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malfoysanctuary · 1 month ago

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For You, I Burn

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Fred Weasley has always been laughter and mischief, until someone crosses the line with you. And when he finally snaps, the entire room learns what happens when you touch what’s his.

The Burrow always smelled like cinnamon and sun-warmed wood, like safety and the childhood you didn’t know you were missing until you stepped through its crooked door.

You were barefoot in the kitchen that morning, tea mug in hand, wearing one of Fred’s jumpers that hung off your shoulder. The sleeves swallowed your hands, and the worn Weasley crest over your heart felt like armor stitched from love.

Fred came in, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, that sleepy smirk on his face—the one that made your stomach tighten in all the best ways.

“Mornin’, gorgeous.” He kissed your cheek before stealing your mug for a sip. “Mmm. You really do make the best tea.”

“That was my cup,” you huffed, but your lips were already tugging into a smile.

“Exactly,” he said, cradling it in his hands like it belonged to him. Like you did.

And you did.

Fred Weasley was a walking contradiction.

He lived loud—always the first to laugh, the last to leave a party, the one who lit up any room with a spark in his eye and trouble on his tongue. He was chaos wrapped in kindness, sharp wit hidden beneath mischief.

But anger?

Fred wasn’t angry.

Not truly. Not the way some people snapped or fumed. His fuse was long. He shrugged off insults. Rolled with punches. He could be mocked, cursed at, even shoved—and he’d still grin like it was all a game.

There was only one thing that ever set Fred Weasley on fire.

You.

The thought of you hurt or afraid? It undid him. Peeled back something primal. Something furious.

It started at the Ministry gala—a sleek, post-war event meant to show peace had returned, though it still echoed with tension no one wanted to name.

You wore a midnight-blue dress that shimmered when you moved. Fred had stared the moment you stepped out of your room, blinking like he forgot how words worked.

“You… You’re going to kill me,” he’d said.

“Just for looking like this?”

He grinned. “No. For making it impossible not to.”

At the gala, Fred stuck close. Fingers brushing yours. Elbow bumping yours. Protective in the way a man is when he wants to keep you close, but still let you shine.

You’d just been talking to Angelina and George when it happened. Fred had ducked away to get drinks, trusting you were safe.

And for a while, you were.

Until a man in deep purple robes—older, smug, the kind of Ministry lifer who thought charm and cruelty were the same—wandered over. He smiled too widely, his eyes too sharp.

“I see the Weasley boy brought his… little project tonight.”

You stiffened.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy. Pretty thing like you? I’m just saying, the war made desperate men settle early. Can’t imagine you bring much else to the table besides a pretty face.”

George moved first. “Hey. Back off.”

But the man only chuckled and turned toward you again. “Unless that’s the charm, of course. Is that it? A bit of fun before something better comes along?”

You opened your mouth—burning to respond—but you didn’t need to.

Fred was already there.

You didn’t see him coming, but you felt it.

Like heat. Like a lightning storm behind your back.

Fred’s voice came low and lethal:

“Say that again.”

The man turned, startled—but still smirking. “Weasley—don’t get yourself worked up. It’s just—”

CRACK.

Fred’s hand slammed the edge of the table beside them. Glass shattered. Conversations halted. The music stuttered and dropped into silence.

Fred didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice.

But the look in his eyes was enough to make the entire room hold its breath.

“You want to insult me?” he said. “Do it. Take your best shot. I’ve heard worse.”

His voice dropped, dangerous and still. “But the second you talk about her like that? The second you reduce her to something small? We’ve got a problem.”

The man’s face paled.

Fred stepped closer, each movement coiled, his frame radiating restraint just barely holding.

“You don’t know a single thing about her,” Fred growled. “You don’t know how she held me together when I couldn’t breathe. How she wakes up from nightmares with a whisper instead of a scream. How she fits into my arms like magic, like she was built to fix every broken thing in me. So you’ll keep her name out of your filthy mouth—or you’ll find out how far I’m willing to go for the woman I love.”

No wand. No joke.

Just rage.

Quiet and shaking and terrifying.

You gently wrapped your fingers around his hand. “Fred.”

His head snapped toward you—and his expression cracked. The fury drained from his face in a slow, pained collapse.

His eyes roamed over you like he had to check—make sure you were whole. Safe. Breathing.

“Did he—did he hurt you?”

You shook your head. “No. Just made me feel… small.”

