

he slides his fingers beneath yours, not with force, but with reverence. with fury disguised as grace. he lifts your hand like it's an oath he's been denied. like it's home.

he doesn't meet your gaze. his attention stays pinned to the band of gold—hephaestus' craftsmanship, forged in fire and jealousy, fitted for a goddess who never wanted to be possessed.

he looks at it the way a warrior looks at a wound he cannot close. as if it mocks him. as if it dares him to tear it off with his teeth.

his thumb ghosts over it. slow. scalding. like a brand.

you inhale, lips parting to say something cold, something final—but your voice crumbles before it can reach your tongue. all that leaves you is a whisper, soft and shaking, “you shouldn't even be touching me.”

his head lifts.

his eyes—blue, impossibly bright, like the sky just before it breaks—lock onto yours. and they don't just look. they consume. scorch. drink you in like a man dying of thirst, parched from years of wars he didn't win, undone by a beauty he was never meant to hold.

you feel it then, the tremble in the air between you. like something sacred cracking. like prophecy catching fire.

“then stop me.” he says.

his voice isn't loud. doesn't need to be. it's low, rough like gravel but sweetened with reverence, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. and it tugs at something inside you—something soft, something ancient.

your fingers twitch in his grip. not to pull away. gods, never to pull away. but to stay. to linger. to clutch the fleeting moment like it might fly from your grasp if you dared to blink.

you don't stop him.

instead, you tip your chin up, just slightly. prideful. defiant. divine. and you raise your hand higher between you both, baring the delicate line of your wrist like an offering on an altar. like a lamb to the slaughter. like a challenge written in perfume and silk.

“go on, then,” you whisper, lashes lowered like a veil. the words curl out of you like smoke, like honey laced with venom. “break another rule.”

and he does.

not with rage. not with thunder.

but with reverence.

he sinks to his knees—not like a soldier kneeling before his commander, not like a penitent before a god—but like a man who has already decided that he would rather burn at your feet than live untouched in another's arms.

the marble floor groans under him. the sound is quiet, but it echoes, somehow—sharp and cold, like the world remembering how to breathe.

his white hair, bright as new snow and wild as flame, slips loose from its ribbon and cascades around his face like falling starlight. it brushes against his cheeks, glows silver where it catches the lamplight. divine. disheveled. ruinous.

his hands are warm when they cradle yours. calloused from centuries of war, yet careful. trembling, just barely. he lifts your fingers like they might dissolve in his palms.

he bows his head to the ring—hephaestus's ring, forged in fire, in resentment, in the echo of zeus's command—and kisses it. once. twice. the third time, his lips linger.

then—he bites.

there's no warning. just a clean snap. metal splits beneath his teeth like fate surrendering. the ring breaks. falls. its fragments scatter across the marble like shattered promises.

and you exhale, shivering. not from fear. from recognition.

his mouth finds your bare finger again, lips dragging slow over skin where the band once sat. his teeth press again—gentler now, but no less possessive. he doesn't break the skin.

but the mark blooms anyway.

golden ichor wells to the surface. one drop. warm. pure. precious. it gleams like molten starlight, catching the flicker of torches. it doesn't harden, but it remains—a glimmering, radiant mark that pulses like a gem, impossibly beautiful against the curve of your skin.

no forge. no chains. no vows.

only power. only him.

his ring. your ruin.

he doesn't move. doesn't rise. just kneels there, his mouth hovering over your skin, his breath soft and reverent like a prayer whispered at the altar of something sacred. his eyes flutter closed, and there's a tremor in the air between you.

he lifts his head just slightly, the weight of his gaze pulling you deeper than any touch could. his voice breaks the silence, low and broken, the words crackling with something raw.

“this... is the only semblance of a ring i can give you.” he murmurs, as if the words are both a gift and a confession, an admission of a longing that has no end.

it carves through you like lightning.

you should pull away. remind him of the vows you wear like shackles. of your station. your symbols. that zeus did not gift you to hephaestus out of kindness, but as a solution. a ceasefire.

but instead—your hand lifts. as if guided by something older than reason. you cradle his face in your palm, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek. your golden ichor paints him—bright against pale skin, like warpaint. like a claim.

“you'll get me killed one day.” you say. the words float out of you soft and slow, silk soaked in prophecy.

he laughs, low and broken and full of something starved.

“only if someone gets to you before i do.” he turns his head, catches your fingertip between his lips. kisses it. reverent. ruinous.

his lips trail down your wrist, slow—like he's savoring not flesh, but fate. your breath hitches. somewhere behind you, the world still feasts. but here, in this quiet ruin, it's only the two of you. the war god, and the goddess he was never meant to have.

“do you want me to stop?” his voice cracks, a threadbare rasp that trembles with something dangerous.

you don't answer, not right away.

your body shifts, the fabric of your chiton whispering against your skin, slipping like liquid gold, pooling at your hips, revealing just enough to stoke the fire smoldering in his gaze.

his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue entirely, consumed by the weight of you.

satoru, the untamed. satoru, the one who has never known restraint. satoru, brought to his knees by the soft curve of your thighs.

you lean down, your breath warm against his ear, lips grazing the shell, barely there. “then kneel properly.”

and he does.

the groan of his armor is deafening, the pressure of him against you—heat and steel—his forehead against the crest of your hip, his nose tracing the curve where skin is softest, most vulnerable. his hands, large and calloused, find the firm flesh of your thighs, not with the intention to mark, but to learn, to remember. every small movement you make, every breath you stifle, he maps them, tattooing them in his mind like a strategy, like war.

his tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, not a conqueror's claim but a prayer. grateful in it’s intensity.

you arch into him, your back a taut bow, the world blurring for a moment as the weight of his touch splits you in half.

the torchlight bathes your skin, casting molten gold over the sweat-slick column of your throat, the flutter of your lashes so delicate, like wings caught in the flame. your fingers twist in his hair, not guiding—never guiding—just holding on.

as if you fear the heavens might tear him away from you, pull him from your reach.

he notices. of course, he does.

satoru, who feels the tremor before the spear flies. satoru, who senses the precise moment an enemy's resolve crumbles to dust.

his hands slide upward, fingers finding the curve of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows beneath your ribs. it's a question without words. a question only you can answer.

and you do.

you roll your hips once, sharp, precise, and his groan cuts through you, the sound shaking your bones, a crack of thunder in the silence of the room.

“satoru—”

your voice breaks, a whimper caught between prayer and curse. the ceiling above, painted with the gods' own hands, seems to sway with the weight of it—or maybe it's just your vision, blurry at the edges.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, glistening, intoxicating.

“louder,” he demands, voice as dark and thick as smoke from war-horns. “let them hear.”

you kick him, weakly, a distant protest, your heel sliding off his pauldron with a dull clang.

his laugh is ragged, breathless, a sound that rattles the air between you then he dives back in.

no hesitation. no mercy. just hunger, raw and relentless, like he's been dreaming of this moment for centuries. his hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to remind you who you belong to. his mouth moves with the kind of skill that comes from obsession—from nights spent imagining exactly how you'd fall apart for him.

and oh, you do.

