#Common Used React Hooks

[ventique18]

Ok so I've been seeing complaints about Book 7's ending by a few minority not only here, but from other platforms as well. While everyone is of course allowed to dislike something, let's tackle a few points:

Malleus deserved a harsher punishment

Everyone witnessed Diasomnia's moment. Everybody knew he accidentally killed Lilia. Everyone knows how much Lilia means to Malleus. So everyone knows that there's no punishment harsher than the eternal scar of accidentally killing your own father.

And that's not enough, because he lost majority of his power. THIS is his prolonged punishment. We should remember that his entire life revolved around being the strongest, so all of his foundation hinged on that. If you're an artist, it's like losing your dominant hand and having to relearn how to draw with your other. Except in his case it's like losing both his hands so he needs to learn how to draw with his feet.

While it's true that he's far happier now than he was when he was strong, that doesn't mean he won't go through so much suffering as a consequence. For 200 years. 200 years of being weak means he's not fit to be king; no Dark Fae will follow a man akin to a common Fae. His nobles will not respect him. He's now a very easy target, since he's not indestructible anymore.

This basically means he's currently a pretty decoration to Briar Valley. An unemployed trust fund kid. Random people will likely mock him or treat him like an amusing animal in a zoo.

Which means he will have to build his reputation from the ground up, against all odds, as a disgraced prince.

Malleus tried to kill x and x

No he did not. He genuinely thought he found a breakthrough and was doing the world a service by making immortality accessible to everyone. Remember that he used to be the strongest; he thought nobody was just capable of this feat until he did.

He was quite literally insane at that moment. When he did accidentally kill Lilia, he snapped to his senses and immediately reacted like a small child. He doesn't want to believe it, because he would never do something like that. He simply doesn't want to kill anyone-- what he wanted was the opposite: that nobody needs to die anymore.

Everybody left him off the hook so easily

We get a lot of scenes explaining this. Sure maybe for you their reasons are bullshit, but the fact is that this is a Disney story. He would never be executed. But the following are from different accounts from different characters.

There were actually very few injured, because even though he was insane in dragon form, a part of his morality was there and he unconsciously avoided hurting people as much as possible. There are more injuries that happen in Spelldrive than who Malleus injured, according to Epel.

For the rest of the student body, they were simply having the best dreams of their lives. Many compared to it an amusement park and want to experience it again.

The other overblotters tried to protest, but were reminded that they too almost killed people. Some were genuinely out to kill people while Malleus wasn't.

Most people on Sage Island are actually good people, unlike NRC students. They embody the values of Fantasia Mickey, where the apprentice was given a second chance instead of being exiled because he showed actual remorse.

He is entitled and thinks he's always right

Yes he's entitled. But that's part of his character. He thought he was right, insisted he was right, but when he was defeated and told otherwise, he accepted it wholeheartedly. He was the only overblotter who actually apologized in public, recognized he did wrong, thanked everyone for helping him, and swore he will become a better man.

He literally can't take back anything that's happened. Kicking him further will not achieve anything.

Why didn't he talk it out with Yuu instead of immediately jumping to overblot

He doesn't even understand that he's feeling something negative. Nobody taught him to recognize his own feelings. He was raised to be strong and independent, so his first instinct was to deal with the problem himself.

He can't even talk it out with Lilia and Silver; there was no way he could talk it out to a friend he just met that year.

His power literally hurts his surroundings when he tries to feel things. He's likely afraid of accidentally striking someone with lightning or drowning them in storms if he admits that he's feeling down.

He didn't know too much negative feelings could lead to an overblot. He was already out of his mind before he knew it.

There could be more but these are off the top of my head.

[multimilfs]

Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: The Bigger Bear

Summary: Agnes is set to be recognized for her work on a case, but getting her to the event leads to some... unexpected circumstances.

Ao3 + Part 1

Words: 10.6k

A/N: An enormous thank you to my beautiful beta readers; @saphiccarma , @louisaa-a , and @harknessshi who were kind enough to take their time and read over this for me!!!

Included: Established relationships, G!P, daddy kink, mommy kink, hand jobs, begging, dom/sub, kink exploration, car sex, accidental stimulation, accidental drug use, dirty talk, humiliation, possessive sex, porn with plot.

Tag List: @sapphicharknesss @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @milfslvr @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @raleighgay @ninatheronhahn @lizzieolsie216 @ajaasiopaoo @sweetestberryofthebunch @meiwan @pagetboobstarcomments @coffeemelko @alli23rt @thefearoffallingapartohohoh @ambessasevikasexslave @cowtownz @ilovehotactresses @supergirl107 @jillisselt @reignofnightmares @sapphic-gays @heady-pomegranate @dmtrxie @sp3c-tr0 @evie-101 @poisson-99 @renravens @scullysstrapblog @littlebminus @hvrkncss @blue2908 @lolitscaitlin @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @bqqbacenbuger @tastycadaversoup @women-are-so-ethereal @fruityrat47 @yluji @absolute-memegarbage @starryalexis @snickerdoodles-stuff @cheesee07 @rosie6reyes @kmaxmadness

With sleep still clouding every corner of your mind, you sigh, trudging down the stairs. 

The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.

Three steps past the living room you pause. 

You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife. 

She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book. 

“You’re home today?” You ask. 

“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.” 

“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.” 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.” 

“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?” 

An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy. 

Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick. 

Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over. 

Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“Admiring.” 

Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.” 

She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much. 

Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness. 

Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.” 

She swallows roughly.

“What is your deal?” 

“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.” 

“You’re distracting.” 

“Part of my job, sorry.” 

“Don’t remember that being in the vows.” 

“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.” 

Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?” 

“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout. 

At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips. 

“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.” 

“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”

“You don’t say.” 

You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff. 

Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow. 

Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time. 

The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body. 

A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by. 

The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh. 

Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now. 

But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.” 

A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid. 

Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast? 

The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true. 

The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?

Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers. 

Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation. 

“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended. 

You’re stunned when she does so without argument.

Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness. 

You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm. 

Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her. 

Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus. 

“Baby.” She whispers, pleading. 

A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down. 

“Keep reading, Agnes.” 

A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck. 

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.” 

Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples. 

When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up. 

“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.” 

The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect. 

Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm. 

That won’t do. 

Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.” 

Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she? 

“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.” 

“I’m not a fucking dog.” 

“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.” 

A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions. 

“God.” 

You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs. 

“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.” 

“Fuck no.”

Agnes twitches. 

You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs. 

“No?” 

A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.

“No.” 

“What a shame.” 

In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain. 

The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage. 

You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch. 

With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.” 

A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you. 

You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious. 

A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.” 

Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”

“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.” 

“You want mine?” 

For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods. 

“Words, Agnes.” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable. 

Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze. 

“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.” 

She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her. 

You hold up a hand. 

Agnes stops. 

“Crawl.” 

Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees. 

You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. 

Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day. 

When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you. 

Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle. 

“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.” 

It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety. 

Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside. 

You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it. 

Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you. 

The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.” 

She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness. 

When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip. 

Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”

A beat.

“You.” She breathes. 

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head. 

“Stand up.” 

Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own. 

Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down. 

The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her. 

You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward. 

“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs. 

“Behave and I won’t have to.” 

Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words. 

It’s not going to take long to make her cum. 

When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions. 

How fortunate you had no plans today. 

You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel. 

Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady. 

You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry. 

“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements. 

Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts. 

A choked gasp, “You.” 

“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.” 

Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.

Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen. 

“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries. 

You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it. 

Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.” 

Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket. 

Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made. 

“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.” 

She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out. 

Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.” 

---

Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“This is Chief Proctor, would you—” 

You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?” 

Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot? 

“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.” 

You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”

---

 A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty. 

Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt. 

“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk. 

An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up. 

“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.” 

Waving off the apology, “What’s up?” 

“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.” 

You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request. 

“Chief, she hates those things.” 

“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”

“Chief.” 

“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts. 

The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there. 

Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside. 

She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day. 

Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through. 

“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

---

“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting. 

Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that. 

“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.” 

She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.

“Oh bite me.” 

Agnes grins, “With pleasure.” 

You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown. 

“Did you go out for lunch again?” 

“The guys needed a pick-me-up.” 

“Agnes.” You groan. 

“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.” 

“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.” 

A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs. 

“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.” 

You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.” 

Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office. 

Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you. 

“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?” 

“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.” 

“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.” 

There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning. 

“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt. 

“Practice makes perfect.” 

You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn. 

“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.” 

Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.” 

---

The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet. 

“Can you help me with the tie?” 

After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow. 

Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands. 

You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.” 

“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.” 

Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times. 

Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours. 

You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it. 

“Please.” 

Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.” 

It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric. 

“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet. 

“Help you with the tie.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble. 

God you want her so bad. 

“Could we… just something quick?” You ask. 

“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.” 

For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long. 

“Okay.” 

Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?” 

“I shouldn’t be long.” 

She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator. 

Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.” 

“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.” 

She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it. 

---

The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” 

“You’re the detective, you tell me.” 

Agnes glares, “Turn around.” 

“No.” 

Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asks, slow. 

Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you. 

This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over. 

Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny… 

“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?” 

For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead. 

Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—” 

“Am I understood, Agnes?” 

A long, long moment of silence. 

“Fine.” 

You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips. 

Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.” 

Her broken groan makes you feel alive. 

---

As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you. 

“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments. 

Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth. 

“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit. 

That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her. 

“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes. 

You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something. 

The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers. 

“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.” 

Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help. 

“It was a spur of the moment thing.” 

“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.” 

“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response. 

“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.” 

Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening. 

There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her. 

It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?” 

To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything. 

“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.” 

“My love—” 

“Leave it.” 

Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you. 

You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink. 

About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look. 

Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile. 

What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated. 

When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort. 

You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.” 

And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it. 

---

When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble. 

It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element. 

Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly. 

You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up. 

In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups. 

Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her. 

While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood. 

Agnes is painfully hard beneath you. 

Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.

Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens. 

Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.” 

You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to. 

You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.

Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave. 

An idea hits you. 

“Where is your phone?” You whisper. 

Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger. 

You find the number without much fuss. 

You: Be discreet, but I need your help. 

If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place. 

Vidal: Go on. 

You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave. 

Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches. 

Vidal: What’s in it for me? 

You: Are you serious?

Vidal: As a heart-attack. 

Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer. 

You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much. 

You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call. 

Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn. 

A yawn that passes through every other person at the table. 

God she’s good. 

Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.” 

She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch. 

Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft. 

A hesitant nod. 

“What can I do?” 

Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.” 

You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured. 

Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle. 

A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip. 

“Get up, carefully.” 

A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable. 

But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible. 

Agnes huffs out a breath. 

“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur. 

“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.” 

“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.” 

“The same woman who gets off on that?” 

You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours. 

The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb. 

Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.” 

Agnes scoffs. 

“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car. 

You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists. 

Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief. 

“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.” 

“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.” 

“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.” 

“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.” 

You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound. 

“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.” 

Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter. 

“Let’s wait.” 

“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.” 

“Baby—” 

“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—” 

In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them. 

Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure. 

Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans. 

In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space. 

Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed. 

“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper. 

A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.” 

“I’ve never heard of that happening before.” 

Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes. 

How the hell did you get so lucky? 

Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.” 

You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up. 

“Agnes…” 

“Where’s all that boldness now?” 

Your blush deepens, “You liked it.” 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.” 

There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers. 

“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.” 

You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes. 

In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk. 

“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt. 

“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.” 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.” 

Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive. 

You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly. 

Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it. 

Agnes watches every movement. 

And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised. 

“Baby?” 

“Focus on the road.” She snaps. 

She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—

Oh. Oh. 

“Agnes, are you hard again?”

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.” 

“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.” 

The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right? 

“Baby, what color were the pills you took?” 

She pauses, “What?” 

“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?” 

Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?” 

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot. 

“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out. 

Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests. 

A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button. 

“Why the fuck were those in the same place?” 

“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.” 

You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you. 

“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!” 

Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up. 

“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.” 

Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs. 

You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.” 

There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality. 

It is only you and your wife and the wind outside. 

Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield. 

“I won’t ask again.” 

“And if I don’t?” She murmurs. 

“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.” 

Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw. 

Her seatbelt unclicks. 

You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes. 

“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses. 

Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.

No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you. 

You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core. 

“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?” 

“Need to feel you.” 

Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward. 

Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more. 

When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan. 

In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently. 

Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away. 

“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?” 

You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes. 

“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends. 

The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt. 

You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad. 

But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?

“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.” 

“Mhm.” 

Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.

You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild. 

You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself. 

Another blow to her length. 

Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you. 

“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?” 

Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”

“You want this pussy, baby boy?” 

“Yes, yes. Fuck.”

A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt. 

But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line? 

Fuck it. 

Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.” 

The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong? 

You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them. 

She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself. 

Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.” 

The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric. 

Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything. 

Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you. 

Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”

The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement. 

This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want. 

Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her. 

“Fuck.” 

You couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

“You like that?” 

Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.

You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most. 

Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again. 

“Right there, right there.”

Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy. 

She gives so much—and to no one more than you. 

A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take. 

You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open. 

“What are you—” 

The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon. 

Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her. 

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.” 

Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.” 

“All yours who?” 

“All yours, Mommy.” 

“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?” 

A particularly violent throb inside you. 

The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.” 

“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”

No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you. 

Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave. 

She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure. 

A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.

“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”

Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.” 

Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too. 

“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.” 

Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.” 

She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth. 

As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind. 

“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.” 

Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment. 

You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering. 

One hand begins to rub circles on your back. 

“Thank you.” She whispers. 

Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.” 

“Not for that.” 

You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.” 

Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of. 

You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you. 

“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask. 

“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.” 

“Aw.”

She chuckles, “Greedy.” 

“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.” 

She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk. 

Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin. 

Maybe those pills aren’t so terrible after all. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Squeak Clean 2

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: yeah…

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You’re about done. You just need to take the trash out to the bin and pack up the last of your things. As you wind the cord around your vacuum, a throat clears and draws your head around. You crane to see Steve watching you from the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Oh, just finishing up,” you say as you hook the cord to secure it and stand. 

“No problem. I was actually gonna ask if you wanted a snack,” he says, lifting his arm to lean his elbow on the doorway. You stop yourself from frame your hips, letting that knot in your lower back linger. 

A snack? You hesitate. You’re not bothered by your size or the assumptions people make about it. Still, you can’t help but be reminded of the extra cushion. You’re sure he didn’t mean it that way but it’s not really necessary for him to feed you. You bring your hands forward to fold them against your stomach. 

His eyes follow the movement and he blanches. His cheeks tinge pink and he blinks furiously, “wait, I only—I'm just being... nice. Sarah Rogers raised me right, you know? Not right to have someone in the house and not offer.” 

“It’s fine. I’m not a guest. I’m a cleaner,” you assure him and turn to grab the vacuum, dragging the wheels lightly off the carpet. 

“Sorry, if--” 

“No need. I’m not offended. Not hungry either.” You roll the vacuum to the front doorway and cross the room again. You approach him and slow, waiting for him to get out of the way, signalling with your eyes that you need to get past. “Excuse me.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he drops his arm but brings it back up to comb his golden hair. “How about water?” 

“I keep a bottle in my kit.” You assure him as you search out the bucket.  

He stands awkwardly by the door as you heave it up and carry it through to the front room. You put it with the vacuum and return one last time to the kitchen. You open the bin with the pedal but before you can uncurl the edges of the liner, Steve is right there. 