Fred turned back to the man. “Be grateful that’s all she said.”

He took your hand and led you away, not looking back.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time you made it back to the Burrow. The party dress was long gone, replaced by one of Fred’s shirts. He sat on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, fists tight in his lap.

“I scared you,” he said.

“No.”

His voice cracked. “I scared me.”

You knelt between his legs, holding his hands, thumb stroking the freckled skin. “You were protecting me.”

“I’ve never felt like that before,” he whispered. “That kind of fury. Like I’d rip the world apart if it even looked at you wrong.”

“Fred…”

His gaze finally met yours. “I don’t want to become someone who reacts like that. Someone people fear.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re not. You didn’t do that for power or pride. You did it for love.”

He exhaled sharply. “That man… the way he looked at you. Like you were something cheap. Like he could take what wasn’t his.”

“He didn’t. He couldn’t.”

Fred’s arms wrapped around you then, pulling you into his lap, his face tucked into your neck.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than I ever knew I could love anything.”

You held his face in your hands. “And I love every part of you. Even the fire.”

That night, you fell asleep tangled together under the quilt, limbs twined like ivy. And before you drifted off, you whispered:

“Still angry?”

Fred kissed your shoulder. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

He shifted closer, voice warm against your skin.

“Because you’re here,” he murmured. “And he’s not.”

And that was all that mattered.

Because Fred Weasley wasn’t known for his temper.

But he’d burn the world down for you.

#fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred wealsey fic #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts houses #gryffindor #slytherin #hogwarts oc #x reader #female reader #reader insert #fem reader

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bitchlessdino · 1 year ago

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Reckless (m)

Pairing: adult actor!mingyu x pervert afab!reader Genre: smut Word count: 4.8k tags: camboy!mingyu, established friendship, banter, brat!reader, glass toys, invasion of privacy, rough play, anal, double penetration, degradation (pervert, slut), choking, spanking, spitting, oral (giving and receiving), swallowing, hair pulling, deep throating Summary: Mingyu is a camboy and proud of it, as he should. Finally, he's getting the applause he deserves for his work and will be attending one of the biggest adult industry events to date. He just needs you to watch over while his house while he's gone. Easy enough, right? Unbeknownst to him, you happened to be a fan. A big one. One so big that you cant help but take advantage what Mingyu fans have only ever dreamed of. author note: finally the awaited winner, camboy!mingyu! still so crazy he won over multiple reverse harems on the poll. tagging my wife @wongyuseokie because it's her birthday and deserves to wake up with some NASTY mingyu smut. thank you @highvern for beta-reading to better this fic and like both of us are saying, mingyu is a fucking freakkk in this so enjoy my babies.

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @cottoncheol @embrace-themagic @onlymingyus

You have only seen the room in passing personally, but countless times over video. You’re not even shocked by the dozens of expensive toys he’s put in those glass displays, so used to seeing them enter a human orifice one way or the other. The burly man bashfully guides you away from the scandalous room, skillfully diverting your attention to the lush foliage he's entrusted you to tend to, a gentle blush adorning his warm-toned cheeks.

How you keep the fact that you have been secretly watching your friend’s cam shows–including the charity stream of him doing push ups in a singular pair of skintight briefs–was a mystery, even to you.

It’s not like you meant to get addicted to porn. But Mingyu, unapologetic about his line of work, practically served it up on a silver platter for you. He says he could use all the help he could get, but frankly, he couldn’t have it more easy.

With that body, that hair, that face, that smile, there’s no doubt in your mind he’d be a fan favorite and you were right. He’s now one of the rising adult content creators in his line of work, heavily acclaimed in the cam category and recently in independent film. That’s what his trip is about, awarding him for his hard work that he never thought he’d accomplish.

It fills you with pride, yet piques your curiosity; fusing platonic and sensual feelings that blur the lines between friendship and desire for Mingyu, actualizing this full fledged crush. But you’d never let him find that out. Not unless it was against your will.

“And that’s pretty much it. Everything else is pretty self-explanatory. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday, hmm?” Your eyebrows bounce in place suggestively. “Thinking of pursuing personal projects while working?”

He shrugs like a timid schoolboy, cheekbones pigmented and perky like bright ripe cherries. “No promises—Now, repeat back to me everything I’ve told you to do.”

You playfully roll your eyes, offended he had the gall to doubt you. “Water each green buddy once a day; keep crumbs off tables, counters, furniture, etc; put everything back where it should be; and,” you start to grin, “no sex parties, even though this is the perfect place for it.”