It builds slow, then all at once—a coil tightening in your stomach, your back arching off the throne, your fingers twisting in his hair like you're clinging to sanity itself. you bite your lip hard enough to taste ichor, but it's no use.

the world simply narrows to heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue and you break.

a choked gasp rips from your throat as your back arches off the throne, thighs clamping around his head like a vice. golden ichor spills—not the slow trickle of a wound, but a flood, a surrender, dripping down his chin, painting his lips in liquid radiance.

he doesn't pull away.

he drinks.

greedy. reverent. as if this—your ruin, your release—is the only ambrosia he'll ever crave.

when he finally lifts his head, it's with a slow drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring every drop. his breath fans hot over oversensitive skin as he surveys his handiwork—your trembling limbs, your heaving chest, the mess glistening between your thighs.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. his thumb swipes through the gold streaking your skin, smearing it like war paint. “all that pretty composure, shattered.”

your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you kick at him again, but it's weak, the force gone, the desire too heavy.

he catches your ankle with ease, his grip unyielding. his lips pressing to the arch of your ankle, tender, almost reverent. then his teeth find it—sharp, a bite.

you jolt beneath him, a shiver running through you like lightning.

“still sensitive?” his voice is dark with satisfaction, low and predatory. he runs his tongue along the mark he's left, soothing it, his mouth just as cruel as it is tender. “good.”

a/n : ares gojo brainrot so bad i wrote this instead of continuing my wips... dunno if i made some misconceptions since im not that invested on greek mythology but if i did yall can expect my apology video w/ tears 😔✌🏻 first time actually trying to write smut omg dont jump me i did my best... part 3 someday idk

[5starwitch]

What the Planets in Your 1st House Mean for Your Appearance

Sun in the 1st house individuals have a radiance that is hard to ignore. It's not just their charisma but something deeper than that. Almost like a ray of sunshine follows them around. Their hair is a defining feature, kind of resembling a lion's mane. Another defining trait is their cat-like eyes, which suit bold and dramatic makeup looks. They have naturally glowing skin, and bronzed or tan tones complement them beautifully. These are the type of people who walk into a room with their head held high, knowing they are the main character.

Moon in the 1st house individuals have an aura that makes people feel safe and comfortable around them. They usually have big, expressive eyes, round facial features, a fuller bust, and a more rounded physique. They wear their emotions on their sleeves, especially if they have a water or fire sign in the 1st house. Their dreamy, ethereal aura makes people around them feel like they’re in a movie.

Mercury in the 1st house individuals have a youthful charm to them. They are usually very expressive, which is evident in their mannerisms, animated facial expressions, and the way they move their hands while talking. Pixie cuts tend to look great on women with Mercury in the 1st because they have sharp, defined, and symmetrical features. Just like their mind, which goes 100 mph, they are fast talkers and walkers. These people are very witty, funny, and charming (in a mischievous way tbh)

Venus in the 1st house individuals look beautiful and approachable. They typically have balanced and symmetrical facial features, and their body is curvy but balanced. They have full lips, a nose that fits well on their face, inviting eyes, and cheekbones that are noticeable but not too pronounced. They have a natural knack for aesthetics and style, so picking out outfits for themselves is an easy task. They give off girl next door vibes: innocent and charming, and everyone wants them.

Mars in the 1st house individuals have a bold and assertive presence. They walk into a room like they own it. They may come off as aggressive, especially if there are harsh aspects, but overall, they radiate confidence, boldness, and s*x appeal. They tend to have bold, sharp features, such as upturned, siren-like eyes, defined cheekbones and jawline, and an athletic body that might naturally maintain abs or muscle tone. Red hair looks great on them, even if they don't have it naturally.

Jupiter in the 1st house individuals have a larger-than-life personality. These people have natural charisma that everyone around them can feel. They know how to make people feel welcome and truly listened to. They have so much energy and they have the kind of laugh that makes you laugh along with them. These people are optimistic af. They naturally exude lucky energy. Like everything just goes their way, and it usually does! They have a youthful appearance. Usually they have big features. It could be their eyes, nose, lips, etc. They might be prone to gaining weight, and if they’re a woman they tend to be curvaceous.

Saturn in the 1st house individuals tend to have a stoic, reserved presence. Their energy might be closed off and this intimidates people. It makes people feel like they have to work to earn the attention of the Saturn in the 1st person. These people may have had to grow up at a young age or dealt with a lot of self-esteem issues, but as they get older Saturn blesses them. It's like they age backwards, both physically and mentally. These people age like fine wine, growing into themselves and only getting more beautiful as time goes on. They may be blessed with prominent cheekbones and black hair tends to suit them.

Uranus in the 1st house individuals have a unique, eccentric quality about them. They might experiment with their hair color or fashion. These people can be real trend setters because they don't care what people think about them. They do what they want. They tend to experiment with their hair specifically: different colors, cuts, styles. They've done em all. There's an unpredictability about them which makes them so captivating. They're hard to figure out or pin down. Their body type can range from big or small, short or tall. They tend to embrace what they look like and don't fall in the trap of following conventional beauty standards.

Neptune in the 1st house individuals have a dreamy, ethereal quality to them. They’re also mysterious, but in a way that people can’t really figure them out. It’s almost like they can shape shift, becoming a different person depending on who they’re with. They’re elusive. They have a mystical allure, spiritual even. Their eyes pull people in like a magnet because they’re so full of depth and have a watery quality to them. They look like they’re in a dream. Their features are usually soft and gentle, and their hair flows and is soft.

Pluto in the 1st house individuals are known for their deep, penetrating gaze. Their eyes are full of depth, but there’s power in the way they look at people, like they know they’re the one in control, always. There’s always something dramatic in the appearance of these people. Whether that be their impeccable bone structure, a scar, or mole. These people take up space in a room, and people remember them long after they leave. They don’t even have to speak, their aura speaks for them. They have a quiet authority, dominance and sensual appeal that leaves people magnetized. Their features are generally not soft.

Lilith in the 1st house individuals have an undeniable s*xual presence. These people may have been overly s*xualized for their body or aura. For some, this makes them want to hide that side of themselves, but for others it makes them want to further enhance that side of themselves. They have an intense, seductive gaze that leaves people obsessed. Their features may be sharp and bold. They move with a sense of confidence and sensuality that people can’t help but notice. Their sensuality is very present in their body language and the way they speak.

Individuals with no planets in the 1st house still have a sign in that house, which influences the way they appear. For example, having Aries in the 1st house will make someone have bold, striking features such as cat-like, upturned eyes, a prominent forehead, red (or red undertones) hair or red generally looks good on them. Aspects to the ascendant also impact the appearance. For example, having venus aspecting the ascendant can give someone symmetrical, balanced features in the face and body, and a good sense of style and aesthetics. This is why if you don’t relate to the planet in your 1st house, it may be because you relate more to the sign in your 1st house or the aspects to your ascendant.