“Here, it’s pretty full. I’ll take care of it.” 

You back up if only to get space. You don’t like how easily he crowds you. You can’t tell if he underestimates his own size or yours. 

“That’s what you hire me to do,” you say. 

“Sure, but it’s one thing,” he lifts the bag out and ties it. 

“Right,” you agree. “I suppose then, I’m done for the day.” 

He lowers the bag to hang from his hand. He smiles at you. “You did a great job.” 

You arch a brow, “thanks.” You’re not sure if it’s normal. Zuli said you wouldn’t have to deal with small talk, well, she was wrong. Figures she’d lie. She never really stops talking. Maybe she should take this one. “I’m going to go.” 

He nods, almost as if he’s disappointed. “I’ll walk you out.” 

“Sure,” you shrug. 

You spin and stride away. You haul up the bucket and latch onto the vacuum. He comes closer again and before you can dodge him, he has a hold of your kit. You want so badly to rip it away. Didn’t he pay for a cleaner? Why is he trying to do everything himself? 

You don’t react. You push it all down and head for the door. You put your shoes on and grab your sweater. You head outside and he follows you. You have to keep from running to your car. The weight of the vacuum helps slow you. 

You open the trunk and lift in the vacuum. Not quick enough. He puts the trash bag on the curb and comes up to place the kit in the trunk first. He then lifts the vacuum and angles it into the car. You suck in a sigh. 

It must be something programmed into him. He is a hero, after all. He can’t just sit back and let others do the dirty work. Even to a lowly cleaner, he needs to be a saviour. 

“Thanks,” you mutter again. 

“No, thank you,” he takes a step back and searches around, “uh, drive safe.” 

“Mhm,” you nod again. “I’ll try.” 

You turn and walk up the driver’s side. You feel him watching you. You’re not the most socially graceful creature on earth. Graceful in fact is not a trait you possess in any manner. Blunt would be a better descriptor. 

You get in the car and shut the door. It doesn’t help cool the heat on the nape of your neck. You buckle your seat belt and glance in the rearview mirror. He’s still there behind you. Watching.  

You want to assume there’s some logic behind his strange behaviour. He must not be used to having people in his space. If it was you, you’d rather just clean your own place than let someone else poke around. You’re sure you have a lot less to hide than Captain America. 

You turn the engine. The rumble seems to jolt him into action. He moves away and grabs the trash bag. You flip your signal on and check your blind spot. You try to see around the cars behind you. 

You peek over again as Steve nears the bins against the brick of the townhouse. He pauses as he drops it inside and waves at you with another grin. You wonder if he rehearses that suburban hero act. It can’t be real. 

You pull out and shake your head. A job isn’t supposed to be enjoyable and rarely is it easy. You can tell already that while the work itself isn’t complicated, dealing with your client will be anything but simple. 

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Shimmer Kane with his breeding kink sends me absolutely feral. He gives me the vibe that he calls it ‘mating’ whenever you have sex

You have killed me, thank you.

I Like

Shimmer!Kane x f!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Summary: Kane's a little obsessed.

Warnings: Kissing, fingering, rutting, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 700

“Need to mate with you.” Kane groans in your ear as he kisses your jaw. He’s on top of you already, pressing you back down onto the sofa, his warm hands firmly pulling your thighs apart so that he can settle between them. 

“Kane, I-” You turn your head, trying to get his attention. But he growls softly, pressing his lips to yours and sinking his tongue into your mouth. 

He swallows your whines desperately as he rocks his aching erection against your core. 

He was naked already, having pulled off most of his clothing before he’d even walked into the room. 

You pull lightly at his hair on the back of his head, just enough to get a fraction of space between you both. He moans and shivers, enjoying the action far more than you thought he would. 

“What’s got into you?” You breathe. You’d become used to him over the last few months, familiar with his habits and patterns. 

His hands snake up higher on your bare thighs, underneath the skirt of your dress, to hook at the waistband of your underwear. 

“I want to get into you.” He breathes, his voice even, even though you know he is trying to make a joke. 

You grin. “I mean, what’s got you so worked up?” 

“I saw a video.” He says simply, as if he wasn’t rubbing himself deliciously against your core, just catching the edge of your clit. 

“What video?” 

Ever since Kane came back changed, you had set him up with a tablet for him to use when he had questions about everyday items. It wasn’t that you didn’t like explaining things to him, it was more that the questions he had were often so completely outside of your field of expertise or everyday common knowledge, that you usually ended up looking them up online anyway. 

“I was looking at yoga.” Something you had suggested to him to help him relax. He bunches your skirt up higher. “Different positions.” 

“And how…?”

“Lotus position, I click on some videos. They showed other things.” His breathing hitches ever so slightly, the smallest hint that his rapid rutting is affecting him. “Made me hard. Wanted you.” 

“Kane,” you squirm a little, your body reacting to him so quickly. You press your chest closer. “You know you don’t always need me when you get horny, you can take care of your needs-”

“I don’t like that.” He kisses your jaw, sucking at your skin and you have to pull him back by his hair so that you can continue the conversation. 

“What do you mean you don’t like that?” 

He gives you a small frown, as if you are being purposefully difficult. “I don’t like fucking my hand. I like being with you.” He kisses your neck again, pushing you back so you're fully laying down. 

He manages to pull himself away from you for just long enough to yank your panties down and off one leg. 

“I like when I come in you and you squeeze me.” He groans in your ear, going back to dragging his burning hot cock through your folds and gasping at the wetness that greets him. 

You shiver, pleasure twisting in your stomach as you scrap your fingers along his scalp. 

“I like when you make noises and how warm you are.” He pushes two fingers inside you and moans loudly as you whimper. 

He rubs his thumb against your clit, while he ruts his cock along your inner thigh, smearing precum along your skin. He strokes you eagerly, the spot and pace to make you scream memorised perfectly. 

You moan his name, wrapping one arm around his shoulders so you can hold him tight. 

He growls again, louder this time and watching your face as you pant and writhe under him. 

“I like that you love me.” He practically purrs, “That you let me. That you want me.” 

“Kane,” You swallow, pleasure burning and threatening to pull you down at any moment. 

“I like that you’re going to come for me and then let me make you come again.” He watches you with large, dark eyes, enraptured by your every moment. “I love you.” 

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[novlr]

How do you write an unreliable narrator in a way that actually feels clever and not just confusing or annoying? I want readers to realize something’s off without hitting them over the head with it, and still keep them hooked enough to want to figure it out.

I’m an absolute sucker for an unreliable narrator. I find them completely frustrating and endlessly entertaining. When you read a book, and you just know that something doesn’t quite add up, and you start to question the nature of the reality of the story you’re reading? Mwah. Chef’s kiss.

Sometimes unreliable narrators are obvious. Other times there are just hints. It could be a detail that contradicts an earlier scene. A character who reacts oddly to what should be normal. And then, slowly, you realise you can’t trust the very person telling you the story. An unreliable narrator transforms readers from passive observers into active participants, forcing them to become detectives in their own reading experience.

What is an unreliable narrator?

An unreliable narrator is the voice of your story whose credibility has been compromised. They might be lying deliberately to conceal a truth, or completely unintentionally. What makes them fascinating is that they are telling their version of a truth or attempting to create one, even if that truth doesn’t match reality.

Unlike traditional narrators who serve as trusted guides through a story, unreliable narrators force readers to question everything they’re told. This means that the real story often lives in the gaps between what the narrator says and what the reader comes to understand is actually true.

It’s like a friend telling you their breakup story; their version of events might be completely honest from their perspective, but you know you’re only getting one side of the story. Unreliable narrators remind us that truth is often subjective, and that everyone is the hero of their own story.

Types of unreliable narrators

There is no definitive type of unreliable narrator, so the first step is to understand their role in the story and what you want their version of the truth to mean. Here are some common types:

The deliberate liar consciously misleads readers.

The self-deceiver believes their own false narrative.

The mentally compromised has their perception affected by illness, injury, or trauma.

The naïve observer lacks the experience to understand what they’re seeing.

The morally ambiguous has values that skew their interpretation of events.

Each of these types of unreliable narrator serves a different purpose and will change the tone of your narrative. For example, a deliberate liar is often used in thriller and mystery stories where readers must untangle truth from deception, while a naïve observer might be used for dramatic irony. A mentally compromised narrator might lead readers through a haunting exploration of perception, reality, and the self, whereas a self-deceiver might highlight wider social issues in their story world as their illusions gradually crumble.

So, how do you actually write an unreliable narrator?

Writing an unreliable narrator is a delicate balancing act. You need to give your readers enough truth to keep them invested, enough lies to make them question everything, and enough clues that they can piece together what’s really happening. The trick isn’t just about deceiving your reader, but about making that deception meaningful (and entertaining).

Let’s look at some of the more universal techniques:

Build credibility before breaking it

Start by establishing your narrator’s voice as trustworthy. Let readers settle into believing what they’re told. This makes the eventual revelation of unreliability more impactful. Show your narrator being accurate about small details or making reasonable observations before introducing elements that challenge their reliability.

Leave breadcrumbs

Plant subtle inconsistencies throughout your narrative. These should be small enough that readers might miss them on first reading, but obvious enough to create that satisfying “aha” moment when the truth is revealed,, like contradictions in the narrator’s version of events, other characters reacting to the narrator’s version of reality, or something that runs counter to the reality of the reader.

The power of perspective

Remember that unreliable narration is fundamentally about perspective. Your narrator isn’t necessarily lying; they’re telling their truth, even if it doesn’t align with objective reality. Show how their personal biases, experiences, and limitations colour their interpretation of events.

Build tension through uncertainty

Use your narrator’s unreliability to build tension. When readers begin to doubt the narrator, every new piece of information becomes suspect. This creates a self-perpetuating cycle of uncertainty that keeps readers engaged. But make sure you keep it balanced. Give readers enough reason to doubt your narrator without completely destroying their credibility too early.

The art of the reveal

The trickiest part of writing any unreliable narrator is deciding what the best time to reveal it is. And it does have to be considered carefully. Do you want a dramatic singular reveal, a gradual reveal with an “aha” moment, or to never explicitly confirm it, leaving readers to decide?

Remember: the goal isn’t simply to trick readers, but to explore deeper truths about perception, reality, and human nature. The best unreliable narrators make us question not just the story, but our own assumptions about truth and reliability. So make sure you consider that when you decide whether you need a reveal or not.

Keep your inconsistency consistent

Even unreliable narrators need to follow internal logic. Their unreliability should make sense within the context of their character and the situations they find themselves in. A narrator with memory issues should consistently show those issues. A deliberate liar should have clear motivations for their deception.

[missfrustration]

moss fertilizer (roronoa zoro x f!reader) 18+

Rating: Explicit 18+, minors do not interact!

Tags: pwp, smut, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hardcore, choking, brat, dom/sub, degradation, oral, creampie, improper use of glasspanes, hook-up, vaginal fingering, squirting, dirty talk, saliva, tears, size difference, dubious consent

A/n: a fanfic i posted on ao3 a year ago. hope you enjoy!!

word count: 3.9k

You started the night partying with the Straw Hats on the Sunny. It was Chopper’s birthday, which gave the whole crew the perfect excuse to go wild. You participated in all the usual activities: drinking games with Nami, karaoke battles with Luffy, and outrageous storytelling with Ussop. It was a great night, and you were all tipsy. When Luffy started strong with charades that were too specific for everyone (for the general gestures he made), you sat back and watched as everyone spitballed answers. You marveled at all the crew’s various guesses until your eyes landed on something too interesting to look away from. 

In the background, Zoro was reclined in his seat, staring at the stars with a tipsy grin. His thumb and forefinger tapped on his beer pint, and you saw a slight flush on his cheeks from the alcohol. You flushed red, cursing yourself for thinking something so mundane was so hot. Still, you kept staring, intrigued at the scene before you.

Something in him must’ve sensed someone's eyes were on him as he looked down for the culprit until he saw you. Despite your heart beating out of your chest, you look back with a sly grin. He knows you’ve been watching, so what? At this point, you didn’t care to look away. The alcohol was making you feel too cocky for your good.

Zoro knew what would set you off right then. That’s when he tilts his head low and gives you a lustful smirk. It was a look of pure flirtation.

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

You were caught off guard entirely. As you look at him, you flush more and more red. You slowly turn your eyes back to the charade party, not wanting to look like you are, in reality, freaking out.

You try to switch all your attention to Luffy’s duck impression, flapping his arms in abstract zigzags. While you admit it was funny, your efforts to quell your imagination are useless over the look Zoro gave you. You take your beef pint off the table on the left of you and down half of it in one gulp. 

Heat pools as fast as your drink goes down. You have been feeling a different way around Zoro lately, and you can’t longer deny your lust for him. In the past, you excused the feeling; maybe I just wanted to be closer friends with him. Although you were right on the ‘close’ part, it wasn’t about being friends.

You were eager to approach him in a more than friendly way. The alcohol is clouding your common sense, telling you it’s the absolute right choice to make. However, the fear of him turning you down is too great for you to be so bold.

After a few moments, your heart settles, and you put your cup down back to the left side of you. You decide not to turn your eyes back to the swordsman for the rest of the night to quell your imagination. You focus on Luffy’s now rather impressive orangutan act when you suddenly feel the seat to your right shift. 

You turn to your right and spot a head of moss-colored hair. Before you have time to register, you catch his face inches before yours.

Wait… what?

“I think you have something that’s mine,” Zoro husks. His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine and heat in your core.

He’s leaning forward, face level with yours. your closeness has you in a frenzy. Your hand, raised awkwardly in surprise, hovered over his chest. His kimono wrapped loosely around his body, giving a generous glimpse of his chiseled chest. His breath reeked of booze. Yet, Zoro gave a domineering swagger that was too hot for your good. Nevertheless, you swallow the butterflies and reply.

“...and, what’s that, Mosshead?” You reply overly sweetly, fluttering your eyes.

Zoro doesn’t react to your nickname. 

Instead, he moves in closer to you.

It’s so slow that it feels like minutes are replacing seconds. Zoro doesn’t once break eye contact while you do the same. Your heart is on fire, and your breath hitches as your lips are so close to touching his. You feel his arm reach to the left side of you. 

If he’s making the first move forward like this, you prepare to go all out. It didn’t matter if the others were there anymore. You needed him now .

As you readied to feel his hand on your side, you saw him grab your beer pint from the corner of your eye.

Wait.

Oh, there’s no fucking way-

“This.” He holds up your pint of beer in his hands as he gives the biggest fuck-you smile you’ve ever seen. The closeness of your faces disappears as quickly as it came. While he still holds your eye contact, his face quickly retreats, and he moves to get up. 

Your jaw opens in absolute shock. You close it, trying to pick up at least some of your dignity left, only to reopen it again. You watch in shock as the swordsman takes his leave, leaving you looking like a fish out of water. There is no way.

There's no way he got the last laugh like that.

“Roronoa,” you slowly begin, pointing a not-so-convincing finger at him. “You did not just do that for half a drink.” 

Zoro looks behind his shoulder and calls out. “See for yourself, princess.” With that, he holds his arm with the pint, puts it to his lips, and rapidly drinks the rest. After one gulp, Zoro holds up the empty cup, tosses it, and walks away, grinning.

You hold your stare as you see him saunter off the deck of the Sunny, clearly proud of what he’s just done. 