“Okay, that last one was obviously a joke but very much serious. Although tempting, under any circumstances, do not fuck anyone in this house while I’m gone.”

“So circumstances would be different if you were home?”

Getting a shade brighter in red, he points a demanding finger at you like a stern mother, “I mean it.”

“Yes, mom,” sarcasm coating your tongue.

“Good.”

Mingyu, armed with a suitcase containing all his essentials, casually waves you off. There's a playful authority in the final point of his finger, a silent reminder to behave before he disappears behind the imposing door.

You promise him you’ll do your due diligence in taking care of his home, and that would be an easy enough task, the real problem stems from the temptation of one specific room. Mingyu’s cam room.

Distinct from the usual rooms such as the bathroom, Mingyu's kitchen, and his primary bedroom, this space stands alone, akin to an office. Mingyu himself has shared its origin story: starting from the sweetest of riddances of a god-awful roommate, followed by many desperate nights to cover the remaining monthly rent, ultimately giving birth to this room that many of his fans like to call ‘Sinner’s Safehaven.’ So rightfully acclaimed.

You’re a fan of yourself, able to outline the bedroom from memory and recollect every toy from every live stream he’s ever posted. Unable to resist the temptation, your feet instinctively embark on a self-guided tour. Your eyes are bewitched by the intricacies of every weapon of pleasure, every scent of his array of miscellaneous liquids, every phallic-shaped object that stands tall and mighty like a national monument.

It’d be a lie to say you weren’t tempted to take advantage of the opportunity, maybe just to get the sick idea out of the way. Your hands manage to find a mind of their own, reaching over to unlock one of the glass displays, wrapping your hand around the object’s girth, and taking it out from its confinement for a closer view.

A stunning crystal toy that reflects off the lights of the room, looking in pristine condition as if fresh from packaging. If Mingyu is good at one thing it’s maintaining his tools, and he does not let anyone forget.

Ever since he showcased it on screen, you've desired to covet one just like it, inducing a late-night web surf to discover the outrageous out-of-reach prices for a product of such exceptional quality and aesthetic appeal. It does not look to be in the cards for you to own one, but borrowing wouldn’t be a problem. He did say everything only needed to be put back in place and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Following the devilish voice whispering in your ear, you slip into something more comfortable, letting the well-conditioned air blow a draft against your bare legs. You hold the toy excitedly before dipping your weight in the bed, the silk sheets and pillowy cushion embracing you at all sides.

The knowledge that the infamous crystal dildo is in your hand makes your heart pound and pussy throb. You can count all the videos of it being featured with one hand, and despite it all, you know it had to be Mingyu's favorite.

One particular video comes to mind as you hold the tip against your inner thigh, moving it identical to the way Mingyu held it against him, realizing they are coincidentally the same length, same girth, and same tantalizing presence. You practically dreamed of having him and this toy inside of you for months after that show and now half of that dream would be possible.

Your fingers didn’t have to be inside you to know you’re wet, practically soaked through your panties the moment you laid eyes of Mingyu and his sex room. Fuck, if you aren’t so damn ashamed of the truth of your feelings, you’d never let him out of your sight.

A long note of your moan exhales as you insert the tip between your wet folds, introducing the strangest yet arousing thing to be done to you. It’s certainly big as you expect it to be, maybe even more as you plunge it in deeper. Affirmations exit your lips in short bursts, your other hand up your shirt as they tease your nipples through your bra.

Your legs crutch in reaction to its ridged shape massaging your walls, then the cool hard surface finds that familiar hotspot, unfortunately only halfway down its length. Your cheeks flush imagining Mingyu’s face, imagining the words to come out of those lips if it were his cock.

‘Already? I haven’t even put it all in yet.’

It fuels your determination, deadset in taking all of it—all of him.

‘You can do it, can't you? You can take my cock for me?’

Somewhere, lost in the contagious air of sex and starvation, your mind runs rampant. Your hips buck into the crystal, letting it settle inside you all the way before you thrust it harder. You hiss at its size, expelling a moan once you no longer feel its shaft around your fingers and just take it, take it as if it a canine smile were on the other end.

‘So good…so good at taking all of my cock.’

“I am being good,” you mumble under your breath. “So good...”

