#Maybe he doesn't quite match the image you expect^^

[tia-amorosa]

Episode 3 "Where is Bella?" (Part 3)

While Cassandra goes about her work at the institute, Alexander enjoys his day off with his father. Even though the boy is not so artistically inclined, he is still interested in art. He knows from stories that his mother was passionate about painting. But he is also surprised that there is not a single picture of hers hanging in the whole family home.

“Why aren't there any pictures of mom hanging here? Didn't she want them to be seen in the gallery?"/ ”She's… She didn't get around to putting her pictures in the gallery, Alexander. But she would have liked to… It just wasn't quite enough for an exhibition.” Mortimer found it difficult to give his son explanations that weren't even entirely true.

“Then why don't you just paint a few pictures and show them? You can paint beautifully too, I know that"/,,I know that too. But I… Would you like to have a look at the old covered wagon?”. The boy noticed when his father became uncomfortable talking about certain things. So he preferred not to probe any further. “Yes, and I want to have another look at the founder's statue.”

Mortimer worked at the institute himself for many years. He carried out many groundbreaking research projects and experiments. But there was one area that he preferred to keep his hands off in the end. He no longer knew what to do, the loss almost broke him completely. But he caught himself, for his children. “And that's what they used to drive around in, Dad?”.

“Hn-hn, yes, and sometimes whole families traveled in a thing like that//,,I find that hard to imagine. How did they go to the toilet? Our caravans have toilets in them“/”well, there were no toilet blocks by the roadside back then. Then you went into the forest“/”mmh, and what about toilet paper?"/ ‘My boy, necessity is the mother of invention’.

To change his own mind a little, he told his son what life was like in the past, in the countryside, in the cities. Completely different from today, where so many things have become taken for granted. And Alexander listened curiously and patiently to the stories his father told him. They spent a little longer in the gallery.

short Change of scene

Strangetown

While Mortimer is on a trip to the gallery with his son, his daughter is on the phone in her lab. As she needs help with her own experiments, she has contacted a few experts whose contact details were not exactly easy to obtain. She is currently only in telephone contact with them.

And in this laboratory at the end of the Strangetown desert, work is also being done, well, more or less: “What did you do again to cause the box to crash?”/"I didn't do anything, okay? What bothers me most is that it happened again during calibration. And I can't find the error"/ ‘Have you ever asked Bert?’/ ‘He's busy in the lab at the moment…’.

Then Pascal's cell phone rang. Hello? Oh, hello, Cassandra, how are you? I'm glad to hear that. Yes, everything's the same here. I'm sorry to disappoint you… Yes, there's nothing new in that regard. All the sightings have turned out to be fakes. The ladies have all been checked, none of them are your mother. Mhm…”.

“I can't explain it either, but they're all clean. They have valid birth certificates, each of them has their own genetic code, no two are alike, and neither is your mother. Apparently it's just a freak of nature that some of the women here look very similar to Bella. No, Polli has also confirmed everything to me in detail. I think we'll have to start all over again, step by step… Hey, I know you don't want to give up“/,,haach, crap crutch,” was heard from the background. “No, that wasn't me haha”.

“Oh, I'm having problems with the main computer here at the moment. And my little brother is the only one I trust when it comes to technology… Oh God, mercy, no. Hmm, yeah, I'll definitely contact Polli again…. oh, I believe you on that, no question. Tycho? Oh, he's doing wonderfully, he's learning incredibly fast,” / ‘who knows what he's doing with the babysitter right now, hehe’….

“Oh, that's Lazlo, he's always cracking some kind of joke. What's the situation?"/ ”Your Holy Grail is operational again, all the data is still there, nothing has been lost. What do I get for it?“/”uh, I don't know, we'll talk about it later… Cassandra? Oh, good, you're still on. Well, I'd suggest we go back to the beginning. When did she disappear and everything”.

“back to the beginning? We've already been through all that. oh man, hhh, all right. I'm meeting Don today anyway… maybe I can do some more questioning there… Yes, the wedding is soon. Mhm…did you actually receive my e-mail with my theory? And what do you think? OK, then ask your brother… It's okay. Give my regards. Yes, see you then”.

After she had finished the phone call, she collected her thoughts once again. She has been dealing with Pascal for several months now and she currently has a suspicion as to where her mother might be. But that's just a theory. It's all about her soul. Her ghostly existence. A ghost that is nowhere to be found must still be somewhere. Maybe even stuck somewhere? But for now, Cassandra makes her way to her meeting with Don.

@greenplumbboblover, @solorisims, @plumbobgothica🙂

[blueywrites]

soft body, meet sharp teeth

price x plussized!reader x nikolai

content: dubcon; reluctance, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion. reader is from the us (brief mention). inexperienced reader. many descriptions of reader's fat body; reader has body image issues, but price and nik view her body positively. degradation, objectification, brief humiliation; rough sex, spitroast, rimming, edging. aftercare, implied kidnapping /pos (bc apparently I can't help but write some tenderness into every fic lol)

—

You're nervous before you even knock.

You feel a bit silly over it, actually. After all, it's just a quiet little operation tucked inside a very expensive evening, one you're only tangentially involved in— here for a handoff, and nothing more. You’re a cog, not a player.

No one's gonna remember your name.

But the hallway still feels too long, the plush carpet too quiet under your heels, the hotel’s art deco lights warping your reflection almost mockingly in every gold-edged surface as you walk. You've adjusted your blouse three times between the revolving door and here, tugging at the fabric where it clings too tightly to your belly, worrying over the way the waistband of your skirt bites into your soft sides. Maybe it's because this is your first time going solo into the field, or because you'd only been given the assignment late last night, like it'd been meant for someone else and you were just a fill-in. But when you walked by the front desk, saw the pretty concierge tuck her hair behind her ear and reach delicately for the ringing telephone, you couldn't help but imagine yourself a tubby little girl playing dress-up in someone else's clothes.

Your steps trail off as you approach the suite number you memorized this morning, and forcibly, you push those thoughts from your mind. Tonight isn’t about you or your insecurities; you have a job to do. You allow yourself one last centering breath before you knock. The door opens almost immediately.

It isn't the handler you’re expecting.

In their place is a man who fills the frame like it was made for him. Broad in the shoulders, bearded, brows heavy over pale eyes. His sleeves are cuffed at the forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled but neat, like he'd rolled them up himself rather than letting anyone touch him. He looks like someone used to giving orders even when off the clock.

“You’re early,” he says, before you can even think to speak. His voice comes like gravel under boots— English-accented, calm but severe, like the cadence in your training videos. It doesn't matter how quiet he keeps it; authority coils inside every syllable.

“I, um… built in a buffer,” you reply, your voice doing that too-bright thing you hate. “Just in case. You know. Something happened.”

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at you, his sharp eyes sweeping over you, taking in everything from the careful pin at your collar to the way your kitten heels shift slightly on the tiled floor, not quite able to stay still during his examination. You’d dressed to blend in: black pencil skirt, opaque tights, a fitted blouse in a soft green that matched the pigment in your eyeshadow. Professional, understated, but different enough from your usual attire that you can't stop feeling aware of it. You’d worn a trench coat over it on the way in, but that’s folded over your arm now, no longer offering protection.

You feel exposed under his gaze, like your body is saying something about you before you have the chance to speak for yourself.

“She’s not Jacobs,” comes a voice from behind him. Lighter, accented. Russian, you think— lilting, playful in the way it curves up at the end. A second man steps into view, and you have to swallow twice before you can breathe properly again.

This one is even taller; broad-shouldered like the first man, though leaner through the chest, with a long face and sharp nose that gives the impression of someone who knows how to smile and get away with it. His eyes are blue-grey, murky where the other man's are bright and cold, but they're cutting— smirking at you, even if his mouth isn’t.

“You’re not Jacobs, are you?” he says again, like it amuses him personally.

His amusement makes something tighten inside you. Ignoring the feeling, you shake your head. “No. I’m her backup.” You look between them, almost beseechingly, adding quickly, “I've been fully briefed, and I have the dossier—”

“That’s fine,” the first man says, cutting off your spiral. “Come in.”

You step forward, obeying on instinct. The door clicks shut behind you.

“Captain John Price,” the first man says, jerking a thumb toward his chest. “This is Nikolai. You’ll be handing off to us.”

“Pleasure,” Nikolai says with a smile that flashes teeth, gesturing toward the seating area just beyond the doorway. You choose one of the two armchairs, avoiding the couch across. As soon as you sit, he cocks his head just slightly. “Do you always look like you’re about to bolt, or are we just that frightening?”

“Nikolai,” Price warns, tone flat but not sharp.

“What?” Nikolai raises his hands, still grinning, though it’s more cheshire-like now. “She’s cute, all nervous like that. Takaya kisa. Sweet kitty.”

“She’s here for the file.”

You look on helplessly as they go back and forth, unnerved by the Russian Nikolai used that you don’t understand. And there’s something in the tone of Captain Price's voice now, something buried underneath that top note of authority, that you can't quite decipher. It tickles at your hindbrain, feels off-key like a sour note, though you can't pinpoint why.

“And I’m here for the ambiance,” Nikolai retorts easily despite the warning in his superior's voice. “What a lovely little team we make.”

They exchange a look, and you sense there's an entire conversation in it, one that leaves you entirely— unpleasantly— in the dark. Reluctant to draw attention to yourself, you move subtly, draping your coat over the arm of the chair and pulling the satchel with your files into your lap. WIth your pulse hopping in your throat, you look around instead.

The suite is immaculate in the way expensive places always are, gilded by the light filtering through long curtains in muted sheets, turning gold against the walls. The floors are stone tile with warm rugs underfoot, and everything smells faintly of citrus polish and fresh linen. A tray has been set on the low table with two glasses and a decanter already sweating condensation, ice cubes untouched in their crystal bucket. The whole thing feels… unreal. More like a set than a hotel room, suspended in quietude as if waiting for something to begin.

You fidget in your seat, suddenly conscious again of how loud your clothes feel— how every shift of your thighs rubs fabric together, how every breath catches under your blouse like it isn't meant to move that much. You want to sit still. You want to do this right. But you just feel wrong.

“You’ve done this before?” Price asks, pulling your attention to him. He hasn’t moved from the door, but the weight of him follows you.

“Not—” You're about to say ‘alone,’ but pivot at the last second. “—with you. But I’ve run support for this unit before.” Wanting to move on quickly, you add, “My supervisor said you’ll be getting the greenlight for insertion after the gala.”

“Mhm.” He rubs his jaw, sharp eyes still on you. “Where’s the list?”

“In the folder.”

You open your satchel, hands steady even if Captain Price's discerning stare has your stomach in knots. As you reach inside, you feel Nikolai shift closer, see the shine of his belt buckle in your periphery, hear the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Leisurely, he moves to sit across from you, one arm slung over the back of the low couch, sipping his drink like this is a post-dinner chat and not a pre-op intel briefing.

While you gather your documents, you hear the captain approach from behind, but when you open the folder, smoothing it across your lap, Price stays standing at your back rather than taking the second chair like you would have expected. He looms over you like a steady wall of heat and judgment. You clear your throat, doing your best not to be unnerved.

“There’s a ballroom on the second floor, accessed through the main atrium,” you say, tapping the printed map. “Security’s clustered there and at the service corridor junctions. Your entry point should be the staff elevator through the south kitchen. It has the least camera coverage, and no guards are posted there after 8 p.m.”

Price grunts, reaching down to skim a fingertip along the page beside yours. His skin brushes your knuckles, warm and rough; your hand twitches, but you keep it there. You want to look unbothered in front of them, like you’ve done this a million times.

“What’s on the third floor?” he asks.

“Private rooms,” you answer. “A few penthouse suites. VIP bookings. You’ll find the target there— Suite 3C. It's not marked on the hotel’s guest registry, but I cross-checked with event vendors.”

“And backup?”

“Two guards posted outside, unarmed but trained.”

Nikolai hums. “Where are you from?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You,” he says, gesturing lazily with his glass. “You’re not from here. American, right?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” There’s a pause, and you realize he expects more. “Long Island.”

“Aha. I thought so.”

He smiles like he’s won something. You try not to fidget under the weight of it.

“I lived in Brooklyn once,” he goes on. “Russians love Brighton Beach. All the food, none of the Russians.”

He grins, clearly amused with himself, and Price shoots him a look. Not annoyed—just dry. Familiar.

“She’s giving us the layout, mate.”

“I’m listening,” Nikolai says, shrugging. “I just like to know who I’m working with.”

“She’s a contact. Not part of the team.”

“Even so. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.”

You stay quiet, lips parted like you aren’t sure whether to keep talking or wait for permission.

Nikolai’s smile lingers. Price says nothing. Neither of them look away.

And you, to your credit, do your best to quash down the roil of emotions inside. You try to keep things professional, return to the page. Try to ignore how your blouse feels tighter than it had earlier, how the elastic in your tights is digging deep into the soft crease of your belly now that you’ve sat too long. You chose the skirt because it’s black and structured— because it holds things in. But the waist is unforgiving, and your legs have always been wider when seated. You can feel the fabric strain where the hem sits flush against the underside of your thighs. Not riding up, exactly, just… tight. Pressing.

You don't tug on it or adjust your posture, not wanting to draw more attention to it. But you know they can see, and it's hard to ignore that.

“Like I said,” you continue, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as small as it feels, “you’ll want to avoid the ballroom and access through the service corridor. It’s a clean path from there to the elevator, and—”

“What time does the gala start?” Price asks, still looming behind you.

“Half seven. But VIPs start trickling in around six.”

“And no one else has this intel? Staff, guests?”

“Just me.”

Price makes a sound low in his throat, and for a moment, you feel his fingers brush the back of your chair, like he might adjust it, or even reach over it toward you. But he doesn't. He just stays there, standing close enough that if you were to lean your head back even slightly, you’d graze the front of his thighs.

You stay very, very still.

“She’s not used to this,” Nikolai says suddenly.

Startled, your gaze snaps from the page up to him. His expression is amused when you scan his face, trying to puzzle out such an odd remark. He’s relaxed in a way that makes it more unnerving, not less.

“Used to what?” you ask, too quickly.

“Being looked at.”

The silence that follows is deafeningly loud. Your stomach turns cold and hot at once as it lingers— as Price doesn’t contradict him, redirect him like before.

“That’s not—” you start, but trail off. There’s no version of denying it that won't make it worse.

Because he’s right. You aren’t used to being looked at like this, and certainly not by men like them— the kind with square hands and deep voices and war behind their eyes. You’ve grown used to being invisible in your softness, to letting sharp, pretty girls handle the face-to-face work. You know your place: smart, reliable, and firmly in the background.

But now—

Now Nikolai is watching you with a wolfish kind of patience. And Price hasn’t taken a single step back.