...

Buy a birth chart reading from me on my ko-fi or cashapp ($5starwitch) for $30

[uravitypng]

big beefy number one pro hero deku is absolutely smitten with you, his chubby little girlfriend, and yeah you're a little bit of an airhead sometimes but that makes you all the more endearing to him.

prior to meeting you he used to feel embarrassed whenever he'd ramble too long about heroes or quirks. after some time people would drown him out after he started his disjointed babbling, not wanting to listen to him ramble. with you it's different, the first time it happened he went to apologise to you. jirou once told him he should try and apologise if he realised he did it to strangers afterwards- especially now that he's a pro hero.

so he goes to stammer out an apology after realising he spoke to you uninterrupted about all might's golden age for five minutes and you tilt your head and giggle at him. izuku draws in a breath. "why are you apologising deku? i really liked hearing you speak. what about his other ages?"

izuku felt like he was malfunctioning, "what?"

you bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling again. who knew pro hero deku is so cute? "like the silver age and the bronze age? are those all the ages or is there like a platinum age too?" izuku grins, you're so interested in what he has to say he can't help it. "wait was is all might's quirk again? he's like strong right? that's his quirk."

izuku pauses for a second before barking out a laugh. you pout and glare at him feigned annoyance. 'she's so adorable and ditzy. i need to speak to her again.'

you constantly praise him, not just for hero work either, and ever single time it makes his entire face red. it doesn't matter that you've been dating for four years now and izuku's brought an engagement ring, he still gets flustered with all the compliments.

people compliment him all the time, it comes with the job, but when you do it it means so much more. " 'zuku you're so brave!" "i don't understand this at all izuku, can you explain it too me? you're the smartest person i know." "you're so pretty." "your hair is so soft." "you're the best hero ever!"

a light sheen of sweat covers your forehead after being manhandled by your boyfriend into the cowgirl position, he loves holding onto your love handles and moving you up and down on his cock, with each bounce your body jiggles. you'll lay in bed with your face buried in his chest as you trace the scars on his arms with your fingertips lightly, "you're so strong izuku." you turn to face him and your chubby cheeks lift as you smile. "i'm so proud of you." his heart skips a beat. he's never loved anyone more than he loves you.

izuku gets possessive of you, he doesn't like people touching you. you're his. before you he never thought he would be jealous or possessive but then you came into his life and he nearly broke the glass of champagne he was holding when he saw todoroki talk to you. he knows todoroki doesn't like you like that, he's liked yaoyorozu since ua but he was too close to you and izuku hated it. his legs moved before he could think, walking up to you both with a forced smile on his face. he wraps his arm around your soft waist, tightly, and kisses your forehead. you smile sweetly at him and lean into his body. izuku brought you home earlier than you thought he would that night, holding onto your thick thigh with one hand while his other hand is on the steering wheel, driving you both home.

his jealous nature was cemented a week after when he saw kaminari talking to you. not just talking to you- flirting with you. if izuku was holding a glass like he was last time he most certainly would of smashed it in anger. you don't even realise what kaminari is doing and izuku knows you don't.

you listen to him talk intently and nod your head, you smile at him and laugh at his jokes. to some people they would think this would be you flirting back but you're not, you're just trying to be nice. kaminari has decided to talk to you and you want to be kind and listen to what he has to say and izuku has really admired that quality about you but right now he wishes you could pick up on the clear signs that kaminari is giving you.

izuku snaps when he sees kaminari look at your cleavage and glance at your body, his eyes lingering on your plush thighs. his voice is strained as he pulls you away from kaminari making some half-arsed, offhanded excuse as he takes you home immediately.

when he saves a small child and he gives them his award winning grin all he can think about afterwards is you. 'who are our kids going to look like? will they have my freckles? or maybe her hair? if they're half as cute as her they'll be the cutest kids ever.' he's already planning their bedrooms and his eyes drift to the baby clothes section at stores.

your boyfriend has the biggest breeding kink known to man and you get reminded of that as he folds your body into a mating press and groans deeply in your ear, "can't wait to see your soft body get softer puppy, promise i'll look after, you won't have to lift a finger." you loudly whine, grabbing hold of his large arms, every thrust causes a loud slapping sound with how wet you are. "you're gonna look so pretty puppy. i'm going to pump you full, make sure you don't spill any for me, just like the good girl you are."

izuku adores you and you feel exactly the same about him.

[timmydraker]

Everyone knows that when Damian is angry at you he will tell you without words, either by stealing your gear and making you search for it or by cutting your line.

Recently Tim pissed Damian off by knocking over some of his paint when getting his pen back from the you gets room and so far nothing had happened.

He still had all his gear, he hasn’t had his line cut.

Hell, even Dick got his line cut again and Tim isn’t even sure why. Dick got upset cause he didn’t know either and, as usual, the two talked it out.

But Tim manages to do a second thing to support Damian and he once again faces no backlash. Don’t get him wrong, he’s not going out of his way to annoy the other when they’ve been so civil for so long, but it’s weird.

It’s also throwing everyone off and eventually Bruce talks to Damian privately and comes back with a red eyed Damian an hour later.

Tim is confused and now genuinly concerned, because he’s an over thinker and this surely means he’s done something to upset Damian or hurt him badly. Or maybe even someone else has?

Tim isn’t sure which is worse.

But then Bruce says, “Tim, Damian would like to show you something upstairs.”

A little slow to respond, Tim almost asks for more information before deciding it’s better to just nod and move.

Dick and Cass are watching but say nothing, putting faith in Bruce seen as the older man has gotten a lot better with emotional support and regulation.

Tim follows a quiet, not ninja-quiet but tired-quiet, Damian up into the manner and into his room.

Damian shuffles around for a moment before getting a turned around canvas and standing in front of Tim with more anxiety then he thought was possible in the young fighters frame. Damian is getting taller, even five years younger than Tim he’s the same height and not done with highschool.

Tim, more unsure than when he was at his first gala, takes a seat on the foot of his brothers bed and offers an encouraging nod.

With a heavy inhale the younger turns the canvas around and reveals a beautiful artwork.

A pale hand holds a deep red rose with careful fingers, only one of the thorns cutting into their thumb and no where else.

A darker hand, sun kissed through generations, holds onto the bottom do the stem and is bleeding heavily. The rose is cutting into their skin, the grip too tight and you can even see how the knuckles go white from the effort of the hold.

There is a beam of light, warm and yellow, cutting through the middle and a second roses on the other side, identical to the other.

This time the pale white hand is not really touching the rose at all, but instead pulling out the thorns. One rest in the gap between a forefinger and thumb, a bead of blood dripping where the point stabs inward.

The bronze golden hand has stopped holding on so tight and instead trying to copy the other as it was above, still with a whole grip but the tension is gone and it’s not bleeding as much.

Tim is a detective though he’s not as skilled with deducting artworks, but this one is clear.

The rose is the Robin mantle, Tim knew how to ah foe it in a literal sense, while Damian came in too harsh.