Your whimpers go unnoticed by you, only worried of the dildo carrying on its mission. Sensation running down your legs and arms, and your hips hover over the mattress. Your back arches and you spell his name out in the only way the body fully intends you to: in longing breaths, “Mingyu…please…”

‘What? What is it?’

You groan at the image of his smile. “Let me cum please…”

‘Do you deserve it?’

“Yes, Gyu, please…” You thrust faster. “Oh my god—“

‘Yes, that’s it. That pretty pussy should cum all over my hard fucking cock.’

“Yes, yes!” Your arousal seeps all around you, a visible stain beneath your thighs and you don’t care. “God, right there! Right there—“

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Then it becomes no longer your imagination. The voice you’ve created in your mind had an echo, lingering in the depths of your filth rotted head, but the one you just heard had to be the original.

You scramble to hide under the sheets, eyes as big as saucers as the man of your fantasy stands clear in your reality at the foot of his bedroom. “M-Mingyu. The train.”

“I forgot some things. Couldn’t leave without them, so I told the driver to turn back.” He peers over your situation, intrigued by your legs folded on top of one another beneath the covers, the proof trepidation of your forehead, and your lips swollen from instinctive biting. “What do we have here?”

You laugh nervously, unprepared for the shitshow soon to arise. “I see how this looks—“

“Looks like you’ve had a bit of fun.” He huffs with his arms crossed as he approaches, the human made stain plain in sight on his bed sheets which you’ve fail to cover up. “Too much maybe. And all by yourself.”

“Well, you see—“

“And the mess you made.” His hand pushes against the mattress, leaning over to your side and drinking in your view. “All over my bed. All over my Crystal dildo.”

You avoid his gaze, wishing to disappear in a cloud of smoke right about now. “Okay. You can understand how this would bother you.”

“Oh I’m not bothered by it—not in the slightest—but…you could’ve at least waited until I came back.”

Mingyu pulls the sheets off of you and he exposes your guilt, seeing it in its raw, glistening glory. His eyes scan over you, swallowing at that scent revealed, and a fire lights up in his stomach. “Dirty little pervert can’t stop saying my name while using my toy, hmm? Don’t you know better to touch things that don’t belong to you?”

“I…I…I’m sorry,” You squeak.

“Well, I can’t just let this go now, can I?”

You shake your head, breathing through your nose. You’re scared of him hearing how fast your heart has decided to pound, how wet you’ve become well after your orgasm, and how dry your throat is after you heard him call you a pervert.

Wordlessly, he takes the glass dildo from your fingertips, claiming what’s rightfully his, and plunging between his lips halfway down its shaft. Your eyes capture it in full color, reveling in the moan that slips past his lips. Your chest rises and falls watching him take it deeper almost effortlessly as his slack cladded knees dip into the mattress.

“Mmh…who knew a pervert’s pussy could taste so sweet,” he mumbles, smiling into the toy. It leaves his mouth with a pop before it aims back at you. “Taste it. Taste how sweet your dirty pussy is all over my cock.”

Your stomach coils, reluctantly obliging to crack open your mouth. Mingyu hums, content with what he sees as he eases the toy towards your mouth. “Don’t be shy. Take my crystal cock, perv.”

Your lips wrap around the head, tasting the salty, faintly sweet, flavor lingering on the glass before it travels past your lips.You look back at him, almost as if waiting for his instruction, and receive a stroke on the back of your head as a response.

“That’s it. Let it go deep down your throat. Have to make up for ruining my bed, right?”

You nod, unable to speak as you bob down, licking up what you can and collecting every inch of the toy. His eyes become a dark pit that stares back at you, dominance taking over his entire presence. He doesn’t speak, only watches and for what feels like forever, pushing the toy in and out of your mouth.

Your muffle around its girth, tears starting to brim your eyes as it hits the back of your throat, but it doesn’t falter Mingyu in the slightest.

"You're crying. Does it hurt?" Mingyu asks in a domineering tone, to which you nod. "Do you want me to stop?" he inquires, to which you shake your head.

His lips graze your ear, and you sense his charming smile whispering against your skin as he replaces the imaginary devilish voice with his very real and alluring one. “Then deep throat it like you mean it, you fucking slut.”

Your lips parted wider, a shattered moan aches out, only to have the toy stuck down your throat long enough for your tears to sting. Gasping for air, Mingyu finally shows mercy and unplug your airways. Coughing uncontrollably, salvia dribbles down your chin as you retrieve your stolen oxygen. His hand tenderly caresses at the back of your head, threading through the tangles of your hair.