“It’s alright,” Nikolai says, voice smoothing out into something velvet-soft. Knowing he can see your thoughts written all over your face is embarrassing enough, but then he adds, “Some of us like a girl with a little more to hold onto.”

Your mouth drops open.

Behind your chair, Price lets out a quiet exhale, something too short to be a laugh. “You want to finish the briefing, love?” he asks mildly, acknowledging nothing of what Nikolai said.

It doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a test.

Reeling, you swallow hard and nod, trying not to show how your palms have started to sweat. But your voice wobbles. Your fingers smudge the paper. And when Price leans down again— this time placing one firm hand on the armrest beside you— your whole body tenses like it expects to be chastised for taking up too much space.

“Easy,” he says, low and close. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your ear. “We’re listening.”

You take a steadying breath, nod again, gratefully latching on to the opportunity Price provides to pretend this situation is still completely normal. Because to acknowledge the strangeness is to acknowledge your discomfort, your insecurity— your shame— and everything in your body rebels against the idea.

Yet, tangled up with those are other feelings. And now, you can't meet Nikolai's eye for a different reason. Not with your cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together under the desk, and— you realize with a flash of mortified heat— your cunt pulsing low and traitorous between them.

Oh, sweet, soft you. Once again, you try to steer the conversation, keep it focused on the mission, you really do try. But something has shifted. Your body may have begun to betray you some time ago, heating under their stares, under the ghost of Price’s breath behind your ear, but now, it's impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

When you finally drag your gaze from the papers on your lap, you see that Nikolai has already set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, the shape of him loose but intent. Not lounging anymore; still smiling, but quieter now.

“You’re sweating,” he murmurs, like he’s noting the weather.

You blink, embarrassed all over again. You hadn’t even noticed, but he’s right. All at once, you can feel the inside of your elbows are damp, the band of your tights sticky against your lower belly. Unconsciously, you press your thighs together again under the folder in your lap. You don't notice the way the motion draws their eyes— fluid and silent, like the swing of a trap that's already set.

“It’s warm in here,” you explain quickly.

“Mm.” Price's voice rumbles behind you. “Or maybe you're just feeling the pressure.”

You turn your head slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to make him out in your peripheral vision.

“I’m fine,” you say.

It's clear they aren't convinced.

“Let’s take a break,” Nikolai declares, already rising from his seat. “You look like you could use a breather.”

“I’m okay,” you say again, reflexive, hands tightening on the folder like it might anchor you.

“I didn’t ask if you were okay, kotyonok kitten,” he replies lightly, stepping toward you. “I said you could use a break.”

He extends a hand, rough-worn and lined. A soldier's palm. The offer, paired with more Russian he has to know you don’t understand, makes your brow knit tight. With what emotion, you don't quite know. But the feeling hovers there just like his hand, quiet and yet unignorable.

You look up at him.

His shirt is fitted but open at the collar, unbuttoned too far down, showing off a gold chain cradled in a dark nest of hair; his sleeves are rolled, more carelessly than Price's, his thick forearms lined with more of that dark hair and prominent veins. Your eyes dart back to the v at his collar, watching as his chest rises slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you.

And behind you, you feel the air change, and know without checking that Price has shifted— a slight movement, but enough to remind you that you're surrounded.

The pretense of your composure— your ability to act like nothing is happening here— finally falls away.

“I—I should stay focused,” you say softly, almost pleadingly, like a final attempt you don't really believe will work.

“You’re trying too hard,” Nikolai counters, his voice gentle, his eyes gleaming. “You’re not under interrogation, sweetheart.”

The word lands like a thumb on your tongue.

Sweetheart.

“I just want to do a good job,” you mumble, not sure why you say it, or why your voice breaks on job.

“You already have,” Price says. You feel the weight of his hand land firmly on your shoulder; feel both comforted and trapped by it. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“That’s right,” Nikolai murmurs, taking another step closer. “You’ve done beautifully.”

His eyes drop, tracing the curve of your breasts under the blouse, the cinch of the waistband over your rounded stomach, the heft of your thighs where they press outward beneath the hem of your skirt. He doesn't hide it. And for the first time, you realize there’s something like hunger coming off him.

“It’s a rare thing,” he goes on. “A girl like you—”

“What kind of girl?” you ask defensively— a cornered cat, hissing and spitting right before it gets scruffed.

That makes both of them pause.

And smile.

“Soft,” Nikolai says. “Shy. Looks at her own body like it’s a burden.”

“And has no idea,” Price murmurs behind you, thumb brushing once against your collarbone, “how fuckin’ pretty she is when she’s trying not to squirm.”

Your heart thunders in your throat. You want to speak, say something, but your mouth has gone dry. Nikolai’s fingers touch your chin, lightly tipping your face toward him again. With those storm dark eyes looking down on you, and Price’s solid warmth at your back, he says,

“Let us take care of you.”

The words seem to hang in the air. They’re less coaxing than how he sounded before; maybe even, you think, closer to a command than an offer. Again, something in the back of your mind squirms, twisting away from that sour note, even while the heat simmering in your belly flares at the prospect.

It’s confusing; it’s too much. You don’t reply, and the silence that follows is heavy.

Price is the one who steps back first, just enough for his hand to lift from your shoulder and the heat of him to ease off. Finally, you can breathe— sharp, sudden, almost dizzy with the room’s stillness, like you only became aware you were starving yourself of oxygen once you gasped it in again.

“Up you get, then,” he says casually, voice still low but not unkind.

“What— why?” you ask, the question reflexive, almost petulant.

“You haven’t taken that breather. And you look like you need it,” Nikolai says mildly, stepping aside as well, leaving you a narrow path between them. And in that gap, set back against the wall, you see the front door to the suite.

They give you space the way wolves might give a deer a final glimpse of open forest— calculated, careful, almost gracious. But your limbs are too heavy with heat and noise to bolt for it.

Something in you folds instead of flinching.

Slowly, you find your feet. You stand, and your skirt creaks at the hips as it adjusts; your tights cling uncomfortably to the undersides of your thighs now that the fabric has warmed with your body. You feel heavy, clumsy in your own skin. But still, you don’t run.

“There,” Nikolai murmurs, watching you rise. “Better, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to answer but gasp as fingers brush the fabric of your blouse, just beneath the swell of your breast.

You look down to see Price’s hand there, his thick, squared fingers pressing into the delicate green of your clothing.

“Shirt’s damp,” he says, like he’s pointing out a detail on a map. Like he hadn’t given you that breath of air just so he could press in tighter somewhere more tender. “Warm in here, you said. In’t that right?”

His thumb drags upward, slow as sunrise, pressing into the soft give of your breast through the fabric. You try to step forward, away from the touch, but Nikolai is already there, closing the small gap he’d allowed you like it’s nothing. His hands brace your hips lightly— barely there, but unmistakable.

“I—I really should go,” you whisper, voice thready. “I didn’t think this was… part of it.”

“No? Funny,” Price says, sounding a touch darker now. “It suits you.”

His thumb finds your nipple. Presses once. Not hard, just enough for it to stiffen, traitorous and obvious through your blouse. You suck in a quivery little breath, trying to grasp at the shreds of your composure, to figure out how to get out of this room unscathed, unchanged.

But you’ve already failed in that.

“Sensitive little thing,” Price mutters. “That all it takes?”

You don’t see him move, but you feel it: the weight of his presence peeling away from your back, only for a moment, before he reappears in your periphery. His knuckles graze the side of your throat, calloused and unhurried, as he rounds you with the slow certainty of a turning tide. The shift is subtle, but it leaves you suddenly exposed at the back, your balance teetering.

“She’s shaking,” Nikolai observes, amusement thick in his voice. “Poor thing doesn’t know where to look.”

He's behind you now— when did he get there?— his hand splayed low across your spine like a paperweight, his thumb rising to press at the dimple just above your ass, a barely-there pressure that makes your stomach lurch.

He’s right.

You don’t.

Because Price is right in front of you now, his fingers plucking, teasing the stiffened peak of your nipple through layers of fabric. And Nikolai’s hands are sliding lower— over your hips, down the supple curve of your lower belly, until one snakes under your structured black skirt. It pushes up and makes a home between your legs, cupping, palming the heat that has soaked through your tights. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear: deep, gravel-warm, and horribly smug.

“You’re wet.”

It isn’t a question.

You whimper.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers, his palm shifting, rubbing so subtly you could almost be imagining it. “You’re doing so well.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” you start, shame rising hot in your throat.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” Price asks, pinching lightly again. “That’s why you came here, all dressed up. All trembling and sweet. Trying so hard to be professional with a soaked cunt under your skirt.”

“No! I mean, I—”

“Ah, ah,” Nikolai purrs, hand tightening just slightly. “No need to lie. Not to us.”

You can feel yourself unraveling— stomach bunching, breath shortening, thighs twitching to close but held wide by the press of Nikolai’s thick thigh.

“You don’t get looked at like this, do you?” Price asks softly. “Not usually.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. Both of them hum.

“Shame,” Nikolai whispers. His middle finger presses more firmly than the others, right along the seam of your tights. “They’ve no idea what they’re missing.”

“But we know,” Price adds, leaning in, the bristles of his beard feathering against your cheek. “Don’t we, love?”

They haven't even taken off a single piece of your clothing, and you already feel stripped bare.

Nikolai is a solid wall behind you, his palm spread over the heat between your thighs, cupping you like it's his. Price stands before you, crowding you in, still thumbing lazily at the stiff peak of your nipple through your blouse. The fabric is growing more damp now, darkening visibly where sweat gathers under your breasts, under your arms. You clench your jaw to keep from making any more noise, lock your knees to keep them from folding.

Despite your efforts, your body betrays you, trembling anyway. And that's when Nikolai’s voice dips, lilting and coaxing, into your ear.

“Let’s see you, darling.”

“What?” you breathe. Panic floods your chest.

“Off,” Price says simply, nodding once to your blouse. “All of it.”

You freeze.

And, though their gazes press in on you, they don't move— don’t poke, or pull, or push. They just wait, almost insultingly patient, letting silence grind against your nerves until your mind finally catches up with the inevitability they already know:

What you're going to let them do to you.

Your chest rises with a deep breath— bracing, for courage — and Price leans back, giving you space.

It doesn’t feel like mercy; it feels like stepping into a snare.

You unbutton your blouse first, fingers fumbling now, and you hate that they can see how nervous you are, how clumsy you become when eyes are on you. The fabric pulls at your chest as you work down the row, then peel it away with a sound like tearing paper. Your bare arms catch goosebumps instantly, not from the air, but from being so wholly seen. Quickly, as if to distract yourself, your skirt follows. You slide the zipper down and wriggle it past your hips, your thighs rubbing as it falls around your ankles. The tights cling more stubbornly— sticky with sweat, dragging over every curve, every soft fold of skin. Your eyes stay on your feet as you step out of the bundle, the goosebumps now racing down over your midriff and the backs of your thighs.

“Weren’t planning on anyone seeing those, were you?” Price says.

Your head snaps up to see he's looking directly at your bra and panties; automatically, you look down at yourself, too.

Your underwear don't match. The bra is blush pink, one of your older ones— worn and plain, a little too small, so that the band bites into your back more tightly than usual. Your panties are dark blue, cotton, and stretched more than you would want them to be. They hug the crease where your belly meets your thighs and dig just slightly into your hips.

No, you weren't planning on anyone seeing them, and that made you a bit sheepish to begin with. But the fact that he’d say it—

“Pulled from the drawer in the dark, was it?” he adds. His voice is light, teasing, but still a little mean— poking a sore spot, for what? His own amusement?

Your whole face burning, you cross you arms, cinch them tight around yourself, like you could cover everything at once—your stomach, your tits, the deep, soft curve of your inner thighs.

Why would I wear these?

Why didn’t I check?

Why the fuck am I still here—

You take a step back, reaching for the blouse you’d dropped on the floor.

“I shouldn't have— I should go,” you grit, feeling utterly stupid and small. Your throat is tight with humiliation over it all— being the last-minute replacement on this job, losing your composure in front of these two men, being so unprofessional that you actually took off your fucking clothes, and especially— the part that cuts the deepest, makes the sting of angry tears finally rise behind your eyes— letting yourself believe that they would truly mean those pretty lines they fed you.

Would actually want you.

“Fuck this,” you whisper, fumbling for the blouse with shaky fingers, ready to tear it on— tear yourself from this snare and retreat to lick your wounds alone.

But before you can lift it, Price’s palm lands flat between your shoulder blades.

“Bend over.”

Your lips part to protest, but you never get the words out.

He presses, and you fold.

The edge of the table hits the juncture of your hips, sharp and unyielding; your arms fold forward to catch yourself, tits flattening against your forearms. You barely have time to inhale before the flat of his hand cracks down between your legs.

A spank, right over your soaked panties.

Crack— and your knees buckle.

Oh my God—

Your gasp is a ragged, dizzying inhale.

It isn’t the pain that leaves you reeling. It's the wet sound it makes, echoing in your ears like a shot; the fact that he’d aimed straight for your cunt; and the blinding, inexplicable heat that blooms instantly between your thighs.

“There she is,” Price mutters, his voice low and pleased. With the hand that spanked you, he palms your ass cheek, kneading it like praise.

“Now be a good girl for the captain, pet,” Nikolai purrs, “and let him see all of you. Hm?”

You don't move. You don't cry. You don't think about your bra and panties, or the job, or the pretty concierge from downstairs. You lay there for a moment with your arms folded up under you and your chin pressed to the wood of the table, just… existing in your body. It's gone molten and heavy in a way you've never experienced before, trembling from deep within, your cunt slick enough now that you can feel it beginning to soak through the fabric, cooling against the air on the back of your thighs.

You know, then, that from the moment you set eyes on Captain Price and Nikolai in the doorway of their hotel suite, you were never going to leave without taking what they would give you.

Your bra comes off first. You unclip it slowly, hands shaking from adrenaline and anticipation, and your breasts bounce free, sagging under their weight, your nipples already stiff from the rush of blood beneath your skin. You see Price’s gaze flick lower. You see him smile.

Your panties follow. You peel them down carefully, trying to avoid any awkward movements, but there is no elegant way to undress with your thighs and hips and belly, all of you so soft, so unhidden, every inch of you marked by your body’s honest weight.

Price doesn't flinch; neither does Nikolai. They look at you— all of you— and move in.

They have you on your back, laid out on the table, in seconds— Price guiding you down, Nikolai lifting your legs by the backs of your knees. They don’t speak to each other, and don't seem to need to. In silence, your arms are gently, firmly pressed to your sides, your thighs parted, your body arranged.

You lay there, rendered limp by the ease of it.