You hold that same expression as petty rage sets in. 

There is no way he made a fool out of your desires for a drink. You could’ve died from the embarrassment if the crew were to have seen that. Your anger and alcohol mixed dangerously. No way in hell he gets away with this.

You have to get back at him. 

And while your drink clouds your common sense, you must do it tonight. 

—

Eventually, the rest of the crew is depleted from the night’s party festivities. Chopper was the first to call it a night, still smiling from pure joy as he dozed off on Sanji’s shoulder. Nami and Robin leave right after to tuck him in. Soon after, the rest followed off the deck into the rooms to get their shut-eye. 

You, though? You aren’t done with the night quite yet.

You have some revenge work to do.

Zoro made a fool out of you an hour ago. Since then, he’s been absent from the party, and you haven’t seen him in any of the other common areas below deck. You’re positive he’s at the crow’s nest. If you can’t find Zoro anywhere else on the Sunny, he’s there. 

You climb up to the crow’s nest, careful not to fall while being tipsy. You reach the latch, open it slowly enough to climb in, and softly shut it.

You turn around, instantly spotting Zoro on the other side of the room. He’s standing up, facing the stars out the window, and curling an abnormally large dumbbell. The window pane facing him shows his figure in the dim moonlight. He’s shirtless, with sweat glistening down his back and grey sweatpants covering his bottom half. The glow of the moon reflects off of his muscles. It defines each one, making the scene before you even more irresistible. You stare at him momentarily, in awe and surprise he hasn’t yet noticed you. He must be focused on his curls. 

This is the perfect chance, however. Since he doesn’t notice you yet, you can plan out the ideal way to-

“Fuck.” Zoro rasped. His arm gave out on the last rep with a grunt, causing him to stop his curls.

On the other end of the room, you freeze at his voice. It was a rough and deep grunt and went straight to your core. Paired with legs worn from climbing up to the nest, you kick over an extra pair of dumbbells, causing you to trip over them and land with a thud.

“Fuck!” You said. Your body painfully collided with the hardwood, leaving you sprawled and uncoordinated. No, no, no, no. My plan. You tried to stand back up as fast as you fell, but it was too late.

Zoro had taken notice of your presence even before you tripped over but didn’t turn until you made an ass out of yourself. He was nowhere near as startled as you.

You looked to Zoro to see him fully facing you now with a sly grin. He raises his eyebrows, “Oi. Missed me or something?”

Although you are embarrassed, you need to execute the plan. You met eyes with him, rising while doing so, not saying a word. He broke eye contact first by turning around and putting the dumbbell up. 

Zoro took a cocky sigh and continued, slowly turning around, “I would’ve figured you’d come around at some point. You need to face it somehow. You-” he cut off his sentence after you fully stood up. His eyes widened slightly, and his grin dropped as he noticed what you were wearing. 

Your top was a very tight-fitting crop tee that hugged your curves, with thin shorts that looked more like panties than anything. Compared to the relaxed clothes you usually wear daily, this was as revealing as Nami’s attire. 

You had him. You were the one who was smiling now. You picked up where he left off, feeling as cocky as he was, “I what , Zoro?” You said, each word building you up with more confidence.

He didn’t respond, meeting your eyes with a slate expression. You can tell his teeth are clenching together by how his temples move. 

You notice he hasn’t moved a bit, worried that you may be going a bit too far. Still, you take a gamble and stop until your face is inches away from his, mimicking how he acted earlier tonight. 

“You got something to say, moss head?” You tilt your head to the side, taking in the view. He’s… sweating more? At least more than when you first saw him. You take in the aroma of musk. 

“Or is something else… up ?” 

You take the gamble, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your breasts into him. You can barely see the garment covering your chest at that angle. Still, you make an innocent expression, looking up at him as if you didn’t know you were being a tease.  Except for his mouth, his expression didn’t falter. His lips were now slightly parted, while his arms were still unmoving by his sides. 

Your heart is pounding. You feel Zoro’s moist breath dancing on your face and try not to look down at his lips. You needed to prove to him you’re unfazed by this, by what he did earlier tonight. Even though you feel your breath hitch and your core begins to tighten…

You need to break him before you do. 

You both stay like that for a moment without saying a word. You were finally waiting for him to respond, but he stared at you with the same expression. It was annoying.

“Aww, you don’t have anything to discuss now, huh?” You finally broke the ice. Hopefully, after this, he’ll get flustered now. 

You gently move in next to his right ear, wrapping your arms around him as you say, “I guess I don’t either.” 

You inch away from his face, slipping your hands off him, and turn to walk away. You didn’t even risk looking back at him for fear of him seeing the widest grin you had. Your plan to rile him up as he did to you worked. Now you could go to bed knowing you had the last laugh. You walk to the nest latch before feeling a firm grasp on your arm. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Zoro growled.

Man, you liked this game you’re playing. You clapped back, “What’s wrong, Mosshead? Can’t take a joke or what?” 

The grip on your arm tightened as Zoro turned you around. His grip gives out as he pushes you up against the wall of the crow's nest. The sudden impact makes you gasp harshly and let out a small whimper.

You look at Zoro and are met with him staring straight at you with furrowed brows. Your thoughts scrambled, you retort, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You try to pick up your relaxed attitude to no avail; You both know who’s in charge now.

His face twists in offense at your words. “Let me make myself clear.” He says, looking deep into your eyes with a certain edge you cannot describe. “You can’t tease me and think you’ll get away in one piece.”

“Well, don’t think you can do the same thing and think you can get a–” 

You’re interrupted by Zoro’s mouth clashing against yours. You immediately moan into his mouth as he cups your face and runs his hands through your hair. You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck. His body presses against yours, and you smell the slight scent of musk and the dampness of his sweaty skin. His breath is so warm. 

He’s the one who breaks the kiss first, turning his head down to admire your figure. Your paper-thin shirt reveals your hardened nipples, and your thighs instinctively rub together under his gaze. He lifts his head and looks into both of your eyes. He calls out your name.

“...Fucking hell.”

Your breath hitches. He pins your arms to the wall on either side of your head and continues his assault on your mouth. You let out breathy moans as his mouth slowly travels down your throat. He bites your pulse point, which causes you to cry out in pleasure. You are so aroused that you barely hear him say small profanities in between bites,

Your sensations are so intoxicating that you could melt into him. You breathe out, “Zoro, please don’t fucking stop.”

“Who said I was?”

He looks back up at you, now moving his hands that were pining you to the wall to explore your body. You meet lips again and feel one hand playing with your left nipple as the other lifts up your shirt. 

He locks you in another feverish set of kisses and breaks away every few moments to look down at your figure. You can’t help but gush in the attention.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this.”  

You look down at him with lust in your eyes, wondering how he’ll respond.

“Yeah?” He replies in a breathy tone. He lets go of the grip on one of your arms to reach out and gently lift your face with his forefinger. 

“Oh, then I’ll show you how much you need this.” He says.

Your eyes slightly widened as you registered what he said. 

“But, are you sure you want to do this?” He genuinely asks. His eyes plead with you to say yes, but his face stays steadfast and calm, prepared for anything you could say.

You look into his eyes in earnest, “Fuck yes. Please, I need you.” You lean into his ear. “I need all of you right now. I need to feel you in me.”

That was all Zoro needed to turn his almost worried expression into one of pure lust. The darkness of the shadows on his face accentuates how his mouth curls up. 

“I’m not going fucking easy then.”

Zoro steps back, taking your shirt in both hands and quickly ripping it open to reveal your chest. You feel the cold air settle on your hardened nipples as you gasp. He tosses the cloth aside before diving in to cup your left breast in his mouth and toying with the other. The force of his mouth and hand pushes you back into the glass pane wall and earns another soft moan out of you. You run your hands through his hair as he breathes in sharply through his teeth at the touch. You travel your hands down to his strong shoulders and caress them, feeling your shorts dampen from arousal. 

He look into your eyes as he reaches his hand down to grab your ass. He grips it repeatedly, slowly rocking your whole body from his touch. You gasp under his touch as he takes in your reaction. 

“Ah, you really like that, huh?” he playfully teases. He leans into you. You relent with a raspy moan as he grips it harder. 

Your eyes travel slowly, stealing all the looks you’ve wished to take for ages. You smell the musk of him from working out and the scent of alcohol that only entices you to him. You drink up his body and muscles until you reach his sweats. You slightly widen your eyes as they focus on the prominent imprint against the cloth. You bite your lip at the thought. If only the sweats were gone so you could admire it. 

You made it obvious when staring down at the imprint his dick made in his sweatpants that Zoro knew what you wanted. He releases the merciless hold he had on your ass and starts to palm his cock through the fabric. His other hand touches your bare stomach, quickly traveling up the skin to reach your neck. 

You hum in delight as he begins to grip the tender skin around your throat, tenderly grazing the areas you desperately wanted him to touch. It’s as if his finger asked you it was okay to squeeze. You grab onto his arm as heat begins to warm up your face, and heat pools to your core. 

You nod to him to continue. Soon, you feel yourself being grasped by the man’s calloused hands. His skin is so rough, pressed into a neck so delicate, you lose sensation in your wobbling legs. You bite your lip to keep any sound from coming out, only looking desperate and panting at his touch. 

“You like this too, brat? You’re more fucked up than I’ve taken you for.” Zoro uses his hand on your neck to pin you against the wall. 

Your hands give in to your inner thoughts, touching yourself seductively to tease the swordsman. You move your hands to your breasts, gripping the skin to show it's supple surface. Zoro leans back to look at the sight. Your demonstration is enough of an answer to him, but that’s not enough to satisfy him.

“What do you want me to do, exactly? You’ll need to tell me; I’m a little stuck on the details.” Zoro says. 

He knows you’re a prideful girl who will never back down from a challenge–but he knows your pride will hold you back from saying what you want. You squirm under his gaze, frozen by his rough grip on your neck. This man can be such a hot asshole. 

“Please…” You whimper, voice barely reaching above a level you wouldn’t catch unless you two were this close.

“Please, what?”

Zoro constricts your breath with such intensity that it’ll be trouble if you keep quiet. You struggle to keep cool, but you know your poker face isn’t fooling anyone. Not when Zoro manhandles you like this. Your body feels so small under his domineering presence–both physically and mentally–that you can’t help but want to itch that scratch. You can’t help but give in to what he wants. 

“Please, fuck me.” You say, managing to hold a grip on your consciousness. He looks down to see those skin-tight shorts now sodden with your arousal. He can’t help but grin at the sight. 

“You must have a death wish, girl.”

He forcefully turns you around, slamming your face into the cold glass of the window. You shiver from the sudden chillness and immediate condensation formed on the pane at your bated breath. He takes the hem of your shorts and jerks them down in one fluid motion. 

“I will make every man you’ve fucked before me feel like nothing if that’s what you want.” Zoro says, smacking your ass repeatedly. The hot, searing pain mixes with the pleasure of his other hand reaching to grope you every which way. 

You squeak as your bare chest presses against the chilled glass. Zoro doesn’t care, only pushing you further against it. You feel less embarrassed now, turned away from him and being degraded like this. Now, you are more daring to say more.

“I bet you can’t, Zoro.” You whisper to him so sweetly, but with an edge he can’t ignore. You know your sing-song tone allures him to do more, to brush your features beyond saving so you don’t ever tease him again with that gorgeous mouth. You know you hit a nerve when you hear him pause. When your own hair rises at the taunts you spew, you know he will prove you wrong. 

“Oh, you want to be treated like a slut, don’t you.” Zoro laughs, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can give you just that.”

He takes your right arm, yanking it behind your back with vigor. An intense pain jolts up your spine from the crank of your shoulder, causing you to jump and press into the glass. Nothing can deny the sweet noise of pleasure you make because of it. The filth you crave feeds you to press your luck like you’ve done. 

“If that turns you on, I can wake everyone up from your screams by taking my cock.” He whispers in your ear. It was the gentlest whisper he’s given tonight, but you know the subject is anything but delicate. 

“We don’t have to go that far.” You laughed it off, but Zoro’s words went straight to your pussy.

“Didn’t know you were the one to decide that, brat.” Zoro catches your intrigue at his words, reminding you you’re the one at his beck and call. He licks a hot stripe up your neck to your ear lobe, pressing his large chest into your body. 

His dominating presence further excites you. You kick at him like a horse would a farrier, hiding a grin familiar to the one Zoro wore drinking your favorite beer earlier.

“I won’t scream for the likes of you. Let’s see if you can even get there first.” 

“Fine, then. We can play that game.”

He rips your panties off of you in one clean swoop of his grasp, finally revealing your soaking pussy to the air. He dives in to fondle you immediately.

It all felt like a flash. The calloused hand that levers your arm lets go, only to grasp onto the revealed skin. You whimper against the glass as his fingers glide from your ass to your slit. 

“Shit, you’re so wet.” His finger dives into your dripping cunt. You instantly arch into his touch, giving him a better angle. How his fingers efficiently pump inside tells you how wet Zoro has made you.

He adds another finger, curling them to the delicious gummy spot. Your hand moves to cover you mouth, you feel your head going light from pleasure but don’t want to give him the satisfaction to hear you. How would you give him his present so easily after the shit you talked? 

You struggle when his finger makes contact with your clit. It rubs a few teasingly hard circles as he leans into you. His hot breath towers down on you, showing you how tall he really is. He starts to pick up the pace, but not without taking your hand off your mouth with force. 

“Who said you needed to be quiet?” He says, now traveling to your slit, fingers rushing to grab as many juices as it can before he rubs it on his length. 

“Just behave for me, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Before you can respond, he pounds into you, filling you up instantly with one rough push. You scream out in pain as you spasm around his pulsing dick. It’s overbearing. “Shut up and take it, girl. I know you can.” He says, wrenching your arm more into your backside.

You sputter as you struggle to take him. There is nothing for you to do except lean into the glass.

“That’s it.” He says, gripping your hips so hard that bruises could form. 

“It’s so much. I can’t. Ah!” Before you can finish your sentence, Zoro thrusts into you in a deliciously divine way to cut you off. 

“You don’t make the rules anymore, princess . Am I too much?” His hands push your hair aside, feeling a hard grip wrap around the small of your neck. 

“No, no, please don’t stop. Zoro, I– I need this.”

“That’s my slut.” He scoffs. His hand is so big that it’s shy of fully clasping over your throat. For a second, it seems like he wants to guide your pace with his hand on the back of your neck. 

But that’s not the purpose. 

No, he adjusts his fingers instead, feeling for the front parts of your throat. It’s right on top of your carotid artery,

And Zoro presses. Hard.

It’s harder than last time. Your knees give out as your vision starts to spot. A whine hushes through your throat as you chant Zoro’s name. 

He continues the constant punching bag of pumps into you. He watched with lust as your pussy swallowed his dick over and over again so well. It was too good not to go harder. 

You, on the other hand, can no longer take his dick standing and slowly lower yourself to the ground as your legs give way. 

Zoro sees this, taking the hand, not clutching your neck and hoisting you up by your waist, snaking his arm around your waist to your inner thigh to keep you steady. He pushes you further into the window, burrowing his cock into you. 

“You need to take all of me. Are you ready for that?” Zoro coos, knowing you’re more than stuffed already. 

You barely get a word in but whimper your consent throughout moans. That’s all he needed.