“Good job,” he says in a hushed voice, picking your face up by your chin. “Now. Do you think that was an appropriate punishment?”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, lethally silent as he anticipates your response.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are, who you're with, and what this all meant for you. Mingyu’s cam persona has haunted your inner thoughts, degrading you as if you were scum, tossing your body like a rag doll, marking and bruising your skin only he would find, and you relished in every earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasm it’s caused. You’d be a fool to say otherwise.

“N-no. It’s not enough.”

“Is that so,” He questions amused. Slowly, his hand travels from your hair to your face, tracing your jaw in a languid movement and coming across your neck to size it in his large hand. “What will be enough for you exactly?”

The pad of his fingers presses the slightest amount of pressure on the column of your neck, emerging a gasp so soft Mingyu almost doesn't register it. He grins, hot breath fanning your face as he watches your legs squirm. It comes as a surprise to you when he single-handedly pins your body against the bed frame, leveraging you against it before he comes down and faces your pussy drowning its own cum.

“I should at least have compensation done for the damage you’ve made, don’t you think?”

He grips your neck a fraction tighter before you feel his mouth make contact with your core. Physically vibrating, you feel the sensation of his tongue flicking at your clit, and visibly melt before he explores down. “You’re so fucking wet,” he chuckles condescendingly through your arousal. “If I knew any better I’d think you’re wet because of me, as if the screaming of my name wasn’t proof enough.”

“Mingyu...” you whine through your ceased breath.

“And you sound so pretty when you say my name too,” He groans as inhales your scent that blurs his surroundings, devouring you inside and out. “Fucking tease…taste so damn good.”

Mingyu’s chokehold loosens to cascade down your body, fingers moving like ribbons tracing your shape and memorizing every bump and curve through the thin layer of your shirt. Your voice gives out, clenching your fists as he explores you in swirls, moisture seeping out of your cunt but never ending and leaving you in an endless loop of pleasure.

He holds you up by your legs, your thighs crushing either side of his face as he buries himself in your insatiable pussy while its dripping down his chin and neck. He groans inside you, mustering every impish sound possible as he eats you clean, not minding how you’re at the end of your wits locking his head in place.

“G-gyu, shit,” you sputter. “I’m c-close.”

He simply scoffs, “Good,” plunging his tongue deeper, nose pushing against your swollen clit. Words stay lodged down your throat, trapped from escaping as you writhe in his grip and he swallows the taste of you succumbing to his control. You aren’t aware of the eyes watching every second of you give in, how they beam with pride and greed as he goes for more. The notes of fruit and musk only makes Mingyu’s craving intensify, unwilling to surrender the sweet nectar once he’s gotten his taste.

With a yelp, he drops your legs and tugs you toward him, rendering you defenseless as he's clamped either of your side. You drink in his body towering over you as he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head and off his body, bestowing you a deific image that you never grow tired of.

“Shall I help you undress?” He offers, kindly for once.

You drop your head in a reluctant nod and your heart swells at the sight of his smile before they capture your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Mingyu’s movement isn’t needy, it’s efficient and effective. Salty peppermint kisses and hands that move gingerly with ease culminate proof of a man that has countless amounts of partners and endless experience. Almost as if he’s ready for any and every given opportunity and you more than believe it.

Seeing as he knows how to handle himself, undoubtedly that meant he’d know how to handle you. That rouses you, anticipation resonating in the pit of your stomach, and like that, you’ve embraced your nudity just as Mingyu has in the safety of his firm arms.

He manages to kick off his pants, freeing him of the restraint of fabric and his hips dip into yours. And again and again. And again and again. Just to show you what you’ve created in your messy experiment.

If you weren’t already hot under his touch, you swear the room was hotter than any vast desert. Perspiration sprayed against your back, your forehead, your chest, but strangely you’re obsessed with his and the incidentally salty taste of his skin as you kiss. “You feel huge,” you mutter in a flustered breath.

His cock pulsates through his briefs against your thigh, screaming to join the party and make himself known in ways he hasn’t shown yet. Not yet with you. He smiles against your lips, grasping your hips more firmly. More definitely. “It’s too soon to be saying that.”

“Then…” Your fingers, tantalized by the appearance of his styled hair, didn’t resist the urge to comb through it, pleasantly surprised with the silky, pliable sensation. “I hope I get to soon.”