They unbuckle slowly, almost leisurely, and through it all, you don’t move a muscle out of place. You just watch as they ready themselves: shirts coming unbuttoned or being shrugged from shoulders, hanging open; belts sagging, zippers parting, trouser waists falling slack but held up by the thickness of their thighs. Boxers being tugged down or pushed aside, fabric parting to free what's underneath. The scent of them fills the space— soap, sweat, something like musk and leather. Hair scatters across solid bellies and wide chests, one a shade darker than the other. You look between them and can't decide, from this angle, which of them is stronger, denser, hairier. They both look like more than just men. They look like grizzlies made bipedal.

And they're about to fuck me. The thought makes your head rush in the most wonderful, horrible way.

Then Price steps into your view.

You look down the length of your body—over your jiggling belly, your splayed thighs—and stare.

You'd felt his hand on your shoulder, your waist, your breast; you're acquainted with its width. To now see the way he grips his cock with that hand, how the head stands out from his pale fingers, red and blunt and already glistening as he glides his fist from the crown to the base and back again…

He's stupidly, devastatingly thick.

The sight brings back a sense of reality, of practicality, and with it, a surge of nervous anticipation rises within you. When he steps closer, you grasp for sense. “What about— D-do you have a condom?” you stammer suddenly, voice higher than you mean it to be.

And Price laughs.

He laughs.

Before you can even register it, Nikolai’s fingers are skimming along your temples, thumbs stroking down your cheeks to your shoulders. Gentle. Possessive.

“Don’t worry, kisa kitty,” he croons from above you. You look up at him, see his face upside down, leaning over you. As you stare into his storm-dark eyes, his fingertips press into the hollows of your chest, just below your collarbones— subtly holding you down. “You won't be needing that.”

It's all the warning you have before Price pushes in.

The head of his cock breaches you slowly— hot, silken, impossibly thick, somehow thicker even than it looked. Your cunt seizes around him instinctively, like your body is trying to push him out even as it pulses to pull him deeper. You cry out, the sound punched from your chest at the feeling of him splitting you open. And yes, there is pain, but it's not sharp. Not bad. Just a molten stretch that burns through your whole lower body, stealing your breath as he carves room inside you.

You feel your thighs twitch, your belly rise with each shallow breath as he keeps going, slowly but ruthlessly filling you by inches— dragging his cock through your tight, clinging heat like he’s mapping every dip and fold. And then, finally, you feel his thighs press against the underside of your ass, and know you've taken him to the root.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, flexing his hips to press even more firmly against you, drawing another little cry from your lips. “Grippin’ me like a fist.”

“She’s clenching?” Nikolai asks, voice above your head bright with interest.

“Like she thinks she can stop me.”

He chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

All at once, there are fingers at your lips: Nikolai’s, tapping gently.

“Now, moy kotyonok my kitten,” he says, “let’s keep that mouth busy, mm?”

Attention stolen by the thick, deliberate push of Price’s cock, without thinking, you open.

Nikolai presses in.

It’s awkward at first. The angle is strange; your head is tipped back over the edge of the table, and you can barely flatten your tongue properly. Mercifully, his cock enters slowly, warm and slightly salty, the skin soft but the shape firm. You can feel his foreskin drag against your tongue, unfamiliar and smooth, shifting each time he slides in and withdraws only to come back, pressing further once again.

Your moan around him is wet and open-mouthed— half a sound, half a reflex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking your jaw as his cock fills your mouth. “Just like that.”

Between your legs, Price starts to move. Tiny thrusts at first, shallow and probing, like he's testing the push and pull of you from the inside. Even that little friction drags fire through your cunt— stretched and slick and full, your pussy gripping around him in twitching, helpless pulses. Every inch he takes and then gives back makes your breath catch, makes your mouth slacken around Nikolai’s cock, makes your thoughts fly apart into something raw and dirty and shameful.

“Told you she’d take it,” you hear Price say, his voice closer now, one hand braced on your belly. “Didn’t believe me.”

“I believe you now,” Nikolai chuckles. “Look at her.”

He pulls back, just far enough to rest his cockhead on your bottom lip. You pant against it, spit-slick and open, your lashes fluttering. A small, sensible part of you tries to make sense of what they mean, until their cocks chase it away again.

“Open,” Nikolai says, looking down at you as he lifts his cock slightly.

At first, you blink at him, confused that he's taking it away from your mouth. Then you feel his hand under your jaw, tilting.

“Open wide for me. Show me how grateful you are the captain’s fucking you so well.”

You obey— mouth wide, throat raw from taking him deep, your tongue falling out like a wet, pink cradle to welcome him back to you. Nikolai lifts his cock and presses it against your chin, then down.

Then he brings his balls to your mouth.

Soft and heavy, they settle against your lips, spreading over your chin, the underside of your nose. You whimper and lick, trying your best, awkward and heat-flushed as you lap at the seam of his scrotum, the sweat-slick skin dusted with coarse, wiry hair, and the firmer swells within it. The salt and warmth of him fill your mouth, your lungs as you work at him. Your thighs shake; your nose knocks gently against his sack as Price fucks you, forcing you to chase Nikolai with your tongue, try to suck the skin between your lips only to lose it again the next second.

But Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind. “There’s a good girl,” he croons, cupping your neck with his other hand, the first slowly jerking his cock against your chin. “So polite. So obedient.”

Price’s thrusts deepen. He grunts low in his throat, hand splayed over your soft belly, pinning you as he fucks up into you harder.

“Jesus, she’s fucking soaked,” he says, almost to himself. “Can feel her fluttering around me. Like she’s trying not to come.”

“She doesn’t want to make a mess,” Nikolai replies; you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “She’s still trying to be professional.”

They both laugh.

“Darling,” Nikolai says sweetly, brushing your spit-slick cheek with his knuckles. “You’ve got a cock in your cunt and another on your chin, with your face buried in my balls. I think that ship has sailed.”

You barely have time to register how that makes you feel before Price abruptly pulls out of you; the slick, wet drag makes your back arch from the table.

“Switch,” he grunts, wiping his cockhead along the soft underside of your thigh.

Empty now, you whine, cunt twitching helplessly around nothing, already clenching as if begging him to come back. But Nikolai is there immediately, knocking your knees aside with the width of his torso.

And he doesn’t wait— he just presses in.

He is a smaller man than Price, but not by much. Though not quite as thick, his cock is longer, and he doesn’t try to ease you into it, just thrusts into your cunt with a sharp, sure rhythm that rocks your body on the table. The wood squeaks against your shifting softness; your tits bounce with every firm smack of his hips.

“There’s my good girl,” he hisses, wide hands gripping your waist harder than Price had, pressing into the ample give of your body. “Taking us in so nicely. Like you were made for this.”

You can’t answer, distracted as you are, because Price has moved to your head.

His cock hovers above your mouth— wet with your arousal, flushed dark and veined, the crown slick from where he’d just fucked you.

“Open up,” he says, his hand spanning you from jaw to cheekbone. “Want you to taste the mess you made on my cock.”

Mouth slack, eyes heavy lidded, your body buzzing like never before, you don’t hesitate for even a second.

You just obey.

The taste hits you immediately— bitter, musky, salt layered over something slick and unmistakably yours. Embarrassment and arousal tangle inside you until you can't separate them, bouncing you between them just like these men fuck your body from both ends. Driving you quickly toward a precipice that, all things considered, should have been much farther away than it is.

I’ve never come like this, you think wildly, even as your stomach begins to tighten with that familiar feeling. I don’t even think I can—

Nikolai’s cock pistons into you faster, harder, his solid hips slapping against the backs of your thighs. His pubic hair scrapes the tender skin of your folds, his balls plapping rhythmically against your ass. There’s no angle you can squirm into that doesn’t bring pleasure, no breath you can take that doesn't make you whimper.

“She’s shakin’,” Price murmurs, his voice a low hum above you as he holds your head still and fucks your mouth. “Think she’s close?”

“She shouldn’t be,” Nikolai laughs breathlessly. “Haven’t touched her clit.”

He’s right— they haven’t even grazed it accidentally. You’ve had nothing but the constant grind of cock inside your holes, the friction of your back and ass against the table, and the thunder of your own heartbeat in your ears.

And yet—

Your thighs keep twitching. Your cunt spasms around Nikolai with every thrust. Your nipples have drawn tight despite the warmth building in the room, dark with blood, scraping the air with every bounce.

“That it, sweetheart?” Price asks, cupping your face with both hands, digging his fingers into your scalp and canting his hips to drag his cock more firmly against your tongue. “You gonna come just like this?”

You whine, your whole body wound tight, your hips twitching to meet Nikolai’s thrusts, so fucking close—

He pulls out.

You cry out in sharp dismay, the sound garbled around the cock still in your throat.

“Switch,” Nikolai pants, his voice a touch more hoarse now. “Not done with her yet.”

They do it again: Price at your cunt this time, his girth stretching you anew, driving a brutal rhythm into your already swollen hole.

You moan in relief, your eyes scrunched closed, too glad to have someone hitting that spot inside you again to react to Nikolai tapping your lips with his cock. He lets the tip smear prespend across your lips and chin instead, chuckling, “Look at her. Fucked stupid. Face a mess. Is that her mascara?”

“Was,” Price mutters.

“Desperate little kitty,” Nikolai croons at you. “Crying just from cock.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying until he said it, but now you notice your face is wet from every angle— saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth over your cheeks, tears streaking black through your ruined lashes, catching in your hairline. Your mouth has gone puffy from effort, jaw sore and slack. And every time they edge themselves— pulling out, groaning, trading places— they drag you closer too, without even trying.

It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

You want to scream, beg, tell them to just keep going, to fuck you through it—

But your mouth is full again.

“That’s it,” Nikolai purrs, sliding his cock back into your throat. “Just like that, pet. Show us how grateful you are. Show us what that fat little mouth was made for.”

Price thrusts harder into you, his grip on your thighs tightening. “She’s ready, Nik,” he grits, his voice rough from affect and effort. “Pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ me to come, mate. Drippin’ all over the goddamn table.”

And you are. It pours from your cunt in strings, smearing his thighs and yours, soaking the wood beneath you. You can feel how wet you are, how slick your skin has become with sweat and arousal; can imagine how far gone you must look, used and wet-faced and wrecked. Laid out across the table, bookended by their masculine frames, twitching and writhing on their cocks like a thing possessed.

Then Price hits something deep, something bright. You squeal helplessly around Nikolai’s cock, a broken, animal sound.

And that makes things escalate quickly.

Price snarls something low and wordless, slamming himself fully inside you, and you scream— muffled, guttural, the sound pulled from the depth of you. Your whole body jolts forward, the force flicking your jaw upwards; not quite a bite, but enough to scrape against the meat in your mouth, which promptly slips free.

Nikolai pulls back with a wet pop, breathing hard. Startled, with a flash of worry, your eyes pop open to see his tip, slick and flushed, hovering above your face as he fists his cock roughly at the base.

“Teeth,” he pants, drawing your wide-eyed gaze to his face. His dark brow is furrowed and sweat-slick, but more from exertion than annoyance. He flashes you a teasing smile. “Didn’t want to ruin my fun just yet.”

Reassured, you manage a nod, gasp in air— but not for long.

Because his balls are suddenly in your face again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

You latch.

Tongue sloppy, drooling, tasting every inch of him, you suck and kiss and lick with no rhythm, no grace— just sheer want. Your arm even snakes up next to your ear, your hand wrapping around the back of his thick, hairy thigh, urging him closer. You chase the salt and musk of him like you’re starving for it, lavishing him with unspoken praise— a wet, messy, earnest worship.

“Fuckin’... Christ.” You feel Nikolai’s broad hand cup underneath your skull, keeping your mouth pressed close to him. “Filthy fuckin’ thing. Sovsem s uma skhodit. Completely losing her mind,” he mutters, the words slipping rough and low. “Little animal.”

Your hips react to the affect in his voice, bucking out of rhythm with Price’s thrusts. “Hold still,” he growls, voice sharp with effort. Your ankles kick out once, uncontrolled, before his grip steadies your hips again, pressing you down against the table almost hard enough to grind your bones.

He drives into you now like he’s trying to knock the orgasm out of you with brute force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh loud and constant. Your tits bounce violently with the impact, the table underneath you jerking in time with his rhythm. Your softness is everywhere— your belly rippling with every thrust, thighs quaking with the force of it, skin slapping loud and wet in the heat-thick air.

If you weren’t flesh, your body would break into pieces.

You can’t think, can’t make a sound; can barely even breathe. You feel it coming— a white heat blooming in your pelvis, a deep, unbearable twist building in your gut. You whimper again and again, high-pitched and frantic, against Nikolai’s balls, nose buried in the sweaty skin, tongue flattened and desperate. Your toes curl, cramp, slip uselessly against Price’s legs, searching for purchase so you can try to bring your orgasm forth yourself if they decide to take it away again.

If they do… you think you might die if they do.

Please, you wail wordlessly. Please—

“Now,” Price snarls, low and final. “Fuckin’ give it to me.”

You shatter.

It rips through you like a crack in glass— fracturing something fundamental, white-hot and irreversible. Your body stops being yours to control, overtaken by the force of it, the raw inevitability.

It’s not graceful. It’s messy; ugly with need.

Your breath punches out of you in sharp, stuttering gasps, everything pulling taut from the inside out as your cunt clenches in violent pulses around Price’s cock. The sounds you make… you don’t know if you’re begging or thanking or praying. You just know it’s pouring out of you, choked, wordless, and raw, against Nikolai’s sweat-slick skin.

But Price doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

His hands lock around your wrists— one in each fist— and pull.

You jolt, your spine dragged flat against the table again with the momentum of it, and realize with a broken sob that he’s using your body for leverage. Hauling you down into each savage thrust so you don’t slide up from the sheer force of him.

Quickly, your arms begin to ache, stretched taut between them. Your body bucks, tits jerking wildly, belly rippling, thighs slapping wet and slick against his hips. He’s fucking you through the aftershocks like he needs it— like he’s wringing your orgasm out by the root, forcing every last tremor from your cunt.

And your mouth is still on Nikolai’s balls.

The pleasure within you peaks. Your head swims; your vision blurs. You’re licking and moaning around Nikolai’s balls with a mouth too full to close, slick and open, your tongue insistent and hungry. You don’t notice him shift until the angle changes— his hips tilting just enough, the muscles in his thighs flexing against your cheek—

And your tongue slides lower.

Past the seam.

Past the curve of his perineum.

Right to a part of him you never expected to reach.

You realize it at once. But you don’t stop.

You just lick— broad, deliberate, right over the tight heat of his asshole— and the reaction is immediate. Nikolai lets out a stunned, guttural sound, his hand clenching hard in your hair.

“Ohh,” he gasps, his body shuddering.“Ebat’. Bozhe moi. Fuck. My god.”

The Russian makes you freeze, unsure how to interpret it until he adds, voice thick and choked, “Good girl, lyubov’ love.”