A new wave of pain sears into you that is quickly replaced by pleasure. His fingers start to linger on your crotch for better support, now mercilessly holding your body as it pounds into his hips. 

Saliva drools down your mouth as tears prick your eyes. Your head feels light in his iron grip. But still, the sweet release is so close that it makes you crave more. 

“Please.. squeeze harder.” You spit out, covering the glass pane in a light mist. 

“What did you say?” Zoro asked in disbelief as he slowed down his jackhammer speed. “There’s no way I heard you right.”

Your hands fled to your neck and latched on to his fingers. You repeatedly press into his fingertips in pulses. 

“Squeeze… harder. Squeeze… squeeze.” You whisper.

“Oh, man. You nasty fucking vixen.” He pants. 

He continues his assault with his hips once more. The entire room is filled with the clapping of your bodies. 

“You can barely tell me that, but you want it even harder, huh? You dirty girl.” Zoro grunts. 

“Just squeeze.” You blurt out, now dangling your legs from the need.

Now you feel it. The fingers around you start to constrict more, digging into those sweet spots on your neck that make the room spin so divinely. 

“And here I thought you were some sweet, innocent girl.” 

He leans forward to bite your shoulder, causing a silent cry to pass from you. His tongue laps to your neck, now latching onto the skin. Your skin pricks from the pressure of his mouth sucking on to it, and it comes off with a loud pop. Spit picks out his mouth, reaching your ear in a husk.

“I know you too well now. I know you love every second of this.”

The chokehold is making the room blackout. You bite your lip, feeling your head throb from those calloused hands hooked onto your body. His hand that hoisted you now has clicked onto your clitoris. The pressure of the circles he gives you makes you so close. 

“Now be a good little girl, and come on my cock.”

The world disappears instantly as you close your eyes, feeling, hearing, seeing nothing. 

Then his hands unravel from your throat, giving you back all your senses to crash at once. 

Light pours into your eyes, the room is visible, the pleasure is overwhelming, and you hear an animalistic scream pour out. It’s from your mouth. 

You convulse and push against the glass as Zoro keeps you from falling over yourself: your back arches and clamps onto the hands that hold you. Tears spill from you as you feel the overwhelming wave of your orgasm. Your head throbs incessantly, but you can’t help but cum onto the one who has helped you all this way. One thing is sure, however.

Zoro doesn’t stop. 

His pace is now erratic as he uses your orgasm to start his high, causing him to slop into you in messy spears.

Throughout your screams and moans, you make out his grunts as he jackhammers into you. 

“You’re so fucking wet .” He says. He hunches into your body, gripping your hips as you’re pushed into the glass. All the strength in Zoro is now honed onto slamming his cock into your body. 

You sputter out to say you’ve finished already, expecting him to slow down at least. But his pace is so intense you feel another climax build up. Your body craves another orgasm from Zoro within seconds of finishing your last. The immediate need is so rampant that you can’t help but succumb to your wants and moan. Your arms whip around and your hands dig into his back, and your teeth grit as he fucks you nonstop. You try to ride it but can’t overcome the overstimulation as you scream louder. At this point, your moans are more audible than your bodies punching the glass.

“Come on, girl. I know that pretty pussy can come one more time for me.” Zoro says. He takes his nails, digging from nape to ass in a rigorous pressure that leaves your skin burning red, reigniting that feeling you were sure not to miss.

You can’t feel your body when you come again. You sound indistinguishable from a wild animal as your body goes limp. Your body thinks and feels beyond heaven now. It is higher than anything you’ve ever felt that you doubt heaven could compare to this. Nothing but blankness fills your thoughts, and white-hot pleasure earthquakes your body. 

You would have stopped there. You would feel like a feather gently leaving the skies back onto the soft ground. You would have woken up to your senses and gone from there.

But no, Zoro won’t let you go clean like that. He continues the pillage that now goes beyond human comprehension. Your joints jolt when you feel messy intervals of pressure pounding into your cervix that can’t keep your mouth closed. The blood rushes to your head, leaving your body as your control to move your spit-covered mouth is long gone. 

No heaven could feel like this. It is much darker than that, darker than any waters you’ve ever been in before. There’s a special place that Zoro has put you into now. 

It’s your garden of earthly delights that will never let you into the pearly gates. 

“...so much. So…” You can no longer fight it. You can barely speak anymore. Your attempt at words makes you realize you’ve gone so brain-dead on his cock that you can’t go back to normal. 

But oh. It’s too good to deny any longer. There is no filth here—only pure and unfiltered freedom. 

Zoro fully unsheathes himself from you, lifting you into the air. Feeling yourself fly into the air without a care is almost blissful. Just when you think it’s over, he grips onto your airborne form to fully plaster you into his entire cock. Your walls swallow him from head to sack, not letting go as he gives his all into cementing his entire cock inside you. That’s when you feel his hands and hips lock onto you without pulling out, and you feel something churn inside you. 

Zoro shies of moaning as he releases his seed into you, feeding you the last he possibly can as he rocks his hips back and forth for additional stimulation. You hiss as you take it, face thoroughly wet with what you can only assume is your filthy sweat, drool, and tears you so gracefully left behind. But that’s not the only juice of yours you released. 

Zoro slowly pulls out, now creating a lovely mess of you. Your pussy seeps out his cum, dripping in heavy loads like the drool that gushed from your mouth. The white seed of his mingles with yours, creating a creamy symphony. But not without one last thing. 

You feel your body release something else, now dripping onto Zoro’s abdomen and down the crevices of your lower body. 

You squirted onto Zoro right after he pulled out. But he didn’t move away. Instead, he relishes the feeling. You squirted all because of him, after all. Why would he not take what was his? A true pirate wouldn’t have it any other way. Your body leaked in every way he wanted it to, and he clamored for more of you. 

You feel so blessed that you could probably soak into the floor you were being gently put down on. However, The feeling was short-lived as soon Zoro stood back up, fully facing you again.

“Clean me up,” Zoro says, smacking his dick with his hand. It waved back and forth, still semi-erect from the ordeal but now sun-bleached from your creamy seed. 

There was nothing else inside of that slutty head of yours except his order now, knowing you will not disappoint. 

Before his dick stops shaking, you latch onto it. You feverishly lick up any trace of you and him both dripping off of the shaft. You taste the tanginess of your cum and squirt that soaked onto his skin, thoroughly sucking it off of his body. You do it all with no hands. 

Thank god he wasn’t fully hard. When you take all of him in your mouth to clean, it causes you to choke on him. You scrunch up your nose as your eyes get wet again. Pulling back when you hear him scoff. You look up at him.

“Careful now. You’ll make your case much harder if you tease me like that.” He puts one hand on your head, making you feel the weight of it before he pulls back. “Do it quick before I can’t control myself.”

Your eyes widen. Your jaw dropped so much you barely feel his dick slide out of it.

“Jesus Christ, Zoro. Don’t tell me you can do more tonight?”

“Oh, does the slut want more, I hear?” Your eyes are the size of fucking cups before he smiles. “Nah, let’s call it a night. You’ve had more than you can chew for a while.”

Relief is evident on your face as you relax. There’s no way somebody can withstand more of Zoro in one night without feeling lobotomized after. You know that much now. 

“But just know…” Zoro brings you out of your thoughts with a firm grip on your hair. He jerks your head to face him fully, and he looks into you with dilated eyes that tell you all you need to know.

“You’ll be hearing from me more. I’ll make you come begging for me every night if it suits me. Do you understand, princess?”

His words scream demanding, but his voice tells differently. Zoro won’t admit it to you, but you both know you’re hooked on each other. Now that you both have a taste, this won’t be the last time, right?

Absolutely not. With a pirate like Zoro, you know he will claim what is his until the day he dies. As long as you can cry and mewl against his cock like that, he is certainly not letting you go for a long, long time.

-------

ao3 | tiktok | kofi | masterlist

[yanderes-galore]

Can I request a yandere concept for Pyramid Head (DBD)?

Sure, I haven't done much for him! He's a bit... complicated but here's what I have. Not really Yandere, mostly just dark, but again idk how to describe it.

Yandere! Pyramid Head (DBD) Concept

Pairing: Dubious

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Sadism, Torture, Obvious Violence, Imprisonment, Dark themes, Blood, Disturbing descriptions, Death mention, Touchy behavior, Dubious intentions.

Pyramid Head is a being of torment, judgment, and pain.

It's hard to think of him feeling anything else.

He's an executioner given a new purpose by The Entity.

That's about as much lore as we get.

He'd meant to be an unyielding force, one hellbent on passing painful judgment.

Your first few encounters, and probably the majority of the obsession, will result in pain.

However, in a realm where you're consistently sent to your death, that isn't really new.

Pyramid Head's intentions are impossible to read.

No one knows his motives.

Which means his intentions with his obsession are unknown too.

It's hard to tell since most matches end with you dead in some way.

The executioner is ruthless.

Be you wrapped in barbed wire, sent to a piercing cage to maul your flesh... or even sliced by that large blade before being placed on a hook...

Most of your encounters have you shivering... Your mind is always replaying those final moments of your flesh being torn from you....

Blood is a common sight when you encounter the executioner.

The crimson liquid clings to him with every kill.

What's worse for you? You're always saved for last.

Sometimes you are spared... most of the time you're merely put through your own special hell.

You can probably tell you are a favorite of some kind...

But it's hard to tell if that's a good or bad thing.

You're used to the pain and blood.

What you aren't used to... is Pyramid Head changing his pattern.

You always viewed Pyramid Head as some monotonous drone to The Entity.

Yet when he goes out of his way to prolong the chase, to toy with you, to occasionally give mercy...

You realize that this being has some sort of sentience.

What's even worse is it still doesn't explain its favoritism towards you.

There's times Pyramid Head abandons chase, or just "stares", or even ignores you.

There's other times he just won't leave you alone!

That's the scariest trait of Pyramid Head towards you.

His unpredictability.

Another thing you can't read is him targeting survivors around you first.

On a generator? He's picking off the guy next to you before you.

It could be jealousy... or something else entirely.

Regardless of his actions, you don't trust him.

He switches behavior too quickly... like he isn't sure how to act around you.

It's anything from slaughtering you to cornering you to pin you down.

He isn't sure what makes you react more.

Do you react more to pain...? Or pleasure...?

Another question... which one does he like more?

Pyramid Head is experimenting with you.

That's one of the reasons he acts so unstable.

He can't tell what way he likes to watch you squirm, just what is the difference if you squirm from affection or pain?

Sometimes he makes you squirm by exploring you with his touches, rough yet oddly affectionate.

He studies how you writhe before him...

But he also does the same thing with pain, not seeing any difference.

He only knows that he likes it.

Your best bet is to keep your distance, to evade him.

But no survivor is perfect... especially with a killer who seems to have studied your every move.

In fact, your attempt to evade him only makes him worse.

He seems to get irritated, hunting down other survivors to take his rage out on them.

By the time he finds you, saving you for last, he's covered in blood.

And you scream a lot more for evading him.

Pyramid Head is confusing due to what he is.

He's meant to be a being to punish people.

Yet he sees you, and isn't sure how to react.

He should harm you, punish you, torment you...

But he also wants to keep you away from other survivors, to lock you away, to keep you out of harm....

Pleasure and punishment blur a line with him.

Affection quickly becomes harm when he puts his hands on you.

It's all a personal hell for you.

Conflicting emotions leads to an indecisive yandere...

Which only seems to cause everyone more harm... just as The Entity likes it.

[cryptids]

..

I just need to ramble for a minute, but I'm always internally grieving how the majority of constructiprowl fics (which is already not many 😭💔) really only seem to use the dynamic from the early stages of their relationship where Prowl was still pushing the constructicons away and resented them. And on the one hand, I understand the appeal bc an antagonistic relationship is fun to explore, and I love fics where they start off that way and then develop a better relationship out of it.... but, I also come across a lot of fics where he hates them way more and for much longer than he ever did in canon, or where that's the only dynamic they'll ever have. There's a sentiment, I think, that it would be impossible for him to ever warm up to them and continuing to hate them is the only realistic option.

And that's alright if it's your preference, like far be it from me to get in the way of people's toxic yaoi hdbsbds, but they DID move past that in canon and it feels like a shame that's not really acknowledged as much. Mostly bc I wish there was more stuff that explored the dynamic they had later on once he decided he wanted to be in control of Devastator and was keeping them around willingly..... idk just that specific period of time in their relationship was so funny and endearing to me djsbhs, I need more of him being their boss and bringing them everywhere with him to everyone else's dismay lmao

They still had a lot of issues at that point, Prowl was power tripping like crazy and injuring himself by pushing an unstable gestalt bond too much/too fast, with the nosebleeds and the Scrapper moments, so they still had a long way to go. But what I'm getting at is mostly just that by then he was long past hating them or trying to make them go away, and was actually trying to keep them around and make things work. In the end he was only forcibly separated from them against his will too.... the worst thing Starscream ever did fr nsnbndnsms

((There is a lot about Prowl's combiner wars storyline that I don't love actually, but I'm putting that all aside for now 😪))

I think he was essentially neutral on the constructicons as individuals overall... he was mostly just treating them like all the subordinates he'd had before. THEIR devotion and adoration of him was definitely very different to anything he'd experienced before though (and extremely gay lmao), I always feel a bit sad that canon didn't really give him the time to notice or react to that.

Just going off on a little side tangent but actually (as a shipper lmao 🤧) I like to think he could have become fond of them over time. Actually I think Prowl and the constructicons have a lot more in common than was ever really explored?? Especially if they had been allowed to have distinct personalities and demonstrate their intelligence a bit more lmao. I don't mind them being himbos (affectionate) or the way they spoke or anything, but I feel like they were just really underutilised in IDW1... like we never saw any fun chemistry stuff from Mixmaster or any of Hook's medical skills for example. Speaking of Hook in particular, I think it's interesting he usually has a bad temper and a very kind of perfectionist, prickly and stubborn personality that makes him very Prowl-like in a way that would have been fun to play around with...

Anywayyy I guess this whole ramble was just to say I wish there was more happy/endgame constructiprowl content bc it could be so good and I'm yearning for it jsjsjds 😭😭

I have also seen a few people say this ship is inherently one-sided and depicting it any other way is ooc, and I disagree!! I think it CAN be, but it doesn't NEED to be in order to be true to canon.

Just adding a couple of relevant panels here too bc I am thinking about them,,,

[f1nalboys]

Night-Time Worship ; Bo Sinclair

Bo Sinclair x Fem!AFAB!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1959

WARNINGS: nsfw, dub/non-con just to be sure and because its bo, somnophilia, oral (fem recieving), fingering (fem recieving), pussy worship, softish bo, the slightest bit of daddy kink at the end (bo calls himself daddy), bo cant be nice to you when youre awake, bo mocks reader, bo knows the reader isn't really in love with him, possessiveness, kinda sorta proofread but i suck so...

Bo keeps his blue eyes trained on you as he slides down the length of the bed, pulling the cover off of you as he does so. Everything he does is deliberate, careful, trying not to wake you from your peaceful sleep, though he can't help but drag his fingers along your bare skin, your body warm under his unsettlingly gentle touch. Last night had been rough, a common occurrence with him, but you had fallen asleep in bed before he had gotten out of the shower. He tried sleeping beside you but something was stirring under his ribcage, a rat burrowing its way through his organs away from the heat of his heart, and he couldn’t stop glancing over at you. And now here he was. 