And the other… Tim is learning to take away the things that truely make Robin to hard for them, for Damian and Maps and even those who aren’t Robin anymore, and Damian is…

It could be that he’s trying to learn from Tim but that… that can’t be right.

Tim, feeling an odd little turning in his stomach, looks up to Damian only to find the other staring at him like he does when he feels the need to catalog every little reaction from someone. It’s clear this is important to him, so much so it’s been on his mind for at least a week and talked to Bruce about it, and Tim can’t stand the idea of messing this up.

So, looking at the painting and appreciating how much effort it must have taken him both mentally and time wise, Tim ask in a careful tone, “The rose is Robin?”

Damian nods.

Nodding as well, Tim gives a curious look and holds his hands at his sides to show his openness. “As I understand this, without your input… I knew how to handle Robin when you came here, you did as well but not without pain?”

Another nod, slower and now with less eye contact.

“Okay. And the second one means that, I’m trying to remove some of the things that make it hard? Or painful even?”

A shaky inhale before a more confident nod.

“And… you are getting trying to hold the rose- the mantle- more carefully and… copy… me…?”

Damian huffs a little and looks away before he speaks, “Not copy you, but learn from you. I know how to be Robin and I am good at it, I’ve just got some things that… I want to learn.”

Tim nods and offers a nod to say ‘go on’.

“I don’t need help fighting or with medical training, or with assuring victims even though that was… something I struggled with for a while.”

Tim nods subconsciously, because he did struggle with that for a while, it was own do the reasons he didn’t think Damian should be Robin but then the little brat went and got better at it. He struggles with adults, still thinking they should just be smarter, but the way he helps people who are younger or have more struggle to bare, it’s incredible. His patience and compassion still surprises Tim some days.

Damian goes on once he sees that Tim is going to comment, “It more… the weight. I’m finding it hard to shut out the reminders of when I’ve failed, when I couldn’t save someone or just when I should have done better. I don’t know how to get it to stop but you… you always keep going and you don’t let it consume you. I… help me understand how.”

The smile that comes across Tim’s face is the most genuine one he has ever given Damian, or even had in his presence.

He looks at the painting again, taking in the careful strokes and details and nods, “Okay. Thank you for… for trusting me and for showing me your art.”

Because Damian might have paintings up in the manner but only the generic ones of pets and landscapes, the ones that have a part of him in them stay hidden.

Damian relaxes greatly at this and Tim presses a hand to his heart before extending it out, “We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with and at your pace. You want my first bit of advice though?”

Damian nods.

“Don’t shut it out. My thumb is still bleeding from the second rose, because it will still hurt. You just have to be willing to let it in.”

Tim leaves and finds the painting up in the library the next day.

[leriexoxo]

Angry Boys - Felix

Bronze Again?

Tags: unprotected sex, rough/angry sex, light humiliation and degradation, semi-public sex, possessive behavior, power imbalance (consensual), overstimulation/ mild dumbification, smut, MDNI

Word count: 1.5k

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

ANGRY BOYS MASTERLIST

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It started off stupid. Harmless.

Felix had just lost a match. Lost it bad.

You could tell it was over the moment his headset clattered onto the desk—tossed like it personally betrayed him. His bottom lip jutted out in a pretty pout, brows furrowed while he mumbled curses under his breath. Onscreen, his death recap played in slow motion, like it wanted to mock him, too.

From the living room, Changbin’s laugh cracked loud and sharp.

“Yo! Bronze Yongbok’s back, baby!”

Then Jisung chimed in, wheezing: “Uninstall, man. Even Hyunjin could out-frag you at this point.”

You were curled up on his bed, watching the drama unfold with mild amusement. Scrolling aimlessly through your phone, trying not to giggle.

But then you said it. The one thing you didn’t mean to say aloud:

“Maybe I should carry you next time, baby. Could boost you to silver—at least.”

The silence that followed?

Heavy. Absolute.

Your gaze flicked up just in time to catch Felix turning from the monitor, slow and mechanical. His brows didn’t move. His mouth didn’t twitch. But his eyes—those pretty, doll-like eyes—hardened into something unreadable. Cold. Controlled.

Like you’d just hit a switch you didn’t know existed.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked quietly.

You paused, phone still in hand, trying not to smile. “Kinda…”

His jaw tensed. Just once. “You’re teasing me in front of them?”

“Lix, I—”

You didn’t even finish.

He stood up.

Snatched your phone right out of your hand, tossed it onto the desk hard enough to make it bounce, then grabbed your waist with one hand and hauled you into his lap as he dropped back into the gaming chair.

Your heart raced. Your breath hitched.

This wasn’t playful.

“Felix—?”

“You like teasing me, yeah?” His voice dropped lower, now a hiss. His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to hold his stare. “Let’s see if you think it’s still cute when I make this whole dorm hear how fucking diamond I can be.”

You didn’t even see him coming.

One second your shirt was still on—then Felix was yanking it over your head, fast and rough, tossing your phone aside like it disgusted him. You gasped as your back hit his chest again, body hauled into his lap like he owned you.

And god—he did.

“I said,” he growled, low in your ear, “you like teasing me, right?”

His fingers slid beneath your waistband, not even bothering with finesse. Your breath caught as he shoved your panties to the side and palmed your bare heat—already soaked. You tried to clench your thighs, tried to stop your hips from moving, but his legs were spread wide beneath you and you were pinned open.

The chair creaked.

From the living room, you could still hear Jisung laughing, Changbin talking over him.

They had no idea what was happening in here.

Not yet.

Felix kissed your shoulder, slow and mocking. “Door’s open,” he whispered. “Say something smart now.”

You froze.

He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing—what he wanted them to hear.

His hands gripped your hips and rocked you against his cock, still hard and straining in his briefs, dragging up along your folds. You whimpered, trying to hold it in—but that made it worse. He just groaned, biting down on your neck as you squirmed.

“Aw. Embarrassed now?” he teased. “Didn’t sound so shy when you were running your mouth earlier.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he caught it and pinned it behind your back with one hand.

“Nope. They’re gonna hear everything.”

He tugged your shorts down just enough to get access—just enough to ruin you—and then he was pushing in. No warning. Just heat, pressure, stretch.

You cried out.

Loud.

Changbin’s laugh stuttered. Somewhere, something clattered.

Felix smiled.

“Oh, they definitely heard that.”

Your scream still echoed down the hallway when Felix shoved in all the way.

No mercy. No patience. Just punishment.

The chair slammed against the floor, jerking under every snap of his hips. Your thighs trembled on either side of his, one foot slipping off the armrest from how hard he was fucking up into you. Slick sounds filled the room—sticky, wet, obscene—and they were nothing compared to your voice.

Because you were loud. So loud.

And outside?

Not a single sound now.

Jisung had stopped laughing.

Changbin had gone dead quiet.

Not even a breath from the hallway.

But Felix wasn’t satisfied.