You do it again— sloppier, more eager. Nikolai groans low in his throat, the sound almost drowning out the wet shlick of him working his cock. “Good girl,” he repeats. “Just like that— eat my ass.”

You feel Price falter; his rhythm staggers.

“Well, fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, trying for flippant, but his voice is rough, threadbare. “Didn’t even have to be told.” He doesn’t stop thrusting, but now each movement feels heavier, more ragged.

“You know how to pick them, kapitan,” Nikolai throws back, though the words stutter, barely held together as he fists himself faster now.

Because you’re panting through your nose, tongue working desperately to fuck deeper between the clench of his cheeks, your spit gluing your mouth to his skin in wet, filthy strings. You’re so far gone, aching for more of him, any part of him; licking him like you want inside. Like if you can just press a little harder, he’ll let you in.

And then you feel it. With a stifled curse, his thighs tense against your ears, and a hot pulse splashes across your tits.

You gasp, dazed, and keep licking. Keep worshipping. Nikolai grunts again; another spill lands across your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants. “Just like that, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”

He shifts forward, dropping his cock between your tits, gathering them in both hands. Your soft flesh spills through his fingers, slick and shining with his come as he rocks his hips, dragging himself through the heat and weight of you with a low, broken groan.

“Perfect tits,” he murmurs. “Perfect, filthy little tongue.”

A pause, breathless.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and something in his voice makes your lungs pull tight. “Moy kotyonok. My kitten.”

It makes you want— not for you, but for him. He’s still dragging his cock through the come-slick heat of your chest, slow and indulgent, and now, your hands come up to join him. You cover his, your smaller fingers slipping over his knuckles, urging him to squeeze harder, tighter, pressing your breasts together around him. Giving him everything he wants and more.

The effect is immediate.

Nikolai moans low, and you feel the tremble in his thighs as he fucks your tits with slow, indulgent thrusts, each one slicker than the last, the mess of him smeared thick between your breasts.

And Price— he falters. You hear it in the hitch of his breath, feel it in the sudden jolt that interrupts his thrusts. A low curse breaks from him, shaky and raw.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, like he’s losing the fight against himself:

“Jesus— fucking hell.”

He surges forward, hips snapping once, twice, before he drives in deep and stills.

The noise he makes when he floods you is nothing like the others— less a growl, more a sound torn out of him. With it, you feel the thick heat of him spill inside you, the rhythmic twitching of his cock as he comes. Reflexively, your walls pulse around him, spent and soaked, clinging greedily to every drop and drawing yet more sounds from him until they finally subside.

And then it’s quiet.

Everything stills except the pant of breath, the tremble of muscle, the soft, sticky sounds of skin parting from skin. Your mouth slips open where it rests against Nikolai, swollen and wordless. When he lifts himself off you slowly, carefully, you gasp in a lungful of air as the weight of him finally eases. The cool air hits your wet skin; you shiver, utterly spent.

Yet, through the haze of exhausted satisfaction that covers you, there’s one last thing you still want.

Your fingers twitch where they lie on the table— reaching, searching. Your mouth opens a little wider, your brow pinching in subtle supplication. Your throat is too raw to form words, but you try to make your intentions clear: you lift your chin, eyes fluttering shut again as you whisper out a breath, a faint hum of desire.

Nikolai murmurs something in Russian; you can’t understand it, but the words sound soft, indulgent, almost amused. Then you feel sticky, heated skin against your lips— his cock, one last time. You hum, mouth twitching into a brief smile, pleased he understood what you were asking for. He presses closer for you, and you suck lazily at the head, tasting the mess you helped make.

Then Price— grunting quietly, still catching his breath— guides himself to your mouth next. You lick at him too, slow and grateful, until he hisses through his teeth and pulls away.

“Insatiable,” someone mutters. You can’t tell who; you’re too tired to even consider opening your eyes.

Helpless, blinded by the dark of your eyelids, you feel hands on you again, gentle this time. You’re dead weight, limp and satiated as you are, the soft rolls of your skin fever-warm beneath a sheen of sweat and spend. Yet they lift you from the table with surprising ease. You feel like a wisp as strong arms gather you close, cradling you against a chest that smells like smoke and salt and sex, the steady thrum of a heartbeat echoing dimly through your cheek.

As you rise, your head lolls, weightless, to the curve of a shoulder. Something ticklish like whiskers feathers your temple; a blunt nose presses to the crown of your head.

With the tiniest of sighs, you slip under— weightless and willing.

—

You wake to the sound of movement: the low rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of gear, the murmur of voices pitched low with purpose. Boots thud softly against tile, measured and unhurried. Somewhere nearby, a strap cinches tight; the teeth of a zipper rasps into place.

You stir, slow and disoriented, your body aching in that deep, satisfied way that makes time feel irrelevant. Your skin is tender-warm, sore and slick, and for a long moment, you can’t place where you are and why the air smells thick with something primal.

Then it returns in a rush— everything they’d done to you, everything you let them do. The hours between then and now blur into a molten wash of sensation, so thick with memory that it almost hurts to breathe.

You sit up too quickly, a dull throb blooming through your thighs. “Shit— I should’ve gone— hours ago—” you murmur, scrubbing shaky hands over your face, trying to wake yourself quicker. “I need to check in, find out what’s next, Laswell’s probably—”

But before your feet can hit the floor, Price is there. He crosses the room in two strides and presses a steady hand to your shoulder, keeping you down with ease.

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. His blue eyes—sharp and unreadable beneath the edge of his lashes—hold you fast. “You’re staying here.”

You blink up at him, still trying to clear the sleep from your head. “But I was only meant to make contact—pass off the intel. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“To what?” he asks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You open your mouth, but the words stick behind your teeth. Heat creeps up your chest, writes itself into your expression before you can stop it.

“I didn’t think I was meant to stay,” you finish, weakly.

A second shadow enters your periphery, and then Nikolai crouches in front of you, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. His sleeves are rolled, forearms bare, eyes lit with something almost like humor.

“Darling,” he says with a tilt of his head, “you think you’re getting up and leaving after that?”

You hesitate, brows furrowed, unsure if you should be embarrassed or offended. But he only looks entertained— pleased, even. It catches you off guard. The room has become a different world since you first entered it; now, somehow, you aren’t sure where you’re meant to go next.

Your mind, still hazy, circles back to a line that had confused you when you first heard it— something said while you’d been too far gone to question it.

And you didn’t think she’d take it. Look at her now.

The words bloom with new weight now, taking root.

You look between them, a slow unease beginning to knit itself through your ribs. “You said—” Your voice catches, then steadies. “Back when I was… when I had your cock in my mouth. He said you ‘didn’t think I’d take it.’” Your gaze catches on Nikolai. “But… when—?”

You don’t need to finish the sentence for him to catch your meaning: When could you have said it that I didn’t hear?

Price is the one who answers, offering you the faintest smile. “Laswell called,” he says. “Told us about the change. Jacobs was out; you were in.”

Lightly, Nikolai remarks, “Called us before she called you, I believe.” Your eyes cut back to him, wide and stunned as he grins, sharing a look with Price.

“She said you were solid. Smart. Reliable.”

“Said you looked sweet.” Nikolai’s mouth curves. “That was the part we liked most.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, and when nothing comes, you let it fall closed again.

“And,” Price adds mildly after your silence, “you did take it.”

Nikolai chuckles. “The second I saw you at the door, I knew. You looked like the type who would.” His grin sharpens just slightly. “Soft little thing. Polite. Looked like you’d do what you were told.”

“And you did,” Price echoes with finality. “Right from the start.”

Your heart is pounding again, but not from panic. The heat curling low in your belly is too thick, too delicious for that.

Then Price steps in closer, and suddenly his hand is under your jaw, guiding your chin upward with one rough knuckle. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll be back before morning.”

A second later, Nikolai leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth— brief, but deliberate. The kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

And then Price kisses you— slower. Firmer. His mouth claims yours like punctuation, sealing the moment with a heat that startles, even after everything.

You sit there motionless after they pull away, already moving with purpose— jackets zipped, weapons checked, movements efficient and quiet. But before reaching the door, Nikolai turns back.

“Don’t worry, kitten,” he says lightly. “We’ll lock up. No one gets in but us.”

Price glances back too, expression unreadable save for the faint edge of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“And you don’t need to go anywhere, darling.”

You just stare at them, blinking, still reeling from the feeling of their mouths on yours. For the first time, you realize, and the knowledge burns through you, leaves you breathless.

“Wait here,” Price finishes, slinging his rifle into place. “You’re ours now.”

There’s no smirk in it— no hint of smugness, no flourish or performance. Just the certainty of a man saying something he considers self-evident.

Like it’s fact. Like it’s always been.

And maybe it has.

When the door clicks shut, you touch your fingers to your lips. They’re still tingling. And they keep tingling as you sink slowly back into the sheets— to relish the scent of your men still on your skin, and wait for them to come home.

[eliasmelody]

How about reader and some idv characters got a matching costumes?

Outfit Sync

Tag: Naib x gn!reader, Andrew x f!reader Warning: grammar & spelling

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Sometimes, you find yourself genuinely baffled by how the manor manages to come up with so many costumes. The variety is overwhelming, some outfits look like they’ve been pulled straight out of another century, completely out of touch with the present. Others are so frilly or cutesy that you feel more like a child playing dress-up than someone preparing for a serious match.

Today is no exception. You eye the latest outfit handed to you by Nightingale with a mix of caution and curiosity. But to your surprise, it’s… actually quite nice. Elegant, even. It fits well, the fabric feels comfortable, and the design is far more flattering than the tattered clothes you’re usually stuck with.

You turn it over in your hands, running your fingers along the details, trying to guess what sort of theme it’s meant to represent. There's a quiet sophistication to it, almost like it was made with a story in mind. Whatever the inspiration, you find yourself liking it more than you'd care to admit.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

Mercenary - Naib Subedar

Tch. Another day, another match, another godforsaken dump of a map to crawl through.

He sits with the same stony expression etched into his face, body angled slightly away from the group. His arms fold across his chest in that closed-off way he’s known for. Cold. Distant. Intentionally intimidating. That’s fine with him.

What’s not fine is watching the one person he actually relies on in matches, the one person who understands his hand signals and doesn't waste time emoting in corners, suddenly get up and leave the table. Without a word.

Great. Just great. Minus one competent teammate.

He scowls, trying to convince himself it’s fine. Maybe you just needed a break. Maybe you were tweaking your persona build. Game sense. Sure. That’s it.

Still… there’s a nagging unease in his gut. What if the manor replaces you again? It’s done that before, last-second switchouts that ruined all his tactical prep. He clicks his tongue in irritation, loud enough to startle a few of the chatting survivors nearby. He closes his eyes, trying to push it out of his mind.

Minutes pass.

The scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor breaks his focus. Finally, took it long enough.

He opens one eye, almost expecting to see a stranger.

But no, it’s still you. And…

What the hell?

You're wearing a new outfit. Not just any outfit, either, it matches his. The same palette, similar fabric, enough variation to stand on its own, but side-by-side? There’s no denying it. The manor paired you up.

Of course it did.

He stiffens slightly, but his expression stays neutral. No one needs to see his reaction. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you settle into your seat, fidgeting, clearly nervous.

Did you… go back there just to change?

A strange feeling coils in his chest, equal parts confusion, flattery, and… something else he doesn’t want to name. You look… Striking

He forces his gaze back to the front, jaw tightening.

Damn it. Stupid manor.

He watches the way you fidget in your seat, clearly nervous. Did you really just run back there just to change into that? Part of him wants to laugh. Part of him feels… something else.

The outfit suits you.

It suits you too well.

His gaze drops against his will, taking in every little detail. The fit, the boots, the subtle matching details. His head betrays him with one intrusive thought after another.

He groans quietly, trying to shake the images out.

But his eyes wander again, just in time to meet yours.

You're watching him, not directly, but from the corner of your eye. Subtle. Hesitant. Like you're waiting for something. Approval? Feedback?

He should be annoyed. He wants to be. But instead, his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

"You look good."

The words hang in the air. He blinks. Regret sets in. Naib nearly slaps himself.

What the hell was that?

Before he can backpedal, your response comes out in a flustered blur.

"Thank you, you look really handsome– I mean… you're not bad either…"

You shrink back in your chair, clearly dying inside.

Why must you act so damn cute?

Naib stares at you for a second longer than he means to, expression unreadable but thoughts absolutely screaming. Then he turns his head away with a quiet huff, slouching just slightly to hide the strange warmth crawling up his neck.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

Grave Keeper - Andrew Kreiss

Same day. Same waiting room. Same quiet hum of voices he doesn’t belong to.

Andrew sits in his usual corner, fingers laced around his shovel’s handle. The weight is familiar. Comforting. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. No one bothers him, and he prefers it that way. Keeps things simple. Keeps the thoughts quiet.

The door opens.

You step in, light-footed, the manor’s dim lighting catching just enough on your hair, your skin, the soft fabric of the outfit that looks… like his.

Matching.

His grip on the shovel tightens. Breath caught. His hair shields half his face, but not enough to hide how his eyes follow you, drawn, helpless, like a moth to a flame.

The same worn leather. Same dark accents. Same hint of mystery. But where it hangs on him like armor, on you it settles like divinity.

For a moment, he can’t look away.

You look like something beyond human. Ethereal. Like you just stepped out of a dream… or a prayer.

Angelic.

He feels a tightness in his chest, like something’s been lodged there, lodged there by you.

You glance around the table. Your eyes scan past the others and land on him.

Of course, you sit next to him.

He panics silently. Shoulders stiff. Head low. What is he supposed to do with this information? With the warmth creeping up his neck?

You shift in your seat beside him, tugging lightly at the edge of your glove. Fidgeting. Waiting.

His mouth moves before his brain catches up.

"…My goddess."

The words are no louder than a breath. A whisper. A reverent confession not meant for ears beyond his own.

But you hear it.

He feels it in how your movements still. The air shifts. Realization hits him like a shovel to the face.

Blood rushes to his ears. He shoves his face lower, burying his face into his hands. Maybe if he sinks low enough, you’ll forget he exists. Maybe the ground will swallow him whole.

You tilt your head, a slight questioning look crossing your face.

"…What was that?"

He freezes. His heart pounds. Please don’t make me explain.

"I-I mean my goodness…" He stammers, voice suddenly higher than usual, as he scrambles to fix it. "…The clothes suits you" He bites his lip, hands trembling, and wishes he could just disappear.

The words hang in the air, awkward and hopeless.

You just stare at him. No teasing. No mocking. Just a calm understanding. It’s like you can see the mess of thoughts he’s trying desperately to hide.

And then, finally, you smile. Just a small, quiet one.

Your voice is gentle as you offer. "Thank you… You look stunning too."

His stomach does a strange flip at your words. His breath hitches for a moment. He doesn’t know why, but those words hit harder than he expected.

You ... actually complimented him.