Bo can still taste the remnants of last night on his tongue, the cigarettes and the liquor and your sweetness all mixing together to make him dizzy as he settles in between your legs. You were in just a t-shirt and underwear, laid out on your side, sound asleep. You’re pliable under his touch, his rough and calloused hands grazing across the flesh of your hips as he turns you on your back. You stir slightly but settle back down, your legs closed together. 

He wets his bottom lip as he pushes your knees apart, his thick fingers hooking around the cotton underwear you wore, pulling it to the side. He leans forwards, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathes in your scent, a shudder going through his body, letting himself get lost in you. It was rare for Bo to pay attention like this, his mind and hands focused solely on you and not his own cock. The quiet and darkness that surrounded him gave him the confidence to take his time with you. His movements were slow, gentle, a grace you were never granted when you were awake. 

In the dead of the night, when you were too tired or fucked up to pay him any mind, Bo allowed himself to treat you the way he wished he could in the morning light. 

He slips the fabric down your legs, leaving it hanging from one of your ankles as he settles onto his stomach, his lower half hanging off of the bed, his face level with your cunt. Reaching his hand towards you, he uses two fingers to spread your lips for him, revealing your already wet core. “Fuck, darlin’,” he whispers, mostly to himself, his eyes trained on your pussy. “All wet for me still, huh? In your dreams, thinking of me down here like this…” He trails off as he carefully blows against your core, watching your body squirm at the coldness of his breath.

“Bo?” You murmur, stirring in your sleep, but he shushes you gently, quieting you down with a press of his fingers against your thigh.

“Go on back to sleep. M’not doing nothing, baby.” He grins when he sees your hole clench and he stays there like this, his face mere inches from your cunt, his fingers keeping your lips spread wide for him, until your breathing evens back out. “Gonna make you feel good, promise,” he whispers, brushing his nose along your inner thigh, his eyes closing. “Just give me a minute, baby.” 

He presses a gentle kiss against your thigh where a few bruises were beginning to form. He knew they were his fingerprints and he grins at the thought of his mark being on you for a few days later, the pain of brushing against them reminding you of the time you two shared. Bo’s eyes open and he shifts his focus back to your pussy, his other hand coming down to lightly press against your clit. Your body reacts as it does when you are awake, your hips twitching, your legs attempting to close. You were still asleep, your head back on the pillow, and Bo brings his fingertips to his mouth, coating them in a generous amount of spit before returning them to your clit.

With him positioned between your legs, it was impossible for them to close, your knees pressing against his shoulders as he begins to rub deliberately slow circles. “How’s that feel, darlin’?” He whispers, not expecting an answer. He doesn’t want one, either; he was in his own head now, imagining a day long from now where the two of you were in love, not whatever it was you felt for him now. A day where you craved his touch instead of allowing it to happen. A day where the first flicker of emotion in your eyes when you saw him was affection and not fear. Bo would never admit that to you, to anyone, not even himself, but he felt it.

His very bones craved to be loved, cracking under the pressure of his own inability to give it. 

Your pussy reacts to his fingers exactly how he hopes, your hole clenching pathetically around nothing, begging him to fill you. He chuckles lowly as your hips squirm against him, not away from his touch, but into it. You let out a small whimper and Bo decides it’s time to reward your body for its patience. He shushes you as he pushes in two fingers, letting out a satisfied groan when he gets to the third knuckle with ease.

“So much easier when you ain’t fightin’ it,” he says, his eyes flicking up to your face displayed in moonlight. Your eyes are still closed and, besides the crease in between your eyebrows, there’s no sign of you waking up just yet. He remembers how much you had drank with him, laughing and telling him you could easily keep up with him and becoming a sloppy mess after a few beers. You had held onto him, your nails digging into his arms, as he fucked you, and despite the fog in your mind, it felt like the first time you had allowed him to see the real you. The one desperate for his touch, for his cock, his cum, his pain and pleasure, in whatever way he’d give it to you. “Still so tight for me, Y/N. I gotta fuck you more, don’t I? Yeah, I do. Gotta stretch my girl out.”

The lack of degradation from himself isn’t lost on Bo, but he buries that down deep, focusing on the task at hand. His fingers begin to pump inside you, curling with each thrust, hitting the part inside you that, when you were awake, had you crying out in pleasure. For now, though, Bo was satisfied with the small squeaks and sighs you were letting out; you couldn’t hide how you felt now. When you were awake you could try to; turning your face away from his never-ending stare and biting your lip until it bled, but here? Now? All you could do was listen to your body.

“Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen, you know that, sweetheart?” He croons, swallowing back a moan. His hips had begun to move on their own, grinding his cock, which was held back only by his underwear, against the mattress. He hisses at the friction, the sound of your wetness filling the room as he fucks the length of his fingers inside you. “So tight, suckin’ my fuckin’ fingers in, can barely pull out. Greedy little pussy, ain’t it?” He laughs at his own comment, drunk off of the feeling of you. 

Bo adds another finger, speeding up, and he leans forwards to lick at your clit. The added pleasure makes your entire body jolt, a low moan pouring from your throat like a wound. He grins, lapping at your cunt as his fingers pump inside your tight pussy. “Fuck,” he grunts against you, closing his eyes and losing himself in the taste and feel of you. “Your pussy tastes so good, baby, come on.” He wraps his pink lips around your clit, sucking gently, humming around it. You tasted better than any liquor he could find and you fucked him up just as much.

“Cum for me, baby, show me you love me.”

You do. You wake up as you cum, half asleep and delirious as the rug is pulled out from under you, your body convulsing, hand reaching out to tangle into his hair. “Holy shit!” You pant, your hips grinding down against his fingers and tongue, prolonging the pleasure. Bo lets you ride out your orgasm, pulling away with a satisfied and smug smile, pulling his fingers out of your cunt before popping them into his mouth. “Bo? Did… did you just…?” You look down at him, your face hot, blinking away your grogginess.

“Make you cum? Yeah,” he says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He sits up on the bed, towering over your frame. “Your poor little pussy was soaked before I even started touching you, darlin’. Clenching, calling out to be, begging for my tongue and my fingers.” His grin turns a touch darker, the shadows of the room casting an eerie appearance on his handsome face. “And you let me. Stayed asleep and let me make you feel real good.”

You swallow thickly, your brain still foggy from the alcohol of last night and the sleep you had just been in. He grins, seeing how confused you look, and he leans forward, his hand resting beside you, his body in between your legs. His fingers press against your lips, gently at first. ”Open up. See how sweet you taste when you don’t hold back for me.” When your lips don’t part you see his jaw clench before his fingers press down harder. “C’mon now. Don’t be fuckin’ difficult.” Anger simmers behind his eyes. “Oh, I get it. Maybe you liked that you were asleep. Liked that you didn’t have to pretend to hate it this time ‘round.”

“Bo-” You say, gagging when he shoves his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself. He smirks, staring down at you as you hesitantly wrap your lips around his thick fingers, your eyes flicking up to meet his gaze.

“Bo.” He mocks, a wave of shame washing over you as you squirm underneath him. He pulls his fingers from your mouth and wipes the spit onto your cheek, grabbing your chin roughly. Any restraint or gentleness he had shown you while you were asleep was gone now, not that you had a clue. “No, please don’t eat my pussy while I sleep, Bo. Don’t make me cum, don’t make me feel good, don’t give me what I fuckin’ want when I’m too fuckin’ bitchy to ask.” His voice is higher pitched now, making fun of you. His voice returns to its gruff and angry tone as he leans in, his face inches from yours. “You’re mine, Y/N. When you’re awake, when you’re asleep, when you’re fucking dreaming; you are fucking mine. Forever. You know that, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

Bo tilts his head at you as he asks, letting out a satisfied hum when you give him a slow nod. “Good. Now, thank me for making you cum without you havin’ to fuckin’ beg for it.”

Swallowing back your shame, your rage, you force a smile up at him, the wetness and heat between your thighs evident. “Thank you, Bo. That was… thank you. I don’t deserve you.” You say, forcing the words out, feeling yourself clench as he pulls his underwear down enough to pull his cock out, swiping it through your folds. You hate to admit it, but you knew it was the truth. You were his, forever.

“You’re welcome sweetheart. Now just lay still, alright? Let daddy cum and we can go back to bed.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In a Place Like This 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob! Frank Castle

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: your efforts to be left alone find you in bad company.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You live in a bad neighbourhood. A lot of people do. No one would choose to live there. You just sort of end up where life dumps you. All you can do is figure out how to get through it. 

One eye over your shoulder at all time. That’s how. You can’t let your guard down. Not ever. Not even behind the grated windows of your apartment. Not even with the sun out and children playing across the street. 

That day, you’re on alert. The guy was at the diner during your shift. You remember he sent his eggs back for being too cold despite the steam roiling off them. You should’ve known he was one of those. Trying to find any reason to get a free plate. You didn’t bring him a second. If he wanted one, he could pay his bill up front. 

He waited. You didn’t expect that kind of patience from him. He’s more of the instant gratification sort. That’s probably what he thinks going to happen. 

You slip your hand over your purse subtly. You don’t let your gait slow, you don’t quicken. You keep it as it is. You have to let him believe he’s smarter than you. He’s stronger, no doubt, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

You push your hand through the zipper. Your fingers hook through the brass loops and you grip them tight. You’re a scrapper. You can do what needs to be done, even if you hate it. 

He snickers as you turn down the alley that cuts through behind Jack’s Pawn Shop. The old man keeps a bat under his counter and pistol in his belt. He’ll chase away the idiot if you don’t have to first. 

He thinks he has you. Let him. Over-confidence breeds stupidity. You know what never fails. Minding your business. 

You pass the dumpsters and that’s when he breaks into a sprint. You spin out of his way, only for him to crash into the metal crate. You don’t have time to react as you swing without a clear sight. You hit something. Someone. 

The griper from the diner is wrestled down beneath another man. His skull cracks off the pavement as the second stranger straddles him breathlessly and touches his cheek. There’s a split in the flesh from where you caught him. 

“Shit,” he shakes his head. “Got a hell of a left hook.” 

You back away and pull your arm back, “sure do.” 

“Ah, calm down,” he stands and nudges the unsatisfied diner with his boot. “I was following this dipshit, not you.” 

“Mhmm,” you hum doubtfully. 

You back up, keeping your arm cocked. He turns to watch you. He scoffs and tilts his head, looking you up and down. 

“You don’t got surprise on your side now. Won’t be as easy the second time.” 

You arch a brow and and grip the knuckles even tighter. He chuckles. “Told ya, I’m not interested in you.” 

“Never to careful with you lot,” you sneer as you edge away. He doesn’t move. 

“You lot?” He echoes curiously. 

“Criminals. All of ya,” you spit. 

He snorts and puts his hands on his hips. You curl your lip as you continue your retreat. As you get to the end of the alley, you shake your head. You tuck the knuckles back in your purse and keep your fingers hooked in them. 

You can never be too safe. 

💀

Another day at the diner. It’s dead after two in the afternoon. Kids are in school, lunch is over, and pay day is still around the corner. You lazily wipe the counter as you stare at the box TV perched on the old ledge. The news tallies off another casualty count; the anchor recounting the glorified account of a robbery uptown. The one down at Tina Lou’s is conveniently unreported. 

The bell above the door chimes. You sigh. The job pays your bills, the tips are small but money is money, and no one’s in the habit of hiring without a degree and some nepotistic internship down at daddy’s office. Your father didn’t work in an office. Well, you don’t know shit about your father. 

You’re not much for customer service but Alfie didn’t hire you for that. He hires the ones who can keep the diners in check. The one’s that make sure the bill is paid. 

You grab the carafe of stale coffee and approach the table as the man strips off his leather jacket. He’s one of them. You can tell by his shoulders, the way he postures and looks around like he pays for the electricity. 

You flip his cup and as you pour, he looks at you. You meet his gaze, undaunted. You narrow your eyes bluish bruise over his cheek bone and the fresh gash there. What are the odds? 

You don’t believe in coincidences. 

“How’s the hand, sugar?” He glances at your hand as you pour. Your left. They’re still tender. “Put ice on it?” 

You straighten up and hold the coffee urn steady. “Just the coffee?” 

One side of his mouth curls, “I’ll take a grilled cheese and some of those fries. Can you have Vin put on some friend onions too?” 

His mention of the cook isn’t said without weight. He wants you to know what he knows. He knows Vinny, he knows Alfie, and now he knows you. He makes a show of reading your name tag. 

“Grilled cheese, fries, onions,” you recite plainly. 

“And if you can change the channel, that’d be nice. Hate these squawking parrots,” he pushes his shoulders back and spreads his knees wide under the table. 

You turn without another word and set the carafe on the burner. You go to the window and put in the order. Vinny grunts. You swipe the remote and march over to the occupied table. As you do, a pair of diner stops outside, push the door in only and inch before thinking better of it. You watch them flee past the windows as they stare at the man at the table. 

You put the remote in front of him. He tilts his head back to look at you, “Frank Castle.” He introduces himself. “But a woman like you already knows that, don’t ya?” 

Your eyes flick up and down. His features are bullish and thick. His nose shows signs of a break at some point and his brown eyes are as dark as pits.

“Hard to tell one of ya from the next.” 

You spin and go back to the counter, once more dragging the cloth over the surface. He snorts and shakes his head as he laughs to himself. He mutters but you can’t make out his words. You agree. It’s silly that a man like him is trying to intimidate a waitress. Business must be slow. 

[tinyshoopuf]

Davrin Week Day 5 Singing/Bestiary/Woodworking

This one is dedicated to @thedissonantverses and @mythals-whore, whose conversation gave me the idea like last week!

“Over a thousand...that’s how many fellow Wardens I had.” Rook approached Davrin’s room, backstrap loom and supplies tucked under an arm. She had checked in with the rest of her team, giving the Warden a bit of space to process on his own while she gauged everyone’s general state. This was what she was good at. Before Varric, and Solas, and the ancient Elven gods, she had been a Mourn Watcher, one with a particular talent to comfort those who were grieving. There was something in the way the energies gathered and the wisps reacted that told her everything she needed to know about what a shattered heart needed. Time to put those skills to use. Rook gave a perfunctory knock before entering Davrin’s room. He was slumped in his chair by the fire, carving away at a piece of wood with single minded determination. Assan leaned against the side of his legs, unusually subdued, likely sensing Davrin’s mood. The man looked up and met her eyes, a rebuff on his lips that died when he saw how she quietly settled nearby, attaching her weaving to the hooks he’d placed on his table specifically for her use. They always needed bandages, and now was as good a time as any to replenish their stock. With a sigh, Rook saw him sink a little further into his chair, carving at a less manic pace, sadness overtaking his features. For several long moments the only sound in the room was the rhythmic chipping of wood punctuated by the occasional soft griffon chirp. She let the beat settle into her as she passed weft across warp and built up the beginnings of a new roll of bandages. Then, Rook began to sing.