He fisted your hair and yanked your head back, growling into your ear, “Scream louder. Let ‘em know who fucking owns you.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from how much you needed him, how deep he was, how wrecked you already felt.

“Felix—Felix, please—”

“Please, what?” His teeth grazed your throat. “Please stop?”

You were panting now, moaning through your answer. “No…”

“That’s right,” he hissed, driving into you harder. “So take it. Take every fucking rank I’m giving you.”

He slapped your thigh, spreading you wider. Your legs twitched, overstimulated and locked into his pace. Your voice cracked on a cry, and then—

“Fuck!”

It ripped from your chest without your permission. Raw. Desperate.

A slam from somewhere down the hall. Footsteps scrambling.

Felix grinned.

“There it is,” he laughed, fucking into you harder. “Dorm’s finally listening.”

You reached back blindly, trying to grab his wrist—tap out, slow him down, something—but he only caught your arm and pinned it behind you again, pushing you down onto the desk this time, folding your body in half.

“Who’s bronze now?” he growled, hammering you into the wood.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe through the way you were unraveling, overstimulated and crying his name.

Felix dragged your face up by the hair and made you look at the open door.

“You wanna tease me in front of them?” His voice was sharp, furious, filthy. “Let them see who you belong to next time.”

And just like that, you came again—loud, messy, broken.

And somewhere in the dorm, a door closed.

Maybe in horror.

Maybe in shame.

But you and Felix? Didn’t stop.

—

You didn’t remember falling limp.

One second you were full of him, legs shaking, throat raw from screaming—

The next, you were in his arms. Warm. Floaty. Boneless.

Felix held you against his chest, one arm locked around your waist while the other gently pushed your hair from your sweaty face. You could still feel him inside you, twitching with aftershocks, but he wasn’t moving now. Just keeping you close. Letting you breathe.

“Still with me, baby?” he whispered, his voice hoarse but gentle now.

You managed a nod—barely.

“Did so good,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “So fucking good for me.”

Your cheek pressed to his collarbone, heartbeat thudding wildly. You were exhausted, sore, thoroughly used—and so impossibly turned on by how soft he was suddenly being.

Then…

From down the hallway, a door creaked. A cautious footstep.

Felix grinned against your skin. “Thought I told them to shut the fuck up.”

You groaned. “Felix…”

“They heard every second of you begging,” he whispered proudly. “Bet they’ll mute their mics for the next week just to avoid hearing you again.”

Your face burned, burying into his neck. “You left the door open on purpose?”

“Maybe,” he smirked. “Next time, you gonna call me Bronze in front of the boys?”

“…No,” you muttered.

“What was that?”

You sighed, louder. “No, Felix.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He kissed your shoulder, easing you off his lap. His hands stayed on you, rubbing your back while he reached for a towel from his desk drawer—God help you, he had that shit ready.

As he helped you clean up, you glanced toward the door—still wide open.

“Do you think they saw—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Felix interrupted. “You’re mine. Let them hear it. Let them know.”

He tugged one of his oversized hoodies over your head, guiding your wobbly legs back into bed. Then he dropped a kiss to your thigh before climbing in behind you, arm draped over your waist.

“…Still wanna carry me next game?” he asked, lips brushing your ear.

You exhaled a laugh. “Not unless I want to die.”

“Smart girl.”

You didn’t say anything after that. Just lay there, chest rising and falling, still throbbing with aftershocks while Felix curled around you like he hadn’t just ruined you for life.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Finally wrote something about the “Bronze” issue 😂 Guys guys! I need those notes to go uppppp! Gimme the likes, reblogs and comments thank you!!! Look out for the other members on the masterlist

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @mythicmochi @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @cinnomonz

[imorynn]

˚ʚ ── mi 𝙣𝙚𝙣𝙖, pretty 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮 ( ᴀ.ʜᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ • ʀ.ᴠɪᴅᴀʟ )

˚ʚ pairings : agatha harkness ✗ fem!reader ✗ rio vidal

˚ʚ genre / mentions : nsfw (18+) throuple, established relationship, fingering ( rio giving to reader ), pet names, spanking, submissive!reader, agatha being rough, rio being more soft than agatha, pet names, rio speaking just slight spanish — affectionate!

˚ʚ word count : 1.2k+

˚ʚ author’s note : this is to be longer in a next fic — just had to get this out of the way :,>

──"S-shit!" your squeal was justified — although do not tell Agatha that — this was the thirteeieth time she had landed a cruel, dragged out blow on your ass.

"What was that, dear?" She squeezed down on the distressed fat of your ass, taunting a smile when you whimpered at the pain. "Oh! Would you listen to that, hmm." You were not certain if she had been speaking to you or the bronze skinned woman whose lap you were currently bent over, and you groaned internally. "I didn’t take you for having such a naughty mouth especially when you’re in this position — should I start over?”

Your lips parted as you fervently shook your head, body flinching away from the featherlight caress of Rio’s thumb that made its discreet way to your clit, your slick clinging onto her skin. The searing humiliation at the pleasure the act brought upon, around, and through you made you so fucking wet while Agatha just condescendingly cooed in this deriding tone, her grinning mouth softly skimming your nape, “This hurts, bun?”

Your fingers dug into Rio’s arm, nails slicing into the skin yet she did not seem to mind. Her own digits were now carving into your walls so deeply, in such a fucking leisured pace compared to Agatha’s bolting actions. It caused pained jolts to crawl up your spine, dizzying you because of the contrasts, the differences between their touch, their way of handling you.

“Hey, don’t be so mean to her … I’m sure she’s learned her lesson by now, verdad, mi nena?” ( right, my girl?)

Your thighs constricted together from how desperate they both make you feel, almost pathetic enough to make Rio want to chastise you, to tell you to get a grip of yourself or else this little punishment would continue being dragged out, yet she lamented, deeply sighing when her digits slipped out of your tightness. Her head tilted down to press a soft kiss on your dampened temple, voice hushed only for you to hear in this moment, "Sweetheart, you gotta keep it together. You know how Agatha gets… just a bit more.”

Yet the octave of your whimpering increased with each second passing, your clutch on Rio’s forearm providing you the little bit of strength to hold yourself up against Agatha’s strikes. However, you did not concede from the two witches. A resilient pretty little thing you were; they admired you for that. They admired more that you were theirs and theirs only.

Your fragile sniffles within the thickening air —accompanied by Rio partaking in dabbing away the tears kissing your waterline — made Agatha’s frown of distaste deepen, the bridge of her nose scrunching in vexation as her heated palm kneaded over your contused ass. There had been inflamed blemishes branded everywhere, all in the shape and form of her palm and her fingers, and her lips parted as she tenderly parted your thighs, grabbing at your cheeks and spreading them so perfectly until both of your glistening slits were winking at her.

"You don’t know her as well as you think then. She apparently hasn’t learned anything. She isn’t going to if you keep buttering her up and playing ‘good cop’," she deadpanned, her touch creeping through your puffy folds, scoffing when you whimpered beneath her. "This is making her wet. Look at this, such a horny little slut, aren’t you?"