It feels like an angel just offered him a blessing, and he’s not sure his heart can handle it.

He blinks rapidly, trying to process what you just said. His heart races, and his hands tighten around the shovel’s handle again. His face is burning, and despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to look anywhere but at you.

Andrew doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ Picture: from Identity V official (not me) ✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

Sorry that it took this so long. I have lots of exams the previous week.

[spidercatweb]

Bookmark ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: none really! fluffy fluffy fluff!! fem! librarian!reader, one single use of y/n, mention of being starving (when r gets home from work, she eats but it doesn't say what), use of song lyrics, this is so cute i fear... Spencer texting too formally is canon to me.

Description: r finds a note left in a book for her by Spencer <3

Read part 1 of my librarian!reader series here!

Word Count: 628

A/n: this one is was not peer reviewed so apologies if it's not great 😬 but I quite enjoy it :3

All sorts of bookmarks were left in books by all types of people. Some taken from your own library, decorated with a variety of different art from book covers. Some with famous quotes. Plenty were handmade, though. Pieces of paper cut into perfect bookmark size, with messy colorful scribbles, hidden away in children's books. Grocery receipts. Even torn scraps of paper or half-done homework sheets.

You'd seen pretty much every possible bookmark. You even kept a collection in a box at the front desk. But you'd never seen anything like the one you'd just found. In a book returned by none other than Dr. Spencer Reid, who you'd just recently started going out with. Just a few dates, nothing too serious so far.

A unique looking doodle of a girl that looks a lot like you. Beside it, a few words —lyrics?— scrawled in a squiggly font that matched the art style perfectly.

"If I wasn't shy

I'd ask you, if you don't mind,

To kiss you a hundred times

If I wasn't shy"

The little note is terribly cute. A smile crosses your face. Is this me? Did Spencer leave this just for me? Did he really write that?

After folding the paper carefully, you slip it into your skirt pocket. This one is special. I'll take it home.

That night, you slide off your shoes just inside your front door. You place your work bag on a hook above the shoe rack. Heading to your room, you take the paper out of your pocket. You unfold it. A warm feeling flutters in your chest as you admire the drawing once again.

It was silly to be this giddy over such a simple little thing. What if it wasn't even Spencer who left it there for you? Was it even for you? You could just ask him. You do have his number.

Maybe you'll text him after you've changed out of your work clothes and eaten a proper meal. Food. Food sounds nice. You place the paper into a small box in your closet for safekeeping.

Feeling much cleaner, and much less starving, you lounge on your bed. Cozy, warm, and soft. You could fall asleep in a heartbeat. Or could you?

The image of the drawing fades into your mind as you close your eyes. You grin just thinking about it. Maybe you should ask him about it before it completely takes over your brain.

Blinking your eyes to feel more awake, you grab your phone from your nightstand. Sleepily standing up, you head to your closet. Opening up the small box and taking the paper into your other hand, you snap a picture of it.

After a few minutes of anxious contemplation, you muster up the courage to send Spencer the photo. Along with a single question mark.

You didn't expect him to reply so quickly. You assumed he would be out on a case.

"You found it! :-)"

You smile and reply just as quickly.

"You left it for me? It's adorable, by the way <3"

"I was worried you wouldn't find it."

"And yes, I left it just for you."

"Awwwww, that's so sweet of you, thank you, Spencer."

"You're welcome, Y/n.”

"I also made sure to use a pen that I was sure wouldn't transfer onto the pages of the book, if you were worried about that."

"You're so lovely :("

"So are you."

"I was wondering if you'd like to go on another date this Friday? If I'm not away on a case that is. If so, then maybe when I get back?"

"Of course, I'd love to. Just tell me the time and place, and I'll be there."

“And I might just take you up on that kiss offer :)”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Thank you for reading! <3

Feedback is very much appreciated!!

My requests are open <3

Song that the quote is from ⤵️

[andy-kuramy]

HELLO WONDERFUL!!!!!!?!?!?

WILL YOU, PERCHANCE, WRITE SILLY LITTLE HEADCANONS OF OUT BEAUTIFUL HUSBAND JOSE KANZAKI

💥💥💥💥

HI MELI!! sure! Let me give you some content about José! Aka "The Ninja"

José Kanzaki Hc's

Tw: mildly suggestive topics but nothing too explicit!!

⭑When Jose doesn't have a match and isn't training, he spends time with his dad, Probably watching Wrestling matches or simply cooking together.

⭒ He loves to hug you from behind (not in a weird way, unless you are into that kind of teasing) he knows that he has a big chest, if you are ok with Physical affection, he won't hesitate in hugging you and cuddling you against himself.

⭑Also, Jose is a big teaser, in a way that you can't understand, he is able to turn your most innocent/stupid words into a double sense joke, is like magic, you need to watch your words or else he is going to joke with them till you realize what does he mean.

⭒ borrowing clothes? he doesn't mind, he would think that you look like a child using their dads clothes if you are smaller than him .

⭑but if you are the one borrowing him your clothes, he won't give them back unless you ask for the article again, and most likely excuse himself with "You didn't say when i had to give it back corazón"

⭒ If you didn't ask for your clothes back in a week, those things would smell like nice lavander detergent and a bit of Jose's cologne.

⭑ It isn't in his plans to use something that you gave him and just let it get dirty, Nuh uh, he would have it like that thing is another one of his own clothes, so if you suddenly ask for it back, expect to be smelling like your bf every time you decide to wear whatever you lent him

⭒ He does like if you play with his hair, you need to warn him tho, he can snap his neck and get quite stiff if you touch his hair while he isn't paying attention, but if you warn him before doing it, he would enjoy it (just don't pull it)

⭑talk to you in Spanish? Don't get me started, if you understand him he would have little chats in Spanish with you, if you don't understand him, he is going to do jokes in Spanish while laughing about how you are pretty much clueless

⭒ but if Jose notices that you are getting sad/Uncomfortable for not understanding what he says, be sure that he is going to translate it while apologizing and trying to confort you

⭑If you happen to be a fan of wrestling or another sport that he likes to watch, Jose would and WILL make time in his week to watch it with you, hugging your body loosely while caressing your shoulder almost in automatic

⭒ This man is PROUD of having you as his S/O even with his big personally and slightly arrogant traits, others only need to say your name for him to start ranting about how you are such a good Partner, maybe doing some jokes about you, but trying to leave your image HIGH right were you belong.

⭑ He let you use his mask once, he may said that you looked funny, but In reality he didn't wanted you to take it off.

⭒ He asked for a picture with you using his mask after a few moments, and now that is one of his favorite pictures inside of his phone.

⭑Your contact name would be simple, a bit cheesy but it came out thanks to one of the friendly banters that you had with Jose, He said it as a joke at first, but once he heard you saying it again, your destiny was sealed.

⭒He can get quite jealous, but won't say it out loud, he would rather mention it in a conversation with you and brush it off than acting out of jealousy.

⭑ Cooking is an essential skill, and Jose knows this, if you ever feel like you couldn't cook something for yourself and he knew about it, a good plate of Well cooked beef or "enchiladas" would be in your table that day, they might be spicy, but delicious nonetheless

⭒ You wanna cook with him? Sure, just give him the recipe and Together you are going to do the best dish ever known to the man..... And might get a few kisses along the process

⭑ Jose is FLEXIBLE AF you had seen him doing a moon jump easily, so if you wanted to do something "stupid" (if ykyk), go for it, he knows that his ability might get some ideas into your head, and he is ready for all of them

⭒ He is definitely a Switch, mainly a top, but if you ask him beforehand, he can let you get the upper hand and accept the role with open arms (or legs /wink wink)

⭑He isn't loud, but you definitely can get him to say your name one or two times while at it.

⭒ AGAIN, don't pull his hair too hard, he isn't against it but if you over do it, he will get up and tell you to stop

⭑ After it, Jose loves if you rest in his hold, either on his chest or arms, just the feeling of having you, His loving S/O on his hold is enough to make him feel complete.

⭒ Just be ready because he is a heavy sleeper, so better go to the bathroom and drink Water before resting on his reach, bc once he is asleep, he isn't moving till the alarm goes off.

SOOOO THIS IS THE END OF IT! This was my first time writing Hc's in an ACTUAL post, but I think I liked how this ended up.

I tried to make José as in character as I could, but giving him things that are normal in our culture like, cooking is normal amongst the family or the fact that borrowing something is just like having another clothing for your care!

But anyways, I hope you liked this Meli!

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (7)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Jade doesn't care much about the hierarchy of the mafia when it comes to you. This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Tags: @guava-writes @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol

It’s a common song and dance. Small organizations sometimes come to the Leech Mafia in hopes of garnering support for their coups. Walrus asked Jade to “lend” you to her. You’re more surprised at her audacity than her motivations.

“You’re trying to replace the Carpenter?” You occasionally see the leader of the Carpenter Mafia at formal functions. A tall, thin man with a disproportionately large head and wheedling voice. Friendly and charismatic on the surface, but known for his underhanded methods of luring people in, stranding them, and devouring them. An insatiable man who takes as much as he can get his hands on.

“Yes, so I humbly came to ask for help.” She places a hand on her chest and furrows her brows. “The Carpenter is a money-obsessed, greedy man who exploits all those who fall into his trap. I can’t watch him go on anymore. Call me a hopeful idiot, but I think with enough determination, even seven maids with seven mops could clear all the sand on a beach in half a year.”

If you were someone else entirely, maybe you would have fallen for her act. That pained look on her face and her poetic description of her tenacity could move a heart made of stone. However, you’ve spent a major portion of your life knowing Jade. You could recognize that duplicitous sorrow anywhere.

“What kind of mafia doesn’t have any suffering?” You won’t pretend the Leech Mafia is a good organization, either. There are monetary benefits, but mafias are built on cruelty, discipline, and fear of the pecking order. For example, if you dislike the way something was done, you have the authority to make sure the offending soldier who carried out the task disappears by sunset.

Walrus smiles. “I strive to create an organization where we can depend on each other.”

“And you want me to help you, huh. Is that why you told your men to attack me? It was a test to see if I meet your expectations.”

“You’re so cute, you know that? You ask questions when you already know the answer. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

No wonder why Jade looks so displeased. He likes to play pranks of that nature on you as well, but he becomes defensive when anyone else tries. What a hypocrite.

“I’m not upset.” As two-faced as Walrus is, you find that you don’t hate it. In the underbelly of society, this is what it takes to not only survive, but to claw your way to the top. In her own way, she is admirable. “Well, tell us what you want and what you’ll give us. This is a negotiation, right?”

“I’m just asking for the basics. Soldiers and weapons, that’s all. Can you spare me a hundred men?” She asks this nonchalantly, but surely she must know the weight of her question. One hundred men on land when the Leech Mafia operates mainly in the Coral Sea is a tall order. Such a number would impact your own operations in the Queendom of Roses. Again, this is expected. When you have more to lose in a negotiation, it is standard to ask for more than what you hope for.

“What a daring question. You are also quite the greedy person, Walrus.” Jade folds his hands on his desk. “Surely you have prepared something of equal value.”

“Of course.” Walrus pulls out a twisting gold wand inlaid with a red jewel. With a flick of her wrist, an image of a man appears in the air. “This is the man who cursed your parents, Jade Leech.”

A shadow passes over his face. This must be a bluff. How are you supposed to believe her when she declared such a thing without proof? To your surprise, Jade does not challenge her claim.

“That matches my findings.” Jade lowers his chin, his sharp gaze scrutinizing her. “What of it?”

“He’s dead. Carpenter personally got rid of him. No use for someone who managed to screw up an assassination, right?” She taps her wand to the image. It becomes a map with a glowing red dot south of the Coral Sea. “One of my friends has a Signature Spell that can analyze dead bodies. If we get his corpse, she should be able to figure out exactly what curse was cast on your parents. His body was dumped around here in the ocean, so you’ll need to retrieve it.”

Jade’s shoulders tense. You glance at the rigid line of his jaw. Softly, you place your hand on his shoulder blade. Calm down. A beat passes. He takes a breath and relaxes his muscles.

“Your proposal is hypothetical. There is no guarantee your friend will be able to deduce what spell was used. In the scenario which she does, there still remains the question of whether or not it can be cured.”

“It’s better than knowing nothing, right? I’ve been working for you for a month. I know there’s been no progress with your parents’ condition.” Her eyes glint. “Honestly, you should be happy to get any kind of lead.”

She has a way with words. At this rate, she will gain the upper hand of the negotiation. You stand still and believe in Jade and his silver tongue. He is not the type of person who will walk away from a discussion having lost more than he gained.

“You knew about the attempt on my parents’ lives, and yet you did nothing while under our employment.” Jade leans forward in his seat and stares her down. “Why didn’t you tell us you knew something about it? Withholding information from us until you can use it as a bargaining chip . . . I’m hurt, Walrus. It will be difficult for us to form a relationship of good faith anymore. If you had told us before it happened, we could have prevented such a tragedy in the first place. From that angle, is it not your fault that my parents were saddled with such an unfortunate ailment?”

Twisting her words and the situation until it benefits him is child’s play for Jade. No matter how contrived that reasoning may seem, at the end of the day, Walrus is the one who desperately needs resources from the Leech Mafia. As long as he does not forget who has the upper hand, he will certainly get his way.

“Of course,” Jade continues, offering her a way out, “I believe in second chances. If you take responsibility and pitch in to find a way to undo the curse, I will have no qualms in lending you my support in your upcoming coup.”

In the end, Walrus has no choice but to concede. There are other groups she could turn to, but creating good relations with the Leech Mafia can only help her if she wishes to gain influence. A weak, unstable group after an internal struggle is easy prey for older, already established syndicates to absorb. She needs their support to avoid a short-lived victory.

Walrus leaves with a promise of seventy men and enough weapons to supply them. As soon as she’s out the door, your mind drifts to the manuscript again. It briefly mentions that the Leech Mafia’s influence spreads after their parents wake up. Maybe this inner turmoil in the Carpenter Mafia causes that expansion. No details were ever given in the manuscript. When you read it over, you had the impression that the author did not have the slightest inkling towards the politics and inner workings of a mafia.

You find yourself stepping back towards the wall as you think. Your body yearns to curl up in the window seat in the attic. Part of you wants to hide up there right now and digest this information. There is so much to think about now. The division of resources, the men you’re going to lend to Walrus, the compensation for the lack of manpower in some of the Leech territory on land . . . .

A hand rests on your waist and reels you in towards the side of Jade’s chair. The perpetrator gives you an imploring look.

“If you need a space to sit, would my lap suffice?”

A few moments ago, you thought Walrus had audacity. Jade outmatches her.

“No, I’ll go up to the attic instead.”

“May I come with you?”

“Seven, you’re so persistent.” You heave a sigh and motion for him to shift so that you can sit comfortably on his lap. His smile grows unbelievably smug as you take a seat, purposely putting your full weight on him. He doesn’t show the slightest hint of discomfort.