Early on in the formation of the team, they had come up with chore rotations. Lucanis and Bellara handled most of the cooking. Harding and Emmrich took care of washing and mending. Taash was in charge of disposing of the collected trash (sometimes the others would make a game of it, lobbing bundles of perishables into the air while the Qunari sent small bursts of flames streaking out to ignite it.) Neve had volunteered to take care of the dishes and make sure any objects displaced by inquisitive wisps returned to their rightful place. That left Davrin and Rook the dusting and sweeping in the common rooms. Rook had spent much of her time in the Necropolis singing. She sang to the wisps, the spirits, the dead, the living. When she was 6 she had even been invited to give a little performance to the Lich Lords, who had declared her lullabies ‘exceedingly soothing’ and that she was to continue to offer song in whatever way the eddies of the Necropolis enticed her. So, as she had begun the metronomic swish swish of the broom that first time, Rook began to sing, continuing to do so even after Davrin joined her hour of chores. She hadn’t thought much of it, used to singing whenever, wherever, and was pleased when after a few moments her newest teammate started to harmonize with her. From then on it had become a silent agreement that they would sing together, teaching each other new songs and enjoying old, shared melodies. What Rook began to sing now was a fairly widespread Dalish funeral dirge. She had thought hard and chosen carefully, picking one that somehow managed to avoid calling on any of the elven pantheon. It started almost angrily, a snarling lament to circumstances, before softening into mournful vocalizations. One thing she loved about this particular piece was that it was meant to be sung in the round and she felt a knot loosen when, after a few repetitions, Davrin finally joined her in echo, then overtook her as she paused, letting him set the lead. Rook knew that was important. The coda was only reached once the leader felt they had bled out enough of the grief that the whole expression could come to an end, so she let Davrin sing as many rounds as he needed. If some of those rounds sounded a bit more congested than normal, well, that’s what it was for. Eventually, he began the final bars, a set of gentle notes lulling the departed and those left behind into a sense of peace. Assan, astute to the emotions of the room, let out a little trill, a perfect accenting flourish to the fading music. Davrin chuckled, petting the griffon on the head. He glanced over at Rook, small smile on his lips as he gave her a nod of thanks. She smiled in return, gesturing with her chin that it was his turn to pick. After a moment, Davrin’s carving changed tempo and he began a somewhat rowdy Warden camp song. They continued in that vein until there was a roll of bandages that would last the team a few days and a line of fallen comrades, preserved in wood.

[evolutionsvoid]

While the Hollows would serve as fodder for the Envoys, these shambling shells would not be the face of the silver forces. For they were mindless drones, howling masses meant purely to overwhelm the soldiers of gold. The Hollows and the shamir were tools to be used in the invasion of towns and fortresses, but when battle broke out and the warriors took up their arms, the true feared face of the Envoys would emerge. Behind the swarms of Hollow, they marched forth with hooked blades and silent stares. A single mission seared into their empty heads and crumbling bodies. They would fight, they would kill and they would drag their prizes back down below. And once they cast their prisoners into the Alkahest pits, they would march back out to do it all again. They didn’t stop, they didn’t rest, for they were Those Unflinching. 

Those Unflinching were made by Mrdyu and his priests through a horrid ritual of death. The mad prophet had learned how to use Alkahest to rob the living of their essence and organa, yet leave their flesh behind. The precious parts that make us what we are were dissolved away, purging the body of its will and vulnerabilities. Emotion and morals were stripped away, as the vital pieces were carefully removed and dissolved. This would allow the essences to return to the god, while leaving the flesh behind to be used. The power of death was put in their place, with silvery needles and profane blessings. The eaten away bodies would be held together with these piercings and bandages, until cage-like armor was locked onto their flesh. These husks were of flesh, bone and death, with no cares or fears within them. There was nothing left to feel pain, to feel doubt. The words and blessings of Mrdyu were all they had, a single command and an unwavering drive. The knowledge of war and battle they had in life remained but stripped of mercy and thought. They would rise from death as eternal soldiers, fighting and killing without pause or hesitancy. They were Those Unflinching, the terrible warriors of silver that refused to die. 

What did the soldiers and followers of the Church feel when they first met these terrible foes? What terror gripped their hearts when they marched forth from the earth and slew all that stood before them? When waves of arrows did nothing to them, when swords bit into their flesh and yet they didn’t react? They watched in terror as Blood lightning failed to slow them, when spears of Black Bile impaled their bodies yet never earned a scream. Waves of Phlegm failed to wash them away, and even as the flames of Yellow Bile seared their flesh, these warriors fought on. They seemed unstoppable, unmoved by any damage or tactic. There were no vital points to strike, no weaknesses to exploit. Limbs would still swing once severed, and even a headless corpse would continue fighting. Humor magic barely slowed them, as it seemed their Alkahest steeped bodies corroded the spells that threatened their flesh. They could absorb an insane amount of punishment, and still bring death to their foes. Their own blades were forged from Alkahest, holding a demonic bite that no common weapon could resist. Shields were cleaved in two, swords broke beneath their blows. Armor might as well have been parchment when these swords ripped through it without slowing. The training of many warriors became useless in the face of Those Unflinching, as defenses did nothing and most offense did little to their undying flesh. Many would fall to them, cut down and dragged away to a horrid necropolis to be returned to god. Living soldiers that were taken prisoner would instead be fed to Mrdyu and his priests, granted the fate of being transformed into one of these empty warriors. 

To see these silvery soldiers march forth was a nightmare to all, as they were an omen of a terrible death. During the early stages of the conflict between the Envoys and the Church, these legions seemed unstoppable. Combined with the hordes of Hollow and the defense defiling shamir, it felt like there was no way to repel such a ghastly foe. The generals of gold alongside the Six Fingers of God would have to convene to come up with new strategies against the Envoys, lest the whole Church meet with a terrible fate. Malik would be one of the greatest contributors to these efforts, as her skills with blades against impossible foes gave her much wisdom to share. In time, the golden faith would begin to push back the ceaseless waves of silver.  

Fighting against Those Unflinching would no longer focus on killing them, rather finding ways to immobilize them for good. Soldiers were trained to go for the limbs, hacking off parts from these undying beings til they were nothing but flopping appendages and a wriggling torso. Weapons like bludgeons were cast aside in favor of long blades or spears that could hack them apart or pin them down. Traps were devised that would contain Those Unflinching and render them harmless, like collapsing pits that would bury them alive or spiky jaws that would latch on and never let go. The Church turned to unofficial humors like Amber and Tears to imprison them, locking away the evil for good. Though the Envoys would have the advantage of these surprise attacks, they underestimated the might and mind of the Church, who slowly learned their ways and eventually turned the tide. When the Six Fingers of God and their golden forces attacked the grand necropolis where Mrdyu dwelled, Those Unflinching no longer scared them. These undying warriors would be disabled and would meet their end when their leader and master fell to the Six Fingers.   

When the Envoys of Silver were defeated with the end of Mrdyu, these deathly warriors would be cast into the very Alkahest they worshipped. Their undying forms flung into the silvery lakes before the whole temple was buried in crumbling earth. These terrible beings would be destroyed and erased, the Church determined to see every last one gone. Since their mission was to serve and protect the Envoys, most indeed perished for good when the Church destroyed the necropoli. With just a little clean up afterwards, Those Unflinching were wiped out at last, never to be seen again. Yet…they are not truly gone. Their faith may be destroyed, their flesh dissolved into nothing, but the fear they inflicted still remains to this day. Their haunting image, their unsettling silence and their unwavering devotion. It is still here, in the minds of the people, on the tongues of storytellers and the superstitious. That man…the one we see in dying dreams and panicked moments. It is through him these horrid soldiers live on, ensuring that the Church never forgets the silver face of death.  

----------------------------------------------

It has come to my attention that I got very excited preparing for this themed month while also being bad at math. We are going to be spilling into April with a few entries because my prep work gave me enough time to keep tacking on more pieces than there are days.

And that man mentioned at the end, oh we will be meeting him!

[acciofictionalmen]

lust life - SIRIUS BLACK

(sirius black x female!reader)

summary: you've been hooking up with james potter over the summer, but when you return to hogwarts you find yourself drawn to his best friend. you've adamantly hated sirius black throughout your school years, and you're sure the feeling's mutual... or you were

warnings: sexual references, strong & suggestive language, description of injuries including blood, cuts and bruises, 14+

other parts:

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3 (current)

PART THREE

The bold red and gold letters were unbearably obnoxious- something like this had Gryffindor written all over it. The bright colours were in stark contrast with the dark greens and black tones of the Slytherin common room. You didn't even have to walk up to the noticeboard to read the massive words plastered across.

'INTER-HOUSE PARTY

WHERE : gryffindor common room

WHEN : friday

TIME : 10 PM

(any snitches will be hexed- courtesy of Sirius Black)

You scoffed at the last part, looking around. no-one seemed to be particularly interested and neither were you.

Upon closer look, you saw rips and tears on the sides of the poster. Whoever had placed it there must have used a permanent sticking charm to prevent anyone from taking it down.

You left the room, rolling your eyes.

On the way to detention you stared aimlessly at your feet whilst you walked, completely submerged in your thoughts. A certain gryffindor boy weaseled his way into your mind. Sirius Black- the reason that you were currently headed to Filch's office on a day when you could be doing Charms homework, or spending time with your friends instead.

So when you felt a hand on your shoulder you spun around so suddenly you almost tripped over your feet. Two strong arms held you steady, as you met a familiar pair of green eyes.

"James?" You asked quizzically, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, "What happened to making sure no one saw us together?"

Still chuckling at how startled you had been, he quickly ushered you into a broom cupboard. You were fairly certain a second year had witnessed the two of you do so.

After the amused look on his face had finally faded away, the both of you just stared at eachother awkwardly. Just as you were about to ask why he was making you late to detention, James took a deep breath.

"I have feelings for Lily." He blurted out.

You weren't sure what you'd been expecting him to say, but it definitely wasn't that. You stared at him for a second, confused about the momentary wave of relief that washed over you.

James looked at you uncertainly, unsure of how you'd react. You'd suspected for a while. A long time, actually. And James' feelings for Lily Evans simply didn't bother you. Perhaps because you had known your time together was coming to an end anyway; the passion the two of you used to have was gradually ebbing away. The boy opposite you jumped as you began to speak, knocking the dusty cleansweep by his arm onto the floor with a loud clatter.

"Cool." You shrugged, "It was fun while it lasted Potter." And you left, leaving James in the dark with a pleasantly surprised look on his face.

It contorted into one of shock as Remus slipped in not even seconds after you'd left.

He looked sickly pale. His footsteps were small, and he moved slowly.

"Erm.." James sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, "Shouldn't you be resting, Moony?"

But Remus ignored him, "(Y/n)? Really? Out of all people- the one person your best friend despises?" Despite his weakened state, Remus defiantly crossed his arms, "Don't you think he deserves to know?" But James had already stepped out of the cupboard, and was lingering by the open door.

He gestured to his friend's frail figure, "You need to be resting, it isn't healthy for you to be up, especially not when it's almost time." He paused, "And anyways, it's over." James shrugged, "It was just a fling, and now we're going our separate ways."

"Are you sure Sirius will see it that way?" Remus inquired knowingly, but James had already left.

⚜

"Your wand, (L/n)." Filch snapped, snatching it the second you pulled it out of your robes. You raised a hand towards the doorknob hesitantly, the grime on it so thick that what you imagined had used to be a shimmering gold, was now a dull grey.

Filch glared, "What're you waiting for then?"

The caretaker's threatening glare encouraged you to open the door and enter. Filch immediately closed the door behind you. As you grudgingly looked around the room, it became clear that it must've been used for storage. Boxes were stacked up the walls, the air was stale, and the only source of light came from the full-moon which illuminatined the room through a large, floor length window opposite.

You groaned, checking the likely broken clock on the wall. Black was late, which wasn't suprising, but you knew that to clean this place without magic you'd need an extra pair of hands.

Heading to the moudly cardboard box closest to the door, you opened it up, coughing as dust billowed in your face. The contents seemed to be random trinkets that didn't have any practical function. Great, you thought to yourself, setting to work.

An hour passed. 9 pm. Black still hadn't turned up.

As time slipped by, not only had you finally realised that Black wasn't going to come, but also that Filch had locked you in.

The room was pitch black by the time Filch opened the door. Mrs Norris stalked inside as Filch took a look around, candle held high. Once he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the room he gestured for you to leave, reluctantly handing back your wand as you did so.

The hallways were dark and quiet. Even the portraits' inhabitants were asleep as you headed back to the Slytherin common room. You were exhausted, covered in dust and grime with aching limbs, but only one thing was on your mind.

The fact that Black had bunked that definition made you almost shake in anger. It was now midnight. You had spent four hours cleaning that room, and the person who had gotten you into the situation couldn't even be bothered to show up. Engulfed in spite and bitterness, you didn't notice the person ahead until you crashed into them.

"Sorry." You grumbled, prepared to walk past when you suddenly realised who it was.

"(L/n)?" Sirius Black stuttered in shock, as your wide eyes took in his appearance.

His hair was matted, and stuck to the sweat beaded on his forehead. A deep gash was just above his cheekbone; red glittered his face.

You stumbled backwards, hand shakily rising to your mouth, "Oh-- oh my god--"

Black looked at a loss for words, "I-- uh--"

"We've got to take you to Madam Pomfrey," you stated urgently, all previous anger dissipated in an instant, "you stay here, I'll go get--"

"No!" Black snapped, causing you to jump. His eyes were bloodshot, and were full of such a desperation that you had never seen before. Then, in a much more subdued and pleading tone, "She can't--" He rubbed his forehead, and you noticed his hands were coated in blood, "--no one can know."

You hesitated.

"No one." He emphasised, still tense, unsure whether you'd make a run for it or not.

Shaking your head in disbelief, your mind snapped into action, "Fine. Come with me."

Taking his elbow, you began to lead him away.

"(L/n) I don't have the time--"

You stopped so abruptly that Black crashed into your back.

"Listen to me," You faced him, eyes practically blazing, "You are going to come with me, and I am going to help you because I swear to god I refuse to be the one responsible if you're discovered tomorrow morning dead." Your breathing was heavy with adrenaline as he stared back at you silently.

"Okay?!" You snapped without meeting his eyes, immediately beginning to tug him again.

"Okay!" He said exasperatedly, "but it won't help if you tear my bloody arm off!"

"I ought to do just that after you left me in a four hour detention to clean up some disgusting room by myself." Ignoring his protests and unsympathetic apologies, you pulled him inside a room you often frequented, but with a different boy.

"Is this the prefect's bathroom?" Black raised an eyebrow as you pushed him down onto the toilet seat. Ever since you and James started having regular meet-ups, he had given you the password to enter the Prefect's Bathrooms. Apparently it hadn't been changed yet.

You nodded, quickly wetting a tissue and wiping off the blood from his face before taking out your wand. Black sank into silence as you worked, but his pained expression and sharp intakes of breath whenever you dabbed at a cut didn't escape your notice.

Brushing aside a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead, you murmured "Episkey!"

And the gash on his cheekbone quickly closed up.

"Where'd you learn that?" Black asked in awe, absentmindedly running a hair through his thick hair.

"Just because you don't pay attention during Charms doesn't mean everyone else doesn't." You stated, looking up briefly from rolling up his trouser. He had leaned back with a wolfish grin on his face, and you briefly revelled in how someone could look so handsome so effortlessly, before snapping back to your senses.

"Immature prick." You sighed, moving your hands down to the bottom of his shirt. It was soaked in blood. Peeling it up cautiously, you bit the inside of your cheek as you saw the wounds littering his abdomen.

"Didn't realise you were so eager to undress me," He smirked, as you instantly withdrew your hands in disgust.

"Can you not give it a rest for one second ?!" You snapped.