Prudently, your chin dipped down before lightly rising again in a nod. "Can't help it, Ag," you mumbled softly, beseeching doe-eyes lifting to meet with Rio’s dark aligned-brown ones when Agatha’s other hand enveloped your aching hipbone in a bruising grip. You groaned under the rush of pain, then exhaled, and she took this as her opportunity to slap your behind again.

"Oh, but I think you can, bunny." There was an edge to her tone as she loosely curled her fingers into her palm, knuckles brushing against your swollen clit so very lightly, her jaw becoming more prominent at the sound of a moan and an exhale — all sealed in one — leaving you. Her hand which had been on your hip ascended under the subtle shape of your jawline, ivory fingertips prodding into the flesh as heat drummed over it. The position gave her leverage in pulling off of Rio’s thighs and snapping you completely back against her, your front exposed and scrutinized by the Green Witch’s devouring gaze. Rio’s expression was a flawless balance of devilish yet floored from the sight before her, and that sent a tingle spiraling right up your curved spine.

"You were the one who begged me to have another in this —and out of aaall people, you chose that one right there,” Her blue irises shifted and glanced at Rio who, currently puncturing tender-open mouthed kisses to your hip, could not help the smirk forming at Agatha’s involuntarily flushed expression from her other lover’s gaze but tried to minimize it with her hissed out words, “and I sooo generously granted you this — sharing you. Now you've got two of us. And there really shouldn’t be a reason why you should be touching yourself without us. It's one of the rules."

A cry spewed past your lips as Agatha’s hand came down, sharply colliding with your ass, and she let you fall across Rio’s lap once more. Pain spasmed throughout your entire body, electricity crepitating throughout your every fiber as you quivered under her. Your senses rang and blurred, your vision becoming dark and speckled, and you endeavored to blink back the tears cluttering at your lashes as threats of unconsciousness blurred at your borders.

"That’s it … be a good girl and come back to us, pretty bunny."

Agatha’s precious face flooded your mind, and you smiled up at her dumbly, a breeze of air brushing against the raw plump skin of your ass. "Verdant," you faintly breathed out, eyelids fluttering shut at the feel of Rio’s fingers already smoothing over your ass, her lush lips and tongue assisting in soothing the swelling. "Verdant. ’m okay, Aggy, that one was just a bit hard."

Agatha’s brows hitched, and there was a rare gentle beat of hesitation which breezed through the air before her lips pursed, cheekbones accentuating from the pretty action until her lips dominantly, amiably molded against yours. You basked in the intimacy, your stomach tightening as her fingers pressed into the apple of your cheeks, your ass bucking into Rio’s touch.

"Very good girl indeed, preciosa ( precious )," Rio’s words were mumbled against the perspirated skin of your neck, a hiss arising from your throat as she rewarded you by rubbing her fingers over your ass once more. She sculpted the globes with such certainty, taking in the way they shook within her palms before humming — pleased, fulfilled. "I'm proud of you."

"I guess, in a way, she’s learnt her lesson." Agatha affirmed from above you while her fingers tangled into your disheveled strands, the tip of her nose lovingly nuzzling your cheek. She inhaled your inebriating fragrance that coalesced with Rio’s petrichor essence, letting it swirl within her lungs before pulling back, a daring expression sculpting her angular features. “Haven't you, bunny?”

Your lips could not help but stretch into a gorgeous, dazed grin that made the purple witch’s heart accelerate. A sweet kiss converged with the corner of her mouth and your round eyes maintained sincerity and you softly spoke. "I have. No more touching myself without you two."

"Good girl, hon’. You know I hate having to punish you."

Her tone, of course, indicated that she was lying — she was not even making an effort in trying to hide it, given the devilry of a spark in her eyes and the way she smirked down at you and gave you another peck. Though the Green Witch remained silent, her smirk lurking her lips as she leisurely alleviated the burning blaze of your skin, her motions tender and amorous, occasionally letting her touch stray from you to Agatha, just acting upon the urge to touch you and crawl under her skin.

And in truth, you would not have it any other way when it came to being sprawled across either or’s lap.

[hairmetal666]

Scandal follows Eddie Munson wherever he goes. He doesn't mean for it to, it just does. And, like, sure, he should've known that cavorting with a bunch of topless models in a hot tub in a chalet in the Swiss Alps was a bad idea, but 1) he's gay and 2) even if he wasn't, does anyone really care if a rockstar has an orgy these days?

Well, it turns out that they do. They do so much, in fact, that he hasn't known a moment's peace since the photos leaked. Every time they go outside, they're mobbed. Their socials are a disaster zone.

Chrissy, Jeff, Gareth, and Freak are sick of his shit, worried that this will ruin the world tour, which doesn't make any sense. All publicity is good publicity, right?

Anyway, he's not surprised when he, Chrissy, and the rest of the band are whisked away in a fancy car with dark-tinted windows, thinks they're about to fly home for a break. And honestly? Good riddance to Europe.

Imagine his surprise when he exits the car mere feet away from the sun soaked Mediterranean.

"Oh no. No, no, no." He says, trying to force his way back into the sedan.

"Oh, yes." Chrissy links her arm with his. "You need to lay low for a few days and this was the best I could manage on short notice."

He glares. "You know I hate boats."

"You do not," Gareth accuses.

"You're just mad at facing consequences for your actions," Jeff adds.

"I didn't do anything!" He wails.

Freak pulls out his phone, reads, "Munson, 26, has always been open about being gay, out of the closet since Corroded Coffin's first gig. Now, though, his sexuality is in question. Multiple women have come forward to claim they slept with the rockstar. And, while many of the women in the photo have said that Munson was 'deeply uninterested' in them, the fact remains that his antics are more Motley Crue than Troye Sivan."

Eddie groans up at the sky. "Why would I be anything like Troye Sivan!? I'm in a heavy metal band! And he's around boobies all the time! Honestly, has no one been to a rave?"

"Not since the 90's." Chrissy smiles brightly, continues up the dock.

"I'm never forgiving any of you for this."

"It's a luxury yacht, Eddie. You'll survive," Gareth says.

He very bravely does not point out that he's wearing black jeans and an over-sized black hoodie and black platform Doc Martens, so obviously he's not the type of person equipped for any kind of boat.

The conversation ends but only because, when they get up to the main deck and the crew waiting for them, he sees the most beautiful man in the world. Artfully messy sun-bronzed hair, strong jaw, classic nose, skin dotted with freckles. Aviators hide his eyes, but even the sunglasses look good on him. Not to mention the little white uniform that shows off all of his many many muscles.

Eddie stares at him, blatantly, unabashedly, totally missing the introduction to the rest of the crew.

As soon as he's left to his own devices, he locks himself in his cabin. Not even the chance to gawk at that hot guy can draw him out of his pout. They can force him onto a boat, but they can't make him enjoy it.

He lasts until afternoon the next day, when Jeff barges in, surprising him enough that the throws his phone with a very un-rockstar yelp.

"You have to come out." Jeff's arms are crossed over his chest.