It becomes easier to think when you have something pressed against your back. His arms surround you, providing a small space for you to retreat in your mind without any worries. Sturdy and secure like the face of a cliff or the trunk of a tree, safe despite the threat you know he is capable of being. No matter. You were the one who said you would trust him. And now that you’ve let your guard down, you find that you feel rather cozy.

“You’re being weirdly clingy today.” You notice he still hasn’t let go of your waist. “When Walrus asked for my help, you were so adamant on refusing. I could’ve gone, you know. We would’ve had a reason to lend her less soldiers.”

He huffs. “I have told you before. Have you already forgotten? There is no need for you to dirty your hands with filth.”

It takes you a moment to recall when he last said those words: outside Azul’s home while Floyd beat the living daylights out of Barry Moore. You should never have to lift a finger. Just keep making others do your dirty work.

“What’s your problem with me fighting every so often? I’m not against it.”

Jade rests his head on your shoulder. He’s been getting bolder ever since you promised him your trust.

“If you want to, I would not stop you. But I can tell you prefer to stay holed up somewhere and wrack your brain instead of using your fists. In situations where violence is necessary, you often order someone else to do it unless you are the only one around. Regardless, I would support you to the best of my ability whether you wish to scheme or massacre.” He sighs into your shirt. “I was already quite upset that I did not manage to stop Walrus’s men from ambushing you. It put our negotiations at risk.”

“You were going to refuse her terms just because of that?” It’s not like Jade to make such an illogical decision for something that doesn’t even bring him entertainment. In fact . . . “I would’ve thought that watching me struggle in a fight would be interesting to you.”

“Of course it is.” His chest rumbles against your back. Your eyebrow twitches. Laughter? The nerve! “But I would rather you struggle in a situation that I’ve created, which I can stop whenever I wish.”

“So you only like my suffering when you’re in control of everything about it?”

“Let’s not call it suffering. Challenging obstacles, if you will. But yes.” His eyelashes flutter against your cheek. “If it is ever necessary to truly put your life at risk, it means that I have failed in some capacity.”

You should be grateful to hear those words. But some part of you sours. Why is he so bent on protecting you? You aren’t weak. Your Signature Spell’s primary function is to shield you from physical injuries. Fighting comes naturally to you. In fact, when you met the twins, you were the one who fought for Jade. Sort of. You even extorted him afterwards. And in the Leech Mafia, it is your job to protect him.

“I don’t need to be protected.”

“You are correct.” He nuzzles his face into your neck. “You have survived for this long in the mafia. I don’t try to keep you from harm because you are incompetent—far from it, actually. I do so because you are too competent. You take on more and more difficult work, increasing your chances of getting hurt, but you do not stop and consider how seeing you injured may throw me into disarray—”

He suddenly pauses. You think you get the gist of it. His parents still lie unconscious in hospital beds. Perhaps a small part of him blames himself for not being careful enough. Even you sometimes lie awake wondering if there was anything you could have done to prevent it. If only you took that manuscript seriously sooner. If only you had been more vigilant. If only, if only, if only. Do you dare to assume he’s worried about you as well?

Jade’s fingers tighten on your waist. “I want to make sure you are safe and comfortable. If you will allow me, I will do anything in my power to ensure it happens. Scheme and plot, stew in your thoughts, give orders like a tyrant. I will be your hands and feet so that you never have to endanger yourself. It is only a selfish desire of mine that you will never be harmed.”

“So, if I’m understanding correctly, you’re saying you care about me?”

He chuckles. “Is it something that needs to be said?”

Answering a question with a question. Typical.

“Tell me properly.”

“Relentless as always.” He relaxes his grip. “I care about you. More than you think.”

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me anymore.” There’s enough sincerity in his voice that you don’t have to confirm. A part of you just wants to hear him say it.

“I was not lying, then or now.” Jade’s arms wind around your torso and hold you close. “I have always been truthful on this subject, and this is no lie, either.”

[kurov1864]

Robin dating hcs!!

- Aggressive cuddler. As in, he'll jump onto you kind of hugging. He'll wrap around you like a snake when cuddling. He'll squeeze you until you can't breathe and wouldn't let go even if the world was ending type shit.

- Might be projecting a bit but he might be insecure about being from a branch family?? In one of the manga chapters, Bachiko mentions that Robin is the perfect archer, but it was a shame that he comes from a branch family.

- ACTS. OF. SERVICE. While he is super clingy, making you think that his love language is physical touch, he actually expresses way more affection through doing stuff for you!! Like cooking for you (malewife material fr), pulling your blanket up when you fall asleep, preparing you a snack pack to boost your energy (and hopefully your patience) after being drained by an exhausting morning of teaching students, and organizing surprise dates. Mostly food-related tbh,,,

- Ohmygod the dates. I'm not sure what is up with him and dates but he love love loves to make each date more unique then the last. For example? A picnic date near the everflowing lava lake, where you both compete to see who can guess which geyser shoots the highest. A fishing date in the clouds, where you both quite literally fish for birds. An archery date in a crystal cavern, where you both rely on your senses and the random bursts of light the crystals emit to take each other down. With him, you would never have a "normal" date.

- Also really connected with nature. If you're not the outdoorsy type, you two might not be the best match. When he's not focusing on his students or his many teacher tasks, you can probably find him wandering around Babyls, exploring every nook and inch and finding more hidden gems. (I have a hc that Babyls is a lot like Hogwarts, with many unexplored areas that aren't shown on screen, just because it would be cool)

- Communication is key!! He's not afraid to state his feelings loud and clear, and probably expects you to do the same. If you don't say anything nor show any physical signs of discomfort, he'll take that as an OK to continue doing whatever he's doing. Please don't make him have to guess why you're in a bad mood. No matter how observant his archers eyes are, they're not all-seeing. This also means that if you're doing something that makes him uncomfortable, he'll tell you in a very straightforward manner, maybe a little more hesitant if you enjoy doing that thing a lot.

- The whole "communication is key" part will also carry over to fights. Remember, when you two fight it's you two against the problem, not each other. While that doesn't mean that you both can't show emotion to have a perfectly rational conversation, it would be appreciated if there were no emotional walls up.

- Big on PDA in front of friends/in public, a bit more toned down in front of students. Like, you cannot tell me that he's not the type to jump on you, sit on your lap, intertwine your hands and kiss your cheeks. He doesn't really see a need to keep his relationship private (not that he can), but did he really have to stuff it in everybody's faces that you two were dating? Oh absolutely.

- This brings me to my next hc. Despite being sunshine incarnate, he can get awfully possessive. That's why he wants to tell everybody that you were his by acting so affectionately out in public. This way, nobody could ever doubt or even think that you two weren't together. And well, if there actually was some knucklehead that apparently didn't get the message, he would make sure that before your next meeting with them, you would be... appropriately marked as his. Of course, he could always use his image as a socially oblivious teacher to use and scare them off imply that you two were dating.

- Speaking of socially oblivious, I hope you realize he is anything but. As I've mentioned before, being an archer and all it's in his blood to be observant. This translates to him being able to sense anytime you are in a foul mood. And being the attentive and caring lover that he is, of course he's going to try and comfort you! You don't want to tell him what's wrong? That's totally fine. He'll cook you a nice hot meal while you shower, and try to cheer you up by telling you silly stories over the dining table. Expect a few movies to be put on while you two cuddle, anything to make you feel loved and protected. You want to vent about your day? That's good as well! He'll take it as a compliment that you trust him enough to not tell anybody. Although he's usually hyper and speaks up whenever he wants, for you Robin would just sit and listen, nodding and giving appropriate comments whenever needed until you're all tuckered out.

- When finding out you're human, I honestly don't think much would change. He has full faith in Suvillian's evaluation of you, and he wouldn't allow somebody who is weak and defenceless to join the faculty. Probably the only difference would be him trying to find out more about the human world, because he's just naturally curious about everything.

- DATES FOR MARRAIGE. I cannot stress this enough. Although he's not extremely traditional like Kalego, he is extremely loyal. This means that if he agrees to date you it's basically a declaration that he wants to marry and spend the rest of his life with you. He will not get into a relationship that he thinks won't last because he simply thinks it wouldn't be fair to both parties.

- Loves cheesy nicknames. Things like "cutie pie", "bugaboo", and "my lil cutie patootie". He absolutely refuses to use normal nicknames, just because. Favorite part of the day is to shout those in front of students, just to see your face turn red and try to shut him up.

[apathetic-pixel-42]

Ummm so like is it ok if i request hao with fem reader that doesn't liked being touched?you don't have to if you don't want to

Hi there!!! Thank you so much for the request! Don't worry I don't mind at all! Thank you again!! <3333

Hao Asakura With A Reader Who Doesn't Like Being Touched 🫂

When he first met you, he didn’t even notice your distaste for physical contact. He wasn’t big on touching people in general, especially after years of being isolated and despised.

He finally found out when he rested his hand on your shoulder one time. It was after you won your match, so he was attempting to give a halfhearted congratulations.

When you flinched away from him, it shocked him a little. While yes, he had read your mind when he met you, he hadn’t expected a reaction like that. He quickly put up his usual facade, casually apologizing before continuing what he was doing.

He’d think about it for a while before deciding to ultimately ask. Even if you lie, he just reads your mind. Whatever your reason is, he doesn’t question further.

Skipping forward to when you two are in a relationship, he’d have his challenges to face. On one hand, he likes that he doesn’t have to be super touchy. After all, he has an image to maintain. He also doesn’t need anyone knowing that you’re his weakness.

On the other hand, he hates it sometimes. After years of being deprived of love and affection, all he wants sometimes is to snuggle into your arms and hide from the world. However, he understands and doesn’t push your boundaries.

When you proposed doing some kind of exposure therapy, he was quite surprised. He happily accepted, agreeing to go slow and start with light and small touches.

It’s start off subtle. He’d lay his head on your shoulder for a few seconds, occasionally brushing his hand against yours, briefly playing with your hair, etc. The touches were soft, but brief as to not overwhelm you.

Eventually, it’d escalate a little further. He’d start linking his pinky with yours, maybe play with your fingers, lean against you when standing, and even a quick kiss on the hand. He’d do them sparingly, letting you adjust before increasing the amount he did every day.

When you first gave him a hug, he fell speechless. He’d hesitate for a moment before quickly hugging you back. Of course, you two would be doing this in private. He’d quietly whisper in your ear, asking if he could hug you tighter.

“Would you mind if I …no? You sure it’s okay? Heh…if you say so. Feel free to let go whenever you’re ready.”

He’d be on cloud nine, softly nuzzling into your shoulder if you let him. Knowing that you trusted him enough to hold you close made his cold heart flutter. He’d be in such a good mood that even Yoh and the others would question it. He didn’t care, though. He had made a breakthrough with you.

Cuddling was something that took quite a while for either of you to initiate. He was also a bit apprehensive about it, since he hadn’t done it in centuries. It’d start off extremely slow with him simply leaning against your side. You’d lean your head against his shoulder and he’d rest his head against yours.

Once you were both relaxed, you two would ease into a hug. It’d be soft and hesitant, with him whispering occasionally to ask if you were okay to continue. Afterwards, he’d finally pull you flush against him. He’d bury his face in your chest or hair depending on what was more accessible or comfortable.

He’d unintentionally fall asleep in your embrace. He woke up so refreshed that he questioned why he hadn’t done this sooner. It was one of the best naps he had ever had in his life. Of course, he threatened anyone who might’ve walked in and seen you two together, but he’d eventually just fall asleep again.

Ever since that day, he physically cannot sleep without you next to him. He’d also start being a little more clingy in public if you were okay with it. Overall, he’d enjoy second of it.

[vroomvroomwee]

I don't know if anyone has pointed this out yet but the entire Midnight episode from Doctor Who is e perfect example of society. I'll go by character because I can't write essays for shit and it's more fun to read this way.

Professor Hobbes: Starting with probably the more obvious one. Professor Hobbes. A white middle-aged man who's defining characteristic is his broad and unwavering knowledge of the world. Or knowledge that he thinks is correct of the world. This is a man who is so blinded by his ego that he can't see what's right in front of him, even so far as using his arrogance to cover up his fear of what is actually happening. This is a man who would rather remain in denial even in a life-threatening situation than accept that his view of the world is potentially wrong. That self-confidence burrows so deep down that it has created a self-defence mechanism for him, it's how he deals with it, how he deals with danger, by reverting back to his brilliance and intelligence and the fact he is all-knowing with a cleverness no one can match. It leads him to demean other people as well, those who dare question him... not even for one moment does he pause to think maybe they're right... something we see churches do more and more every day... The world is aflame and yet they're still in denial and have utter faith that their God (his intelligence) will save them relying on old and washed out world views that hold no water in modern society.

Dee Dee Blasco: And that leads us to Dee Dee, his apprentice. Or should we say the one who actually understands what is happening but is constantly put down by Hobbes. It is proved multiple times in the episode that her knowledge of chemistry and physics is quite vast, and at times even superior to Hobbes'. It is no coincidence that Hobbes is a white middle-aged man and Dee Dee is a young black woman who dares challenge the professors word, kind of like how the younger generations are calling out the hypocrisy of religion more and more, backing it up with solid real scientific evidence, but being repeatedly silenced, ridiculed and embarrassed for it.

Jethro Kane: Speaking of young generations, the other representative is Jethro. A young boy, a teenager, who, despite his appearance, is very highly intuitive. He might appear aloof, unserious, disinterested, and downright unremarkable. But out of everyone, he has the most accurate image of what is happening. He might be young, but he is very intelligent, despite constantly being told to shut up, that he shouldn't be speaking, that his opinion is worthless and unwanted. Treatement very similar to the treatment younger generations get from the older ones, despite more often than not being the voice of reason and getting a grasp on the real picture yet still being constantly bellitled by the older generations. "Don't be stupid, Jethro," said to him by his own mother. The ridicule eventually gets to him as well as the pressure and stress of the whole situation itself, which leads him to contemplate even murder. Eventually, in the end, he succumbs to the panick, he doesn't know what to do, and he breaks down. Not his own fault, but mostly due to the actions and the utter chaos the older generations caused around him. And that sounds awfully familiar...

Val and Biff Kane: The couple. The picture perfect representation of a loving family. Except deep down, they are selfish and rotten. Val only thinking about herself and how the Entity is stealing her voice despite everyone experiencing the same thing, not caring about anyone else and repeatedly making her voice the loudest in the room, not listening to reason and persisting her rants even though it's making the situation worse. Biff being the typical patriarchal male of the house, the first one to resort to violence and even shaming Hobbes for "not being a real man" as if murder is the logical expectation of men, as if homicide is what makes you a real man. These two are the prime example of the nuclear family who follows society's traditions on behaviour and appearance, painting themselves as the perfect example of how every couple should look, buying in all the bullshit the media is selling them, while deep down being terrible and narcissistic people. Val, going so far as to gaslight the man, she and her husband just tried to kill not even 10 seconds ago in an attempt to save her own image.