From then on he stayed silent, opting instead to rest his head against the cold wall and close his eyes. You began to murmur charms, working on each open wound until most of them were gone. The deeper ones would inevitably scar. His smooth skin felt warm against your fingers, and you observed how his muscles tensed whenever you accidentally brushed against them.

You began to wish you hadn't said anything.

After a few more anxious minutes, you sat back. There would definitely be some bruises the next day, but without a professional healer there was really nothing that could be done.

The silence was so prominent between the two of you, and your thoughts so loud, that you began to wonder whether he in fact could hear them. But Black made no semblance of opening his eyes or moving, and you wondered whether he really had fallen asleep. You cleared your throat to let him know you'd finished.

His dark eyes fluttered open, and you stared at the bruises forming under his eyes. Without much thought, you lifted your fingertips and brushed his right eyelid. Whatever had happened, it was no normal courtyard fight. These injuries had to be supernatural.

"I'm sorry." You whispered finally, fingers dropping as you began to tap them against the cold tiles on the floor.

He stared intensely, and you struggled not to squirm.

"I don't mind it when you touch me." He said bluntly, causing you to get flustered.

"No-- I meant--"

Sirius Black looked as though he could laugh, causing you to descend into an ashamed silence as he spoke, "Oh about yesterday? I deserved it I--"

"--about what happened at the Malfoy's." You interrupted, finally making eye contact, "I didn't know."

He stayed silent, but Sirius' grey eyes resembled a storm, the emotion so prevalent you found yourself lost in in them. His eyes bore into yours as you sat there, with bated breath, unsure whether he understood to what you were referring.

"I judged you. Unfairly. Just like Elizabeth did to Darcy..." You trailed off, cringing at what you had just said- internal monologue was internal for a reason.

Besides, he had likely forgotten and was probably wondering if you'd had too much pumpkin juice to drink during lunch.

You attempted to salvage your apology, "At the Chrismas ball, in the--""

"--in the broom cupboard." He almost smiled, eyes twinkling as he remembered your first proper encounter. As though it was a happy memory shared between two childhood friends.

"I'm sorry." You repeated, and he smiled so broadly, radiantly, that you couldn't help but blush, cheeks aching as you both began to laugh.

⚜

Everything seemed to shift. Much to the majority of Hogwarts' students' shock, you and Sirius began to be civil to one another. You exchanged smiles when passing in the corridor, you laughed when he pulled a prank in class, you even walked to Potions with him at the beginning of third period the following day. People couldn't seem to believe that a Gryffindor and a Slytherin who had despised eachother for years had suddenly begun to exchange niceties.

When Friday finally came around, Serafina couldn't contain her suspicions. Fully aware of what the gossips in Hogwarts could be like, she hadn't wanted to offend you by believing the talk of the school. You hadn't yet told her about what had happened that day - only about you and James breaking it off - and so she was desperate to know what had changed between you and Sirius.

Eyes practically shining as the two of you sat underneath the large oak tree in the courtyard, you started to explain everything that had happened when Sera cleared her throat. Her eyes were focused curiously on something behind you.

Turning around, you grinned as you saw Sirius nearing you.

You waved as he stopped roughly a metre away from you. He didn't return it.

Lowering your hand slowly, you noticed something had changed in his demeanour.

All of a sudden James was at his side, out of breath as though he had been running, eyes wide in...

fear?

"Don't do this mate," He began to beg uselessly, as you glanced around in confusion, students had begun to gather around, "She didn't--"

"Tell me." He began in a low voice, as James looked at anywhere but you, "for how long exactly you've been fucking my best friend."

hi loves!

i had so much fun writing this chapter! hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing<33

as always, i'd love to hear your thoughts<3

taglist ;

@cumslutforaemond @blackst0nes7077 @s0vval @starsval @ttulipwritezz @xreaderbooksreads @thewiselionessfantasy @willows-lane @kieyriez

___

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all written content is mine, do not steal, plagiarise, or publish any of my works without my permission

[tortillamastersblog]

꧁ Angels Don’t Cry - Part 3 | Mor ꧂

Pairing: Mor x reader

Warnings: Mentions of torture, injuries, blood, kidnapping, vomiting and explicit language

Summary: After Hybern’s defeat, the Inner Circle makes a grave discovery in the late King’s dungeons. . .

Next Part | Masterlist

________________________________________________

The bell above the bakery’s entrance door chimes, signaling a customer has entered the shop, so I put down the piping bag I was just using and take off my apron. “I’ll be right with you, one second please.”

We’re about to close and I’m the only one left in the shop after today’s busy day.

I hand my apron on the hook on the wall and make sure my hands are clean before making my way to the front of the shop where the display area is.

“Good evening,” I say , not really looking at the customer as I make sure the cash register is closed. “How can I help you?”

There’s no reply, so I stop sweeping some crumbs off the countertop and look up with a frown.

Standing there dressed in a thick black coat and a bright red scarf is Mor. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold outside and her hair is hidden beneath a wool hat that matches her scarf in color.

“Uhm. . . Hi, what can I get for you?” I ask again, straightening up and ruffling my wings slightly.

Since our fight and moving into my own apartment I haven’t seen her and I can honestly say that I haven’t missed her much. However, now that she’s standing in front of me my heart happily skips a beat and I curse my body for reacting like this every time she’s around.

She insulted me and hurt me to no end and I should be mad at her, but when I look at her all I feel is this emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

“H-Hi,” she stutters timidly which takes me by surprise.

I’ve never heard her stutter before. This is Mor, the Morrigan who fought in the war and slayed more enemies than I can even imagine, and yet her she is, stumbling over her words like a common fool.

She watches me warily for a reaction and when I don’t give her one, she averts her eyes to the display case in front of her. “I. . . Could I-uh-please get a slice of. . . that chocolate-strawberry tart?”

I nod wordlessly and grab the tart from the case. I set it on the counter and take one of the slices and put it into a small cardboard box before putting the rest of the tart back.

“Anything else?” I ask, hyper aware of the brown eyes following my every move. I close the box with a couple of practiced folds before looking back up.

Once again, Mor is quick to avert her eyes. I notice how she tugs and pulls at her own fingers in front of her, but don’t comment on it.

It is unusual for someone of her status to go out and buy her own food, which is why I was surprised to see her here in the first place, but as the seconds go by and she still doesn’t order anything else it becomes abundantly clear that she didn’t come her for the baked goods.

“Y/N. . .”

There it is again, that tug on my insides. I clench my teeth and will the feeling to go away.

I stare at her expectantly, but other than my name nothing else comes out of her mouth. Outside, the snow whips through the lit streets and people scramble to get inside.

“Anything else?” I ask again, only this time I’m aware of the double meaning of it.

Mor gulps which inadvertently draws my attention to her half-covered throat. “I. . . No, that’s it.”

I nod curtly and go to the register to ring up her order. “That’ll be 3.99 then.”

She fishes around in her pocket, another sign that she didn’t come in here with the intention of buying anything before pulling out some change and handing it to me.

I go to count it because it’s definitely too much, but she quickly tells me to keep the change before grabbing the cardboard box.

Then, she’s gone without another word which makes me frown in confusion.

“What in the Cauldron’s name was that?” I whisper to myself before going back into the back of the shop where I finish decorating the cake I was working on.

“You’re here!” Feyre exclaims. She ushers me into the Town House before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug.

I laugh and hug her back, dropping the bag of gifts I brought with me. I did manage to find a gift for everyone after all, including Mor and Cassian. It’s Winter Solstice after all, and even though I don’t plan on interacting with either of them too much tonight, I thought getting each of them a gift as well would be the polite thing to do.

“Well, I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” I teased which makes Feyre punch me gently after breaking our hug. I laugh and take off my jacket, hanging it next to the door.

“Everyone else is already here and they’ve all had quite a bit to drink already, so get ready for that,” she warns which makes me chuckle as I pick up my bag of gifts again.

“It’s nothing I’ve not seen before, so lead the way,” I say just as a drunken shout from one of the guys echoes down the hallway.

Feyre laughs and I follow her into the living room with a small smile on my face. There, sprawled out on all the couches and high-backed chairs is everyone, including Lucien whom I haven’t seen in quite a while.

At first, no one notices our arrival, but then Azriel’s eyes land on me and he beams as he gets to his feet. “Hi!”

Before I know it I’m pulled into a hug and I freeze, not knowing what to do. He’s never hugged me before, not this carefree at least, but I quickly get over myself and hug him back.

“Hello, you look nice,” I compliment with a smirk when he pulls back. He’s wearing a dark shirt I helped him pick out the other day and a pair of slim dress pants.

It’s not too different from what I’m wearing apart from the jewelry. While he’s wearing a thin silver chain around his neck, I’m only wearing a simple golden ring on my left middle finger.

He got it for me when we went shopping the other day and I’ve not taken it off ever since. It has our mother’s name engraved on it on the inside and when I saw it the first time I teared up.

Azriel smiles crookedly, the effect of the alcohol he’s already consumed glaringly obvious. “You don’t look too bad either.”

I scoff and shove him away just in time to embrace Elain in a hug. She’s wearing a dress similar in shape to Feyre’s, but while her sister dress is a midnight blue covered in glittering gems, hers is a simple dark green.

Rhysand is next to greet me with a polite hug and a squeeze to my shoulder. “I’m happy you came. Make yourself at home, please.”

I thank him with a polite nod and smile at Amren and Nesta who simply lift their hands in greeting from their position on the couch.

“Y/N?” Cassian’s deep voice behind me makes me turn around. He’s holding out a glass of wine, smiling hesitantly and even though we’re far from being on good terms again, I accept his peace offering and thank him quietly.

It’s going to take some time to trust him again, but he’s been making an effort ever since what happened. He keeps apologizing and even helped me build some of my furniture.

Lucien shakes my hand with a polite smile and jokes about the size of my gift bag which makes my lips twitch. I can see why Feyre likes him and if it weren’t for the incessant tug on my insides I would even consider him attractive.

The last of the bunch to greet me is Mor who jumped to her feet the moment Feyre and I entered the room. She stayed back however and waited for everyone to greet me before slowly making her way over.

Cassian and Azriel are on one of the couches now, shoving each other around and fighting over another bottle of wine. Nesta, Elain and Amren are on the other couch, chatting with Lucien who’s standing by the fireplace and Feyre and Rhysand are on the armchair.

While the two of them seem to be in a conversation of their own, I can see Feyre warily glancing in my direction every so often as Mor makes her way to me.

Raising an eyebrow, she silently asks whether I’m okay with what’s happening and I nod subtly before taking a sip of wine and turning my attention to the blonde who’s now next to me.

“You look nice tonight,” she states softly, keeping her eyes on the wineglass in her hand.

It seems as though she’s not out for another fight, so I sigh and say, “So do you.”

And it’s true. She looks nice tonight, beautiful, really, but I’m not going to say that to her face. She’s wearing a long, one-shoulder, a-line dress that matches her maroon lipstick and her blonde hair is in a high ponytail. It reveals her smooth neck and shoulders, the sight of which makes me swallow thickly before looking away.

“Thank you.” She looks up and smiles tentatively. “I. . . I really liked your tart.”

“Huh?” I raise my eyebrows and take another sip of my wine.

“The chocolate-strawberry tart,” she elaborates quietly. “It was delicious.”

“Oh.” I almost forgot about that. Her coming into the shop was awkward, so I wasn’t expecting her to bring it up. “Right. . . I’m glad you liked it.”

Mor smiles once more, a quick lift of the corner of her lips, before she averts her eyes again.

Silence settles around us and I direct my attention to Azriel and Cassian who are now full on wrestling on the ground.

“I told you I’m stronger,” Cassian grunts as he pins Azriels to the ground.

“Maybe, but can you do this?” Azriel counters before vanishing in a cloud of shadows only to return a second later, this time on top of Cassian who is now pinned to the floor, face down.

“That’s cheating!” The general whines which makes everyone laugh.

I chuckle quietly as well, but then Mor’s shoulder brushes against my arm and I freeze. I keep my eyes on Azriel and swallow thickly, but don’t pull away.

“Y/N?” Her brown eyes bore into the side of my head, but I keep my eyes trained on Azriel who is now being pulled off his brother by Rhysand.

“Y/N?” Mor tries again, but I don’t react. As much as her shoulder brushing against me sends sparks through me, I can’t forget what she said to me.

I bet you really are a filthy spy. . . I bet Feyre would hate to know that you’re defiling her sister. . .

Tensing, I take a step away from her and clear my throat.

Feyre’s eyes are already on us and when she sees my discomfort, she gets to her feet and say, “Okay, everyone I think we should wrap this up in here. Dinner will be ready any minute now, so why don’t we head to the dining room.”

I thank her with a little nod and go to follow everyone filing out of the room only to be stopped by a tug on my sleeve.

“Wait, Y/N,” Mor pleads, her soft voice making my heart sink. “Can I talk to you for a second? Please?

I bet you really are a filthy spy. . .

I pull my arm out of her grasp and shake my head. I hate how much of an effect she has on me, especially in that dress, but I’m still hurt and I don’t want to talk to her because it will probably end in a fight again. “No. There’s nothing to talk about and dinner is ready, so we should go and join the others.”

I turn to leave again, but stop dead in my tracks when Mor blurts out, “I was scared, okay?”

“Excuse me?” I set down my glass of wine and cross my arms. We’re the only ones left in the room now and I know it’s only a matter of time before Feyre returns to rescue me from whatever this is.

“I was scared,” Mor says again, although this time it lacks confidence. “You asked me why I treated you the way I did a-and it’s because I was scared. I still am, actually. . .”

My wings twitch uncontrollably at all the emotions cursing through me. I’m still hurt, but now I’m also confused and intrigued. “You’re scared? Of what? Of me?”

“No!” She’s quick to shake her head. “Not of you. . . The day we found you in your cell—“

“Y/N? Mor?”

As if on cue, Feyre appears in the doorway with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes dart between me and the blonde before settling on me with a questioning look.

Are you okay? What’s happening? she asks against the shields in my mind.

I’m fine. Nothing’s happening, but thanks for the rescue.

Feyre dips her chin ever so slightly in acknowledgment and asks, “You guys coming, or what?“

Mor eyes me desperately, obviously wanting to continue our conversation, but I nod in Feyre’s direction and gesture for her to lead the way.

I am curious what Mor was going to say, but I’m not in the right headspace to stomach it all now, so I follow Feyre without sparing the blonde another glance.

Dinner went by without a hitch and if I’m honest it was quite pleasant, actually. I chatted with everyone, except Mor, and enjoyed the food.

Now I’m sitting on a bench in the garden, having snuck out a couple of minutes ago to escape the drunken idiots inside.

It’s cold, but Rhysand’s magic warms the space just enough to make sitting outside without a jacket bearable.

I can’t stop thinking about what Mor said about being scared and the fact that she explicitly told me she wasn’t scared of me. What else could she be scared of then? She’s the Morrigan for crying out loud and as far as I know the only thing she’s scared of, if you can even call it that, is her father.

“Things are getting pretty wild in there.”

I chuckle and turn to find Elain making her way toward me. Her cheeks are red from the alcohol she’s had, but her eyes are clear as she smiles at me. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” She takes a seat next to me and shuffles closer for a little warmth. “Amren and Cassian are doing shots and Rhysand and Feyre are sucking face in the middle of the living room.”