"Nope." Eddie relaxes back into his pillows. "Not until this is over."

"So, you're going to stay in your room for a week?"

"Guess so."

"Orr, you could come out and enjoy yourself instead of pouting over what your own actions caused."

"My actions!" He shrieks. "My actions! I stumbled on a bunch of topless French models in a hot tub, and I'm at fault?"

"No, you being drunk enough to get in with them was the problem."

"I wasn't even that drunk! I just thought it was funny. They did too!"

Jeff sighs. "You get yourself into a situation more than any person I've ever met."

"See? It's not my fault."

"I mean. It kind of is. I suspect any other guy would learn how to avoid this."

"I'm not leaving."

"Man, Chrissy isn't going to let you stay in here."

"Too bad."

"She told me to carry you out, if I had to."

"You wouldn't."

"If you come out, you can chat up the cute bosun."

"The bos-what?"

"Bosun. The guy you were ogling when we boarded. His name is Steve. He's really nice. He--"

"I was not ogling him."

"Eddie. You looked like you wanted to eat him for dinner."

"I'm not leaving the room." He sing-songs.

Look, would he have fought so hard if he'd known that Jeff was strong enough to toss him over his shoulders and fireman-carry him out of the room and up the stairs? He would not.

Instead, he screams the whole way from his cabin to the deck, where he's unceremoniously deposited into a lounge chair next to Chrissy. She's in a hot pink bikini, sipping a cocktail.

"Good to see you." She deadpans.

He glares. "Et tu, Chrissy?"

From behind him, a rich voice calls out, "Glad you could join us." It is, of course, the hot bosun. He waves when he catches Eddie looking in his direction.

Eddie sinks down in the lounger, Chrissy stifling giggles against her elbow.

---

The thing is, Steve is nice. He's nice and he's funny and he's hardworking. He's good with the other deckhands, Dustin, Max, and Lucas; strict but fair and good at keeping everyone on task. The stewards, Nancy, Robin, and El, all love him. Sometimes, he'll be down on all fours scrubbing the deck, and his t-shirt will bunch up, reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his taunt stomach that makes Eddie feel like a feral dog.

He's out on the top deck reading a copy of The Hobbit that Dustin loaned him, when Steve comes around the corner.

"Oh! Eddie, hey." Steve smiles. "Didn't realize there were any guests still up here."

"Do you need me to move?" He asks. He swings his feet over the side of the lounger.

"Not at all. Just wasn't expecting you." Steve's puttering around, picking up the detritus of the day. "I'm glad we've been able to overcome your expectations of boats."

His squeak is indignant. "It wasn't about the boat! I was brought here against my will!"

Steve smiles at him, eyes glittering. "Yeah, what a horrible punishment, boarding a luxury yacht for a Mediterranean cruise."

Eddie grabs at his chest, mimes being shot in the heart. "Stevie, how could you? All this time I thought you were on my side."

"Eh," he shrugs. "You were kind of being a baby."

He falls off the lounger at this. "The killing blow," he wails.

Laughing, Steve extends a hand, helps him to his feet. Their eyes meet and Eddie's struck, once again, by the way the hazel shines so gold, even at twilight.

"I'm being punished," he says, looking away.

"Again, getting on a chartered yacht for a week is not much of a punishment."

"I have a tendency to find myself involved in shenanigans."

"The topless women," Steve says.

Eddie groans. "You know about that?"

Steve does a real bitchy thing with his eyebrows that makes Eddie very warm in places it shouldn't. "Everyone knows about it."

"Okay. I'll have you know those boobs meant nothing to me, which is why it was fine! We had fun! Also, I am very, very gay. Like. The gayest."

"Oh, I know." Steve grins.

He doesn't know what to do with that. Changes the subject instead. "I hadn't clocked you for someone who listened to our stuff."

"I don't. Or well. Not really. No offense. The kids love you guys. And Robin. It's just--it's really loud? Not really my thing. Some good lyrics, though."

"No, I get it." He nods, licks his lips. "I write most of our songs." He's not sure why he says it, what he hopes to get from it.

"I know," Steve says.

"Oh." Eddie smiles down at his hands, The Hobbit. Before he can say more, Chrissy calls him down for dinner.

---

It's no secret that the Corroded Coffin boys are diehard dnd fans. They've done interviews about it, posted video of their sessions on YouTube and TikTok. Everyone knows they play, everyone knows Eddie DMs, so, he supposes, it's only a matter of time before Dustin and Lucas asks if he would DM for them.

The band, Chrissy, Lucas, Dustin, Max, Nancy, El, and Robin all agree to play. When asked, Captain Hopper snorts, doesn't take his eyes off the horizon, and Steve tells Dustin, "You know nothing in the world will make me play that game, kid. I'll try to stop by, though."

Eddie is totally in his element, everyone is having a blast, even Captain Hopper stops by. And Steve--he shows up after fifteen minutes, stays the whole time, can't keep his eyes off Eddie. He's not sure if it spurs him on, makes him more wild and dramatic, but the game is electric, the mood high.

It's an amazing night, one of the best of Eddie's life, and that's really saying something. They go late, well into the morning, but he's too hyped to sleep. He's pacing across the deck when Steve appears.

"You were great tonight." He says.

Eddie feels like he's effervescing. "You should think about playing sometime."

"Nah." Steve ducks his head a little. "Wouldn't be the same without you leading."

There's not a ton of space separating them, but he closes the distance anyway. "That could be arranged," he says, voice low.

"Yeah?" Steve meets his eyes, doesn't look away.

"If you want."

The air between them goes heavy, tightens, the silence lengthens.

"I can't," Steve breathes. "I'm working."

"No, yeah," Eddie nods. He steps back, runs his hand through his hair. He's never said no to something like this, never to someone like Steve. "I'm avoiding--"

"Situations." Steve finishes.

"Oh, but, Stevie, you're a situation I want very much."

"Take me on a date tomorrow."

"It would be my pleasure," he says.

He should leave but--he does love an occurrence, so he lets the impulsivity fly-- leans forward, places a soft kiss at the corner of Steve's mouth.

"Tomorrow, sweetheart."

[earthtooz]

x : HOUSE OF CARDS :*+ﾟ

in which: for as long as you remember, sunday covers his eyes when he cries.

warnings: 1.5k words, fluff with elements of angst, kind of follows canon- not exactly though, sunday cries gold because i said so, based on his character stories, gn!reader who is an observer to the complexity that is sunday's lcharacter

a/n: an attempt into studying sunday was made- i don't think i hit the hammer on the nail quite right, but i tried, i mainly just wanted to celebrate him + his lc coming home YAY. i wish i had more time to let the outline of this marinate, but i couldn't see it being any better than it's current state, so apologies if this isn't the best or most eloquent read of your life.

Sunday had a habit of covering his eyes with his wings when he cried.

He didn’t cry often, but you would know when he did whenever his feathers pressed against his face, hiding his golden eyes and the ichor they’d shed front he world, not allowing anyone to see the depths of his soul, the magnitude of his suffering. 