The Doctor: Now. The Doctor. The scientist. The thinker of the group. He is the spark that lights the flame. The light in a room devoid of it, that illuminates everyone's hidden and dark side. The side everyone tries to keep secret, even from themselves. The one whose kindness brings that side out and causes panick and self-inflicted chaos as they attempt to shove that darkness down and out of sight. Bringing the nastiness out of them as if they were a piece of transparent glass. And it causes absolute chaos.

The Doctor is a symbol of wisdom, common sense, and worst of all... kindness. He is the one speaking logic, speaking the obvious, showing goodness, doing the humane thing... but no one listens. Everyone around him, being in a fit of horrified panick, turns on him because they don't want to deal with their own nastiness under the pressure of potentially facing their own death.

The Entity: I was debating whether to put the Doctor and the Entity as one thesis, but I think the Entity deserves its own consideration.

To start off strongly, it is no coincidence that the show uses he/him for the Entity. He who has sinister and self-benifiting plans for the entire carriage, and he, who hides behind a woman... A queer woman might I add. He who takes the role of a woman and disguises his evil deeds as her deeds. Painting the woman as the true villain of the story. Sounds familiar...

He who first kills the mechanic and the driver, the ones who kept the whole cabin afloat and running, the ones who nobody really considers, the workforce, the ones who saved everyone, and he killed them like they were nothing. Very similar to how the workforce is treated as disposable in real life...

He who steals the scientist's voice. He who listens to what the intellect has to say, who processes it, and he who thinks of the best way he could turn the situation to serve him. He who twists the Doctors words and uses them against him, he who still uses his knowledge but who gets rid of the thinker himself. He who paints that wisdom as blasphemy and insidiousness but who uses it as a tool to serve himself. He behind the scenes. He who turns everyone against each other, provoking them to create ridiculous arguments and to cause chaos amongst themselves that works to his advantage. He who manipulates the entire scene. He who nobody can really see. He, the real villain behind it all...

The Hostess: The Hostess, who's in charge of the carriage and whose efforts to keep the calm, proved time and time again completely fruitless. The one who tried to keep everyone safe.

The one who saw the real villain and exposed him. The one who died doing so. A woman of colour, and the one who saves the day, but whose name is forgotten... the one who history won't remember... which sounds very familiar.

The situation itself brings out the worst in people. It shows what people are really like in life-threatening situations and how easily they turn on each other to save their own neck. Very much what would be the collective reaction in the real world. Neverending conflict, unyielding chaos, created for the most part by the people themselves. Fighting each other, sacrificing each other. All the while, the real villain smiles in the background...

[covetyou]

y2k

moodboard and fic inspo by @psychedelic-ink main masterlist

rating: Teen (this is an 18+ blog) warnings: fluff, Joel and Sarah being domestic and cute af, swearing, Sarah being a little shit. No outbreak. word count: 876 summary: a morning in the Miller Household with our fave resident Girl Dad and his Daughter (who is a little shit affectionately).

A/N: @psychedelic-ink is having a cute lil joel miller birthday bash and i requested a silly y2k moodboard in honour of the occasion. This spawned from my brain before I could stop it. Happy Birthday, JM!

if my boss asks, i've been working super hard for the last hour and not writing this.

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Joel sat at the kitchen counter, nursing his morning coffee. It was a clear day, the heat of summer dwindling now that October was approaching. He relished these quiet moments in the mornings, just him and his world inside that house, safe and sound.

Even after 15 years though, the silence never lasted long. He was glad for it - he dreaded to think how quickly the days of silence would come and how much he would long for the noise.

As expected, footsteps thundered down the stairs.

One day that kid's goin' to bring this fuckin' house down.

"Hey Dad," Sarah says breathlessly as she sidles up to Joel. She's hiding something behind her back, and Joel well knows that look on her face by know. She's been up to something.

"Mornin' kid," he smiles. Whatever she's up to he doesn't care, seeing the best thing he ever did every morning always put a smile on his face. "What you got there?"

"I got something to show you," she bites her lip. "I made it."

Joel's heart wants to burst out of his chest. As a kid, he was always being gifted little drawings and creations - pictures of them in their house, a deranged looking cat with too many legs (a sign from Sarah that she really wanted a pet kitty - he wishes he could've said yes to her, but his allergies would never let it happen), a paper mache lump of something she'd made and painted. He kept it, but he still didn't know what it was. My babies first abstract art he'd joked at the time. It had been years since she'd made anything for him, she was more into playing with friends and sports than arts and crafts with her old man these days.

"Alright then, let's see it," he turns to face his daughter as she pulls her laptop from behind her back. It was a birthday gift this summer, and she was rarely off the damn thing - she said it made homework easier than having to use the family desktop computer, but he still didn't quite believe she didn't just use to to talk to her friends until the early hours of the morning. Still, he could never say no or be mad at her for much of anything for too long.

"And you ain't takin' that to school."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "I'm not. Look."

She points to the screen.

"I was up all night making it for you - Happy Birthday, Dad!"

It's... well. It's something else. Pictures of him (he recognized one as a picture she had taken 5 years ago) and the two of them together, all interspersed with a collection of other images he wasn't familiar with but somehow seemed to match. Joel's stomach dropped with it - if this is what his baby girl was into, maybe she'd changed more as a teen than he thought. Still, she'd made it for him. It was special.

"I... it's..." Joel was getting genuinely choked up. He didn't care what it was. He just loved that she made it for him.

"Don't you love it?" she prods his arm, grinning like a maniac.

"I do." And he did.

"The color pallette is so cute right, and this picture is my favorite." She points to a picture in the middle from a 4th of July last year - Her and Joel had gone to a neighbors house to celebrate. There'd been a bonfire. "I put filters on everything to make it more pink. It really gels it all together, don't you think?"

It was one of his favorites too. Even with... all the pink.

"It is uh, real pink, yeah," Joel says, scratching his neck. "It your new favorite color or somethin'? We need to paint your room again?"

Sarah's face drops. "I - I thought it was your favorite color, Dad." She looks devastated.

Joel is dumbstruck. What does he say. He flounders, stuttering, trying to find the words.

Suddenly, Sarah's face breaks into a shit eating grin big enough to rival Tommy's.

"I'm just fucking with you dad."

Joel's eyes snap to hers, a warning, and amusement, flashing across his face.

She holds her hands up in surrender. "Messing! I'm just messing with you."

"Well, I love it anyway. Even if you are just messin' with me," he kisses her temple and pushes her toward the door. "C'mon, lets get goin' or you're goin' to be late, and so am I."

Sarah rolls her eyes, gathers her school bag and heads for the door with Joel in tow. They both head for his truck, starting their day the same way they always do - together.

Joel stops before he reaches his truck, placing a large hand on the hood and looking over to his daughter. His - how did he get so lucky.

"Hey kid... can you send me that picture when you get home from school?"

Sarah smiles. It was a silly joke, but she's glad he loves it too. "Sure thing, Dad."

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[ahoyimlosingmymind]

About lava cake, I want to hear your thoughts about how Marella, as a pyrokinetic, is technically considered talentless in the matchmaking system. Therefore making Fitz and Marella a bad match. How do you think Fitz would react when he realizes this, knowing this could end up in a similar way to Sophitz?

-lava cake anon #2 ;)

Oooo this is a hard one. I'm open to any thoughts!!! @autistic-daydreamer @myfairkatiecat @sacrificialloving

What I'm about to write is so half-baked, I apologize in advance lmao I think it would begin with Alden or Della pulling him to the side and noting how much time he's been spending with Marella-- at this point, Fitz knows he has feelings for her, but he's also very aware of the ramifications. They remind him how important his reputation is, and how it will hurt not only him, but Marella, her family and his own.

He doesn't want this to end the way it did with Sophie. He doesn't want to care about it. But he does- especially as his age creeps closer and closer to the time he's expected to have a winnowing gala. For a while, he starts to distance himself from Marella.

And because she knows him so well, she clocks the reason almost immediately. However, she doesn't confront him on it immediately like she normally would. Because part of her is just as terrified of being a bad match. she doesn't want to hurt his reputation either. She doesn't want to ruin his life. And really, she doesn't want to handle the scorn either. They've talked about it in the past, how big of a deal it is to do things by the book.

But the desire to be with one another is so powerful, that at some point- Fitz takes a leaf out of Keefe's book- finds a forbidden cities leaping crystal and asks Marella to go to the human world with him. It's stupid and reckless. He's never done anything like this. But he's really starting to feel trapped, and well-- he's not friends with Keefe for no reason. He understands his childhood bestfriend's desire to run. He's just never been brave enough to do it before.

But this situation is the final nail in the coffin. And he's just like 'Well, let's seen if Keefe's method really works.' (it's the first time he feels he's ever done something for himself. It's freeing. and terrifying.)

Marella agrees to go with him after a few weeks of radio silence. Because in the human world they can just be. They both agree that this will be their final hurrah, and then, they wont pursue anything with one another. They'll follow the paths laid out for them. However, this does not work, and they end up just secretly dating-- the lie dangling over their heads.

Fitz, of course, realizes he's a hypocrite for it. For suddenly being so willing to do this with Marella, where he wasn't with Sophie. His whole life he has been watched and seen as an image. But Marella is the first girl to truly see through to who he really is, and to shed the false perceptions she had of him early on in their friendship. Whereas, part of him- though he denied it at the time- always felt like Sophie also saw him as perfect in many ways. It was an idea she wasn't quite ready to let go of when it came to him- It feels different with Marella. And besides, Sophie has Keefe now. (but of course, Sophie is still hurt by this when she finds out. Not enough to cause friendship ruining drama, but definitely like 'damn ok ig' lol)

Marella gets exposed as a pyrokinetic at some point, which leads to massive scorn, on top of people finding out they're together.

It's a mess. They probably break up a few times in between everything-- but then one day, things calm down. The Neverseen is defeated, and real societal changes are made, and while it isn't perfect, you can't erase a way of thinking completely, it makes it easier.

Or maybe they just fake their deaths and go to live among humans idek

[pholla-jm]

7 Stages of Grief

IMAGINE:  STAGES OF GRIEF ~ ACE X READER GENRE: ANGST WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. LOT'S OF ANGST. *********************

There are seven stages of grief that everyone goes through at one point in their life. It was fate, something bad always has to happen. 

Well fate can be cruel at times. 

Fate didn't have to rip your lover out of your life, but it did. 

1. Shock/Disbelief 

Seeing Ace's dead body hit the ground was an out of body experience. And not in a good way. Seeing the blood splatter against the ground froze your body. There was just no way that this could happen. You really couldn't believe your eyes as the world around you fell silent. You didn't hear Luffy's screams that his brother died. You didn't hear your fellow crewmates cry out in shock. You didn't hear your Captains final words either. 

You were too shocked to believe anything that was happening in front of your eyes.

2. Denial

You didn't want to believe that it was real. But as you felt Ace's cold body against your fingers, you had to pull away. 

"No," you whispered turning away from his body. Your eyebrows were furrowed as you fought back the tears that wanted to cascade down your face. Some of your crewmates looked at you in confusion. "This can't be real. Maybe it's a dream. But I know damn well that Ace isn't dead. He can't be." 

You kept pushing the image of Ace's dead body out of your head. Instead, replacing it with a time when he was alive. In fact, at some point you convinced yourself that he was still alive. Somewhere out there.

You felt a hand on your should causing you to look back. It was Marco. He had a look on his face. One mixed with sadness and pity. His facial expression caused you to look away. You knew if you looked at Marco any longer then it meant that it was true. That your boyfriend was dead.

"I'm so sorry (y/n)..." 

3. Guilt

When reality set in, it was like guilt punched you in the gut. You often wondered how things could have gone differently. What if you went with Ace to hunt Marshall? Then he wouldn't have been captured in the first place. 

Maybe if you tried harder in the fight, you could have stopped him from getting a fist through his stomach. You kept beating yourself up for not being strong enough to save him. 

All these 'what if's' running through your head just only made the guilt that ran through your veins worse. 

4. Anger and bargaining 

When anger set in, no one wanted to be around you. Your episodes were quite scary. It wasn't sudden either. No, it gradually grew into you snapped. It started with small things, like seeing something that reminded you of Ace. Honestly, anything reminded you of Ace. Like when you saw his favorite food or even a necklace. 

When someone was talking about Ace's death, anger has never surfaced faster. You were shouting at people, throwing things, destroying anything that was around you. You weren't going to stop until you felt someone grab your wrists. You look up to see the third division, Jozu. He had a stern gaze on you. One that you matched.

It was a silent stare off between you two. Everyone was waiting to see who would break first. 

It was you.

Angry tears started to roll down your face and you could feel Jozu's grip on you loosen. He was definitely not expecting that.  "W-" Jozu starts but gets cut off.  "It's not fair!" You shout finally snatching your wrists free from his grasp.  "It's not fair," your voice breaking- not wanting to say those words, "that I'm still here."  

"What is that supposed to mean?" Jozu asks.  "I would do anything to have him here. Even if it meant trading places with him."  "Don't say that. He wouldn't want. Ace would want you alive."  "Well it doesn't matter what he wants now."

Your words are basically like venom as you leave. The only thing that could be heard was a door slamming shut.

5. Depression/ sadness 

"(y/n), wake up." Ace's voice whisper causing a small groan to leave your lips. You peeked your eyes open to see Ace smiling down at you.  "hey." You whisper bringing a hand up to caress his face. The warmth of his face immediately brought a smile to your face.  "I have an idea." He says.  "Uh oh. That's never good." You joke causing him to roll your eyes.  He decides to ignore your little jab at him, "let's go out today." 

You immediately sat up, eyeing the bandage on his chest. "Let's not. Marco said you need plenty of rest before going back out. Plus I have something planned today."  Ace lays back down, his head resting in his hand. 

"I bought a whole bunch of new clothes, so let's do a fashion show!" You excitedly say before jumping out of the bed.  However, the sheets got tangled up in your feet causing you to crash onto the floor.

A groan left your lips as you rubbed your head. After the pain left, you realized that something felt different.  With a sigh, you climbed back into the empty bed. Pulling the blankets over, you reached over to where Ace usually sleeps. 

You closed your eyes imagining that his warmth was still there. Imagining wasn't enough though. You couldn't really feel his warmth. Tears started falling down your face again as you started to wander back into dreamland. 

7. Acceptance 

"Look babe," Ace says walking out from the bathroom. 

You laid in bed with a book in your hand. When he called your nickname, you looked up at him with a large smile.  "Yes?"  "My wound is healing up," He says lifting his arms to show the clean bandage.  "I'm glad." 