I snort and drape an arm over her shoulder when I notice the goosebumps on her skin. “Yikes. So I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before something breaks, or someone gets hurt.”

Elain nods and rests her head on my shoulder. “Yeah. . . Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”

I watch a nearby rose sway in the breeze and nudge her gently. “Sure.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating her words. “Have you ever— I don’t know— had this feeling that something in your life was missing?”

I go to shake my head, but then something tugs on my insides and for the first time I recognize what it is. It’s longing. . . For what, I’m not sure, but it’s there and it’s strong. “I guess so, but why are you asking?“

Elain takes a deep breath and clasps her hands together. “I feel this emptiness in my chest sometimes, but then when I’m with all of you, it’s somehow better, but even then, it’s still not completely gone.”

I frown but stay silent until she adds, “It’s like this pull in the pit of my stomach and—“

“Pull?” I ask. “You mean like a tug?”

She nods, not bothered that I interrupted her. “Yeah, like a tug. . . and I don’t know what it means.”

I smile and squeeze her shoulder. “I know how you feel, I feel it too, sometimes, but I have yet to figure out what it means.”

Elain groans. “I hate this.”

I laugh and spread my wings as far as they’ll go before tucking them back in. “Welcome to the club. . .”

We sit in silence and enjoy the fresh sir for a couple more minutes before deciding to head back inside. When we re-enter the living room everything is as Elain described it.

Feyre and Rhysand are all over each other and Amren and Cassian are still doing shots by the fireplace, both of them being cheered on by Lucien and Nesta who are just as drunk.

The only one not participating in the fun is Mor who’s standing by the window with her back turned.

“Look who made it back!” Cassian howls, draping an arm over Elain’s shoulders. He doesn’t dare touch me, but he smiles drunkenly and points at me. “We thought you two might have gotten lost in the snow.”

Elain shrugs his arm off and clings to Nesta who tucks a strand of her sister’s hair behind her ear. “They’re not as daft as you can be, so I wasn’t worried,” Nesta shoots back with a menacing smirk which makes Cassian smile even more.

I smile at the scene, but the exhaustion that settled in the pit of my stomach earlier catches up to me and makes me yawn.

I was supposed to stay the night in one of the house’s guest rooms, but the thought of sharing a bed with Azriel when he’s drunk makes my skin crawl, so I slowly slip out of the room unnoticed and make my way home after putting on my coat.

I’m not too worried about leaving without saying goodbye because come morning no one will even remember it especially when I return in time for breakfast and opening presents.

________________________________________________

[bird-inacage]

Only Friends: Sand & Ray's Fears of 'Being a Burden'

This is a follow-up to the initial observations I made on both the characterisation of Sand and Ray. Two qualities that really stood out to me in episode 1 which made for a surprising point of commonality.

Sand's Righteousness

So many times this episode Sand comments on how Ray is being socially irresponsible. There's definitely the expectation that those who are wealthier live more frivolously and selfishly. They don't stop to think too much about how their actions have consequences and will impact those around them.

Whereas what was overwhelmingly clear in this episode is that Sand's strong sense of righteousness means he's driven to always 'do the right thing'. This means he's going to be in immediate conflict with those who do not do so, or don't care. The questionable behaviour of others may aggravate him, but when it truly matters, Sand jumps straight into action. He won't disregard someone in need.

This makes me wonder if he's predisposed to act because he feels it's objectively right to do so, regardless of someone's wishes. Funnily enough, we've probably all had instances where we chose to do something we knew was not 'right', for the sake of protecting someone's feelings. I anticipate there will be plenty of situations where his righteousness (which comes from a place of rationale) will come into conflict with his own personal feelings (which are often irrational).

This is where Ray will make a huge impact on his perspective. Because all people have their own battles and struggles, no matter what background they come from. It's not so black and white. Right and wrong. Just and unjust.

Sand also uses the term 'burden' a lot. This actually says a tonne about him. Often we can be critical of qualities in others we possess ourselves. It's because we have them, that we are hyper-sensitive to their presence in those around us. The way he chides Ray is because he himself doesn't want to feel burdensome on others. This would explain why he tries to be as self-sufficient as possible, working several jobs to make ends meet. He holds himself to the standard he expects of others. He wants to be financially independent. He wants to be able to take care of himself and not cause trouble.

If he's upholding a a high example of what it is to be a morally and socially conscious individual, he has value. His value goes beyond his financial hindrances. He can still contribute, he can still be useful.

Ray's Fear of Inadequacy

This line spoke volumes. It shows that Ray has deeply buried fears about being left behind or being surpassed. All his friends have something going for them. Mew is the clever, assertive one. Boston is the popular, astute one. Namcheum is the outgoing, social one. And he's the boisterous drunk. This is the role he often plays in the group, which no doubt really weighs on his own understanding of who he is.

It could explain why he has a crush on Mew, because Mew possesses a lot of qualities he wishes he had. Due to his bad temper and his shortcomings, he can easily come across as unapproachable and be misunderstood. He probably feels very lonely or often like the odd one out. Boston is always slinking off to hook up with a stranger. Namcheum is busy reading the room and including everyone. Mew used to be the one who was happy in the company of his own intellectual interests, but is now focused on Top. This leaves Ray as seemingly superfluous.

His friends often joke about exactly this but Ray probably internalises these comments more than they realise. On the two occasions he leaves the table, note how none of his friends follow him. No one tries to comfort him, because they've seen it all before. 'This is what Ray does.' 'Ray likes to throw a tantrum'. 'This is the alcohol speaking.'

When Ray is genuinely upset, his friends can't always tell the difference. His attitude is what isolates him, but he can't help reacting in the way he does, which isolates him further. It's no wonder Ray is so easily frustrated, because he doesn't know how else to express himself other than to get angry.

He may genuinely believe what everyone says about him. That he doesn't bring any value to the table. That he is (as Sand puts it) "a burden to society". He doesn't know what his place is.

Just like Mew's unconscious rejection of him, he may fear that one day his friends will move on without him. Like a small animal that's imprinted on others out of survival, he can't be left alone to fend for himself because he needs people to feel worth. To prove that he's not useless. To prove he's not expendable.

This has become a self-actualising prophecy he's begrudgingly accepted, mostly out of fear of losing his friends. He plays into the misnomer that's been assigned to him. "You know I'm only good at spending money", because he doesn't know what else he can offer. His friends tease him over the fact he often gushes about how much he loves them when drunk. But this is actually in a bid to keep people close. If you shower them with love, maybe they won't ever leave you.

And the sad part of this is that no one realises Ray feels this way because it's masked by his bad temper and tendency to drink.

Sand doesn't want to be a burden in a socially responsible sense. Ray doesn't want to be a burden on his friends, who may be the only people he has. We just need these two to realise they have a very similar complex here, hidden beneath their apparent differences.

[loren91]

Young Royals and the three act structure, Part one

Seems like there was some potential interest in a full three-act story structure analysis, so I’m taking this opportunity to indulge myself by going full nerd. I’m going to attempt to make the argument that limiting the show to three seasons is actually perfect for Young Royals, by highlighting the pattern the story follows.

A few things to keep in mind before we start.

This analysis is not about the characters deep inner emotional lives. We are not here to pass judgment on their actions. We are simply identifying the beats of the story in a neutral and objective manner, for the purpose of analysing the structure of the story.

As you will notice, the points I have identified are all from Wilhelm’s perspective. That’s because he’s the point-of-view character, the main conflict is shaped by him and his emotional state. He’s the protagonist. Each subplot however, will follow the same pattern and has its own purpose, but I’ll get more into that another time.

I’ll be referring a fair bit to Lindsey Ellis’s video essay on the subject, because I like how she describes the structure pattern in sequences. So I’m gonna borrow some of her language. Also, note that the examples she uses to describe the tree-act structure are all feature films. Since Young Royals is a series, it’s gonna divert slightly from her description. But that’s what is so great about this structure, it’s flexible. It’s not meant to be set rules, but rather guidelines to help keep your story relevant and engaging all the way through. If you find this stuff interesting, I’d highly recommend watching her videos!

The three act structure is absolutely not the only way to tell a story. There’s many different formats that works just as well! It’s really about finding what structure works best to tell your story. The three acts however is the most common format you’ll find in more commercially viable works, such as Disney films for example.

And finally, I’m not a writer, but an animator, and I have studied film theory/structure. I’ll do my best to motivate the plot points I’ve identified, but if you’re a proper story expert and disagree with me, I’m happy to discuss!

Okay, let’s get to it.

A three-act structure is constructed of just that, three acts, and roughly looks like this. Essentially, a beginning, a middle, and an end. Or the set up, the confrontation, and the resolution. These acts may vary in length, act two usually being the longest and act three usually being the shortest. But what truly defines them is the tension of each act, meaning what drives the conflict forward at that point. A story will have a main conflict yes, but that conflict will take on many forms depending on where we are in the story. Lindsey Ellis describes each act as consisting of multiple sequences, and defines each sequence by its individual tension as well. Though all points of tension should always stay related to the main conflict! So the main points we’re looking to identify in the story are the main act tensions and the main sequence tensions. 

Let’s go through season one of Young Royals and talk about each story beat.

Act 1

Act tension - Wille has to attend Hillerska.

Sequence 1

We start with the Set up/Hook. The purpose here is to establish the world and the protagonist along with their internal conflict, such as their flaws and/or desire that makes them feel incomplete - The way Wilhelm’s character is introduced informs us that he is royal, but struggling with his role, because royals have set rules to follow.

“Why can’t I decide how the hell I want to live? I want to live a normal life!”

The thing that sets the story in motion is the point of attack. Something happens that is outside of the protagonist's control/knowledge - That would be the royal court deciding to send Wille to Hillerska without his permission. This gives the protagonist something to react to.

Sequence tension is established - Wille does not want to go to Hillerska. The rest of episode one reinforces Wille’s discomfort at the school.

Next, we get to the inciting incident. An event that disrupts the status quo, and our protagonist has to get involved - The initiation party, particularly when Wille and Simon almost kiss at the end. This leads him to acknowledge his attraction toward Simon and become more proactive in his pursuit of the boy. 

The sequence tension is resolved. Notice how in episode two, Hillerska is no longer the main focus for Wille, but Simon is. The seeds for what will become the central conflict have now been planted. The conflict is usually driven by character motivation. This is where we can consider the protagonist's Want vs Need. The want drives the main tension - Wille wants to be with Simon. But we’ll find want he needs later on in the story.

Sequence 2

The purpose here is to build up the creation of the main tension of the story. The main antagonist can also be established here -  August keeps getting on Wille’s nerves. Especially when he’s trying to hang out with Simon.

That’s our sequence tension - Wille is working to befriend Simon, but August keeps getting in the way.

The end of the sequence sees the first major plot point, the Lock-in. Where our protagonist makes a decision that changes everything. Usually, something they can’t come back from - In Young Royals that would be the first kiss. Wille and Simon’s relationship has fundamentally changed. The main tension is now established.

Act 2

Act tension -  Can Wille be with Simon, despite him being a prince?

Sequence 3

At the start of this sequence, the protagonist has most likely achieved some kind of milestone or learned something - He’s definitely like that.

To keep the story interesting, writers will add so-called pinch points in between the bigger plot points. These usually act as reminders of the antagonist or the pressure our protagonist may feel - Wille feels he needs to break it off with Simon because a prince is not supposed to be gay. As we established in the set up, royals have rules. 

Sequence tension - Can Wille deny his feelings for Simon? Queer pining ensues.

Sequence 4

The purpose of this sequence is to build up towards the midpoint. We see the protagonist making attempts to achieve their goal - The want never changed, Wille still wants to be with Simon, despite the pressure. Wille invites him to spend the weekend with him.

Sequence tension - Wille is trying to prioritise his new relationship with Simon, but August is still being annoying.

Then the midpoint hits. A major disruption, either from a character action or a force of nature. Can be positive or negative, just something that changes the aim of the quest without resolving the main tension - This time it’s literally halfway through the season. End of episode three, Erik dies and Wille becomes the crown prince. Everything has changed.

Sequence 5

Everybody has to adjust to the new world order after the midpoint disruption. We’ve reached another pinch point - Again we are reminded that royals have rules, and Wille makes another attempt to follow those rules. By embracing his new role, he breaks up with Simon once again, then sort of pursues Felice and joins the society.

Sequence tension - Wille adjusting to his new title while mourning his brother.

It’s common for subplots to advance around this time - Like Simon giving August the drugs to sell.

Sequence 6

Another plot point, where our protagonist may stop and reflect. Maybe have a heart-to-heart with another character, and perhaps make a decision - This is where we see the football field scene and the end of episode four. Wille reaches out to Simon for help, reconnecting with him. This leads them to pursue a relationship once again. They are put in a false sense of security. They are finally together, thinking all is good. BUT, we in the audience know that August has the video of them and the writers keep reminding us of him and the threat he poses. Even if Wille and Simon don't know it yet.

Sequence tension - Can this happiness last?

Sequence 7

(Here’s where the story leaves the classic structure for a bit, and adds an extra sequence for some more drama, as filler. In theory, they could have skipped this sequence and gone straight to the video being released. This part is mainly here to give motivation for August’s character, making his actions clearer)

So we are essentially given another pinch point, a reminder of antagonist or pressure -  August tries to break them apart by telling Wille about the drugs, which leads to the music room fight. 

Sequence tension - August is becoming more hostile.

Wille saving Simon from being framed for the drugs is more related to August’s money subplot. And the Lucia hug scene is mainly there for character building purposes. I’ll talk more about that stuff in part two.

The plot has advanced to the culmination of the main tension. The crisis that serves as build-up to act three - August releases the video. At the end of act two, the protagonist faces their biggest challenge yet. They’ve hit their lowest point - The aftermath of the video's release and Wille is totally lost. 

Act 3

Act tension - Can they save their relationship after the video?

Sequence 8

Begins with the protagonist making a big decision that creates the new act tension. The tension in act three will be different, but still related to the main conflict - Wille and Simon talk in the locker room, where Wille says he won’t do the statement. 

Sequence tension -  Can Wille avoid making the statement?

We’ve reached our last major plot point, located at the end of the sequence. Sometimes known as the twist in the third act - And what a twist, Wille does the statement anyway. This narrows down the tension further, to focus on a more character-driven intimate place for the next sequence.

Sequence 9

Sequence tension - Can they be together despite the statement?

Climax, the last big fight - Simon tells Wille off for being selfish and breaks up. Wille also finds out that both August and his mother betrayed him. The protagonist’s need has emerged from this journey and is now clear to us - Wille needs to decide who he wants to be. The want and the need should be different from each other, but still connected. Wille wants Simon, but in order for that to happen, Wille needs to break out of this cycle of self-preservation and stand up for himself against the royal court.

The climax will most likely lead to some kind of character growth - Wille is now pissed because he’s lost everything and realizes how corrupt the royal court is. As Lisa so beautifully put it, “A flame is ignited in him”. Hugging Simon in public is a display of his character growth.

And finally, Resolution. The point where the story is usually wrapped up neatly, but if left ignored, you get a cliffhanger - Which is exactly what happens in this season. Nothing is properly resolved at this point. Resulting in an open ending/cliffhanger.

Oof, that was a lot. How are we all doing? So these are the main beats of the plot. Makes sense? Let me know if you need any further clarification 😅 I was gonna get into how the rest of the show fits this format as well, but that’ll have to be in a separate post. Here’s part two!