The first time he did this was at the young age of nine, a fledgling barely a decade in to the tapestry of life. It happened after he fell over while chasing you and Robin around in Gopher Wood’s gardens, knee scraping against concrete and skin peeling in the process, resulting in a nasty scratch, and his wings fluttered to cover his face almost immediately, even stifling his sniffles as traces of golden tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto his clothes.

He bared himself to you not too long after, the tears and snot drying as you tended his wound with Robin singing him a comforting lullaby.

These were the innocent tears of childhood, none of you yet changed by the harsh realities that fate would guide your paths on.

The second time was after his first music class.

It seemed Robin stole the affinity for singing from him as their music teacher berated him, likening his voice to that of a ‘duckling’, comparable to the sound of nails on chalkboard. A 12 year old Sunday was sent out of class not too long after, the start of a tantrum beginning to take place as his eyes welled up and began sniffling, fists and wings clenched.

You come to his aid not too long after, having heard the commotion and wandering over, but when he saw you, he ducked out of your sight and covered his eyes with his wings, splaying them over his face. They were larger now and capable of covering the expanse of his head, only exposing his forehead and chin as you tried to console him.

“Hey, it’s okay!” You coo, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “Mr. Big Guy tells me your piano playing is amazing and that you’re a real prodigy, Sunday!”

The sniffles halt momentarily. “Really?” His wobbly voice had asked.

“Yeah! He’s proud of you, and you should be proud of that too!”

He bares himself to you, glassy golden eyes looking into you, trying to seek comfort in the familiarity of your friendliness and company. “You mean it?” 

“Of course!”

“Then… are you proud of me too, Y/n?”

“I’m always proud of you, dummy, now stop crying and cheer up!”

“You’re right,” he chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his hand as his other went to grasp yours. “I shouldn’t let that witch get to me.”

“Sunday! Be respectful of your teachers!”

Despite how often the grey-haired boy would listen to your whims and wishes, he never stopped calling his vocal teacher a witch or anything along the variant. It displeased you every time, but the most you would punish him with was a gentle slap on the arm and a scowl that would melt away as soon as he’d share his giantmoa pudding tarts with you.

A few months after that shared moment, Sunday had begun taking the Family lessons from the Bronze Melodia. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he had dreamed of being an influence that would change Penacony and its Dreamscape for the better, and now it was finally his moment- his calling to the world had finally been heard, and they answered with a path that was of utmost righteousness and virtue. 

However, as he took more lessons, learned more about the ways of the Family, he grew into someone else. 

The third time you saw him cry was when you received the news that Robin was shot. A bullet wound to the neck, it was a miracle that she survived, but Sunday was inconsolable, even whilst knowing that she was alive, just on another planet. The distance was akin to torture because no matter how desperately he wished to be by her side, he couldn’t cross it while shackled to his duties in Penacony, so the spirit of the elder brother rested in your arms and cried. 

He sobbed quietly into your shoulder, wings covering his eyes as the two of you sit on the floor, a hauntingly beautiful image of despair as his limbs intertwined with yours. Sunday had collapsed on you the moment you welcomed him into your embrace, the ability to hold himself up being too much to stomach after knowing that he could have lost his sister. 

He cries until your limbs grow pins and needles, until you begin to feel weak under the weight of his grief and your own, until you feel the puddle of tears on your clothes drying. 

Gloved hands hold onto you tightly, and he knew something then and there.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, breath shuddering as despair rolls off him in waves, and Sunday removes his face from your shoulder, a cold look of determination staring up at you. “I must protect you, I must shield your happiness too so that we may never suffer again.”

“What?”

His words are incomprehensible to you at this point, and they sound akin to the ramblings of a mad man. “You will never struggle to be happy again, I will give you everything you need- I see it now, Y/n. The strong must guide the weak, for who else will they seek solace in?”

Realisation seeps into your bones like ice. After so many confessionals, so many witnesses of humanity at its most helpless, he has grown nihilistic, devoid of hope towards the resilience of human beings. Still, he yearns to help. Yearns to help people thrive even though he does not truly believe in things getting better, and shoulders this impossible fight by himself. 

The sweet boy you once knew has hardened his defences, fortified his walls and relentlessly chased the most obscure path of Harmony: Order. Destroyed himself under the belief of being responsible for creating a painless reality for humanity, and you witnessed the catalyst for Sunday’s own dismantling whilst he was laid on your lap. 

You haven’t seen him cry since that day. He no longer hides himself behind his wings because he no longer gives himself a moment to mourn. Devastation is engrained in every fibre of his being. 

Now, when he plays the piano for you, you don’t hear the melodic tune of the most important person in your life- you hear a complex piece of toil and struggle. When you sit next to him on the piano stool, you watch the dexterity of his fingers and how his face remains serenely calm whilst playing the hardest sonata known to man, acclimatized to the toughest scenarios that even the polished wood of the piano won’t warp his pristine image. 

Then, when he is finished, you lay your head on his shoulder as you shower him with praises, searching for a familiar fragment of him that you can grasp onto. However, all you find is a shard of bittersweet longing when he turns to place a dainty kiss on the top of your head.

Everyday before the Charmony Festival, you feel like you know him less and less. He won’t even touch the giantmoa pudding tarts you leave on his desk. 

The fourth time you see Sunday cry, he is a changed man.

After exiling himself from Penacony, you naturally grow to ache for his presence. At least Robin has returned to you and will share conversations about the mysterious future of her older brother, sometimes you cry together, over him and also over other things, but at the core of all your emotions is how badly you miss him. You miss him as you overlook Penacony’s Grand Theatre, you miss him in all the old desserts you used to love together, you miss him when you think about him. 

Letters are infrequent and never quite soothe the emptiness, but you hope that in some vast corner of the universe, he is discovering a sense of peace he could never have here. The events of the Charmony Festival still make you cringe, but knowing that he is with the kind souls of the Astral Express relieves you.

In fact, you have half a mind to be rather jealous- you want to be exploring the stars as well.  

However, he comes back to you after countless moons.

You run into him where you least expect to, on the streets of Penacony, under the vibrant advertisements for SoulGlad, Hanu’s Advertisement, and Robin’s latest album. Under the blinding neon monstrosity of Penacony’s main street, you are swept into the arms of a man who you have missed for countless moons, who you have thought of as the weeks turn into months, who you fell in love with since the time he scraped his knee after falling on pavement. 

And this time, he doesn’t cover his eyes as liquid gold drips down his cheek.

You forgot how unfairly pretty of a crier he is, but you don't have time to think about it as he pulls you close and rejoices on your lips. There's a small whimper that escapes you when you feel his tears fall on your skin, but your hands crawl up to the collar of his coat to keep him close so you can keep catching them.

His gloved hands come to rest on your cheeks in kind, stubborn to not let you stray too far again.

He tastes like giantmoa pudding tarts. 

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper between kisses. 

He responds by pressing you closer and pouring his devotion into your mouth.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.