Ace jumps into the bed, not wasting any time to hover your body, your book falling off the bed. A mischievous smile covers his face, "how should we celebrate?" 

You roll his eyes at his innuendo, "definitely by not doing that."  A pout replaced on his lips as he rolled off onto the side. 

"I feel so much better though." 

Your nose scrunched up at his words as you also rolled on your side to look at him. No words were spoken between you two. Just silence as you looked into each others eyes.  You never wanted this moment to end.

Ace let a sigh, his lips slightly twitching into a frown. 

"I should go out today. See if there's anything for me to do." 

A frown placed on your face now, "no," you whisper bringing up your hand to caress the side of his face.  "There's no reason for you to leave. You can just stay here with me." 

Ace sat up causing you to do the same.  "I think it's time for me to leave (y/n)."  Your heart started ache at his words and Ace can tell that this hurts you.  "I love you." He says bringing you into a hug, which you gladly return.

There was a knock on the door and soon light entered your bedroom. There Marco stood in the doorway, watching your figure sit on the bed. You were holding a pillow closely to your chest.  When the light hit your body, you turned around seeing Marco looking at you with a saddened look. 

"He's gone Marco...." 

Upon seeing the tears in your eyes, he immediately goes over to your bed and sits on the edge.  "This is my first time actually saying it..." You mutter, your grip slowly loosing it's grip on the pillow. 

Marco doesn't waste another second to pull you into a hug. Sobs started to break through as you clutched onto him. 

"It's okay (y/n). Let it out. We'll work through this together." 

[deliriousblue]

mu girl episode 6

mala works up the courage to ask pokpong to 'lie with her'*, but of course it's meant literally; she wants the two of them to do a luck/karma cleansing ritual together — she believes in it; he doesn't. *too archaic in english but you get the idea

this leads to a series of escalating bits where he goes "who says i don't believe in past lives? maybe you used to be my slave" (cutting to a shared-imagination historical drama scene filmed in 4:3 ratio. i love jojo) and she plays along very exaggeratedly, culminating in the right-hand screenshot which. well. images.

aaaand i would maybe feel weirder about all that if it didn't immediately segue to her getting him to come along on her next merit-making errand by saying that if she was his slave in their past life he's hers in this one. behaviors!

both other potential suitors ask her out on the same day; one of her friends encourages her to go to both dates ("nowadays, women have the right to choose! / we're the choosers, not the chosen.") but also warns mala that she needs to dress differently for each. i do think it's interesting the way mala is theoretically given #girlpower here but it immediately twists against her as she's constantly exerting effort to match up to the idea she thinks each man expects of her.

the first date is with the high-society heir (jes); he asks what she thinks of the caviar ravioli (her: the noodles are delicious!) and then waxes on about how expensive the caviar is and how if she stays with him she'll get to have lots of new experiences. i think this is genuinely well-intentioned on his part but it's all so out of touch and one-sided.

she begs off partway through with the excuse of needing to watch a show with her father, going into great detail that i was fully expecting her to get caught in when he asked for the name but he just....didn't? (jes did call to ask about it later and i think the show existing wasn't actually a lie since we see her father watching it. still weird not to ask in the moment though! all pulling her into his life; never asking to be a part of hers.)

the second date is with the bar singer (klongrop). of course part of the whole point here is about her changing the way she looks/acts to try to appeal better to the men she's dating and so i'm hashtag part of the problem, but i did say "...she's so hot" out loud when she walked in. sorry women :/

jes finds her at the bar and the two of them literally try to yank her back and forth like they're fighting over a toy to see who will take her home, but ultimately agree to both date her while she figures out who she wants. mala says she'll go home with her friends instead, which of course means she gets street food with pokpong on the way back.

i do think all the little interludes with the two of them are genuinely quite sweet! and do a lot to contrast their relationship and the way they're very natural and relaxed (indeed to the point of annoying one another) with the way they act around others.

[thecurrator]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @reapkusho

Your ideal match is…Alexis Ness!

Someone whom you would find interesting! Polite, somewhat easygoing, friendly(?), and a shimmery type of person. He's the one I interpreted to be a shimmery type of person you would like. It's the thing he has with magic going on.

He appreciates your thoughtfulness and how you make an effort to really understand the people you care about, since he does the same! He'll do his best to indulge your philosophical debates and you would make him so happy if you let him talk about fantasy.

Doesn't mind letting you take charge in your relationship. As long as the both of you are happy, he'll let you call most, if not all of the shots. Not great for your forever growing ego though. Speaking of ego, this guy's the worst, he'll gas you up until it bursts. Words of affirmation is easily his main giving love language, acts of service following close behind. He'll sing your praises until you tell him to stop. Or kiss him to keep his mouth occupied.

Also doesn't mind that you get irritated easily, he's used to calming people down. He'll tell you everything is okay, bring you some water to drink, rub your shoulders. The image is that of a worried secretary tending to an angry boss, it's quite funny.

He shares your love for poetry and books (he seems like an avid reader, not just for fantasy)! He would love to sit and read with you, then discuss the motifs and characters over a cup of tea. It's the perfect indoor activity for when it's raining heavily outside and the both of you can't go out. So relaxing.

He finds your crochet hobby super cute. He'll even take it up so you both can have crochet gift exchanges! By the time of your first anniversary, he would have become proficient to gift you a pink crochet jellyfish, good enough to look professionally done.

He doesn't have much interest in horror movies, but he'd gladly watch them with you for date nights. He hopes to have you clinging to his arm when you get scared, but chances are he'll be the one clinging to you since you're more used to scary scenes and tense atmospheres. He will pout afterward.

Runner-up: Itoshi Rin (Horror movies. But maybe he'd be too prickly for you to get to know him well.)

Your sibling is…Karasu Tabito!

I'm not sensing a big age gap/maturity level between the two of you. Karasu does seem like your big brother though. Maybe he's 1-2 years older than you but people think you're twins at first.

He's the type of brother who loves teasing you but no one else is allowed to even look at you funny. He'll insult them so bad they're scared to approach you both afterward. Definitely messes with you by hiding your snacks or teasing you for your short height (he's a whole foot taller than you). But he secretly cares a lot, so expect little gifts once in a while or a headpat when you're upset.

You both are like slightly different shades of blue because you're so similar! But, while you're polite to people you've just met, Karasu will sooner mock them and call them a dunce before he even gets to know them. Others' first impressions of you both are vastly different, thinking you both opposites, until they get to know you both. Really get to know you both.

Karasu and you both have high standards for people who deserve your respect, but once they earn it, you both are quick befriend them (Karasu tends to be more interested in people rather than respect them, but close enough). You both have differing ideas of what kind of people you respect, leading to friendly banter.

You're both yappers! While you're more interested in philosophy, he's more interested in psychoanalyzing other people. One thing's for sure though: Your discussions are never boring. I can imagine the both of you sitting on your bed, snacks and drinks nearby as you talk for hours. He would copy your friends and call you Ms. philosophy, especially when he finds out it embarrasses you.

The both of you also like being leader figures! While this is fine when you're both with your own friends, it might cause some disagreements when it's just the two of you. He'll even pull the "I'm the big brother, you have to listen to me" card. All in good fun.

You're afraid of the ocean, he's afraid of water. Needless to say, you both wouldn't be caught dead at a beach. Your friends can beg and plead, but it's not happening. If you both get dragged there somehow, perhaps during a school field trip, Karasu will be a good big brother and run away with you, hand in hand.

[the-starry-seas]

Fanovember Day 6

Prompt: Retelling

Titanfall 2, Jack Cooper & BT

Check out this post to request a prompt!

Rain patters off the tin roof, the noise loud enough to drown out some of the background noise of the hangar. Jack still hasn't gotten used to it. Power tools, Titan footsteps, mechanics talking with technical terms he doesn't quite understand.

He's always been pretty good with new things. This is an anomaly. Maybe because there's been too many new things, lately. Losing his mentor and gaining his Titan and saving a world and losing BT and getting him back... Nobody could handle that, he doesn't think.

Footsteps get closer. Not the human kind, the ground-shaking kind that can only come from one kind of mech.

"Hey, BT," he says without turning around.

"Hello, Cooper. Your expression and biometrics indicate that you are experiencing a level of emotional distress."

"Yeah, bud, just a little. It's all right."

"Minimal distress levels are most appropriate for humans, paticularly pilots."

"I know, I know. Don't worry about me, all right?"

"I believe I could offer you some assistance."

Jack turns from watching the rain outside.

"Yeah?" he asks, curious now. BT's never steered him wrong.

BT holds out a hand, and Jack hops up easily, embarking and sitting down in the pilot's chair that's become so familiar. He doesn't know what to expect. He never has, but he's never been afraid of that, either. Not with BT there.

A collection of video thumbnails pop up in a half-circle around him. Some of them are still images of Lastimosa or BT. Others are just text of dates and timestamps.

"These are records of Captain Lastimosa's personal logbook," BT says. "He spoke often of you. He was very impressed. My research indicates that viewing this records may help your emotional state to rectify itself."

"Yeah?" Jack leans back in his seat and tucks his feet under him. "How do you figure that?"

"I have acess to a large database of informational texts, and a number of IMC-specific records about the behaviour of pilots and how it can be positively modified."

"Way to make a guy feel like a science experiment."

"Technically, you are, as your reaction is theorised but not guaranteed."

Great. Always knows the right thing to say, his Titan.

"Thanks, bud," he says. "Can you play them in chronological order?"

"Of course, Cooper."

The first video starts in conversation, the sound slowly fading in as Lastimosa talks to someone offscreen, then turns his attention to whatever device he was recording on.

"Captain's Log date something-something. Just got out of the Gauntlet with that kid Cooper. It was his first time. He's not good, but he can be. I can see that pilot trait in him. Can't say what it is, for sure, but I'm always right. I'm gonna bring him back next time I'm planetside and see if he learned anything. You can train a pilot but you can't give him potential. And that's what Cooper's got."

Someone calls to him, and the recording ends a few seconds later. The next one starts after a brief buffer, and Jack absently turns the words over in his mind as he thinks. Potential. Lastimosa always thought he had potential.

There's something about that, that he finds reassuring. Like he really does belong here.

"I'm glad he believed in me," he says halfway through the second video.

It pauses, before BT says,

"As am I. I believe we are a very suitable match."

Of course he puts it like that.

Jack just nods, and leans back a little more, and lets the videos run their course.

[kinetic-elaboration]

January 3: Bellarke, Frank/Timid

Eee, didn't mean to spend so much time on this but here it is.

Bellamy & Clarke, past Bellamy/Raven, in the same verse as it is new moon and twilight

Written for the prompt "frank and its antonyms: secretive, timid, shy, evasive," for July Break Bingo

~900 words, written in about 33 minutes

*

Bellamy's not sure what he expected from a sorority girl. Not a shy, wallflower type, for sure. But maybe a girl whose very pep and cheery vigor hides an evasive, uncertain quality: a woman who never quite tells the whole truth.

He needs a roommate badly or he'll be couch surfing in a month, and he both dreads and can't wait for the day he and Raven move their stuff out of their one-bedroom apartment and finally give each other the breathing room they both claim they need. She isn't quite his ex as long as she's sleeping in his bed and insisting he doesn't need to bunk on the couch. She isn't quite his girlfriend when they stare past each other at dinner, when the silences always turn so gray and grim.

She says he can keep the apartment if he finds someone to split the rent with and he says, Or you, as in, or you could keep it, and she says, I'd rather have a blank slate.

He finds himself thinking about her when he takes down his coffee mug, when he stubs his toe, when he opens the medicine cabinet for his toothpaste to brush his teeth at night. The living ghost who haunts him. The fist around his lungs that keeps him from breathing.

The first lead he picks up comes from Miller, whose new boyfriend works with this girl, and she's basically in the same boat Bellamy is, except her ex has already moved out.

"They were using the second bedroom as an office or something," Miller says, waving his fork around, still only halfway through chewing. "She was in a sorority in college. Likes art. And she's cute, if you're into that sort of thing."

"I'm not looking for a rebound," Bellamy warns.

Miller rolls his eyes. "You're looking for a bedroom. She has one. Get coffee with her, see what happens."

They meet at a little hole in the wall place with dim lighting and a mosaic of red glass shards on the wall. She orders a green mint mocha and offers to split a scone with him, even before introducing herself, and while they're waiting for their drinks, she sticks out her hand and says, "I'm Clarke."

She's not as bouncy as he'd thought she would be.

He shakes her hand, matching the firmness of her grip. "Bellamy."

She smiles when he says it, as if the sound of his name pleased her, and then she lets him grab her drink for her as she leads the way to a table.

"I guess Miller already told you my situation," she starts, as she slides onto a wooden bench, and he takes the seat across from her. The metal legs of his chair scrape loudly on the stone floor when he pulls it back. "My ex-girlfriend moved out last month. She'd already paid her half of the rent, and I could swing another month, maybe two on my own, but not more than that." She pauses, and a brief frown twists up her features. "Not without calling my mom, anyway. Which I don't want to do."

He has a sudden flash of understanding: she comes from money, and admitting it is the first thing that's made her uncomfortable. Her hand reaches up, uncertain, and twitches her hair behind her ear.

She is cute, if you're into that sort of thing--beautiful, blonde, which he was expecting, dressed in form-fitting black jeans and a low-cut gray henley, which he wasn't. He'd had this image of a sundress, sandals, bangle bracelets. Now she's watching him across the table with the sort of steady and appraising stare that's broken him down before--made him fall in love before--and all he can think is that at least they're getting right to the point.

That's what he needs right now. Someone frank and clear. Like Raven used to be before they started playing games.

"I'm in the same boat," he says. He leaves out the part about not having a mom to call. About how Raven's all but claimed Murphy's couch, which is where Bellamy himself would probably go, if he ran out of other options. Murphy's jokes about who gets the third wheel in the divorce echo at the periphery: ghostly, hollow.

"I mean," he adds, "with the ex-girlfriend. Honestly, I'm just looking for a low-key situation, somewhere I can afford. I'm neat, I'm quiet--"

"I'm not." Clarke pauses. She's biting back a smile, which makes him realize just how serious her expression has been, like she's keeping a lid shut tight on some inner glow. "Neat. I'm okay about it."

"And quiet?"

"Quiet enough." The smile almost breaks wide for a moment, then slowly fades, leaving her looking thoughtfully down into her drink. "I wouldn't mind some quiet, actually, Bellamy. So--" She flicks her gaze up again, stares at him sharp and unblinking. "You want to talk house rules?"

"Does that mean I get the room?"

"We agree on the house rules and then you get the room."

He reaches out to the small plate in between them and rips off a bit of the scone. It's cranberry. Somehow she knew that was his favorite, or maybe it's hers too. "That sounds fair," he says. And already he's feeling optimistic indeed.