“Pervert,” he repeats with a grin. His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it away from his head and landing on the hem of his underwear. Mingyu is good at getting back on track as he immediately pulls his waistband away from torso, springing his cock that stands in your direction in determination. A familiar yet foreign sight that you never expected to be on the other end of. “By the way, don’t forget. You’re making it up to me. Not the other way around.”

Naturally, your hand finds the ridged texture of his shaft. “Yes, of course.” You feel it twitch under his touch, growing as a nail trails up a singular vein. “But I never said I’d make that easy.”

“Really? A sentence where ‘you’ and ‘easy’ just seems to fit.”

You sneer at him, calming down after seeing an amicable jab you’re used to. “You’re one to talk.”

“And I won’t be done talking. On your knees,” He demands.

“Or what?”

Mingyu isn’t new to your taunting but he can't help the steam coming out of his ears this time around. Gathering your weight, he swiftly turns you on your stomach and props you up as his cock settles between the cheeks of your ass. “I’ll do things like that. I’m patient until I’m not. Not when it comes to perverted brats like you.”

You voluntarily moan as you back into him, allowing the cock to slide up and down. “I’d like to see it. Unless you’re all talk.”

A familiar coolness of glass finds itself home in your sopping cunt. You mewl at the sensation, rolling your eyes to the back of your head. The side of your head braces for the bed and letting the toy suction your pussy, buzzing . “Fuck…”

“Spoke to soon, didn’t you?”

“Have—fuck—mercy…” Your words speak like pleads but your body could not be more delightful in taking every inch, adjusting from the backside in record time.

“See? Look at you take all that cock,” he spits in the smack center, rubbing around your rim and pussy thoroughly. “And knowing you and our conversations, I know you can take it well somewhere else. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-you wouldn’t…”

“I can. Unless…that’s not what you want. Unless you want me to leave this room without putting my cock in you and not fuck you like the dirty fucking slut you are.”

“Fuck…you…” The glass vanished through you, reappearing at Mingyu's will, muffling your protests, and swallowing the glass dildo satisfyingly from your cunt. The bedsheets become balls in your hand, wrinkled and worn, just as you planned to be after Mingyu is through with you.

“That’s not an answer.” He teases, thrusting faster.

“Shit…fuck…Yes please fuck, I want it. I want more. Please…”

“Excited are you, pervert?” He inquires, managing to grab the lube from a nearby drawer and squirt it on the ring of your hole. The bite of the cool gel stings in a way that’s familiar, but does not grow any easier as it physically and mentally preparing you.

“You…suck…Kim Mingyu…”

“I’ve already done that already, perv.”

Taking the crystal dildo out of your pussy, he carefully sets it aside, prepping your untouched hole for entry and feeling you clenched around his fingers. “So tight. What? Did you lie and you’re actually an anal virgin.”

“I’m not,” you moan in defense, hearing the erotic squelching burns your ears and makes your already hot skin scorching to the touch. His fingers are tolerable, but still bigger you’re used to and it’s more apparent as he inserts another finger. “I just never had anything that big. Nothing your size.”

“I’m honored.”

You hope that his cock could fuck you the way his fingers does, if not then better, already buzzing at the pace they move inside you, stretching you wider and wider.

“F-fuck off.”

“Not yet. It’s coming.” You feel the head of the dildo perk up your rim as it eases in you, the drip of lube between your cheeks drowning your hole and all the moisture it could ask for. Still, Mingyu is careful to adjust to your preference, opening you up and seeing how the toy slowly destroys you inside and out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your hands slam against the bed, allowing the gradual introduction to take over all your senses.

“You’re taking the cock so well up your ass, fuck. I haven’t seen anyone do that yet. Remember you talking about it, made curious if you actually could.”

“I don’t lie…about stuff…like that…” you spread your ass, offering the perfectly lewd view for Mingyu, practically dripping all for him.

“Shit, I need to be inside you.”

He rolls a condom on his length, tossing the wrapper where he doesn’t see it and teases your slit moist in your cum. In the midst of it, you feel the tip of his cock rubbing your clit, and your whine ensue as you wait for more, not properly being used to the full advantage. Mingyu laughs to himself, seeing how desperate you look, reveling in the sounds that leave your body as it fuels his cock before he plunges inside you.It's an indescribable sensation, almost sacrilegious in its intensity, yet it leaves you convinced that Heaven must reside wherever Mingyu is.

You thought you knew the meaning of being spit open until it’s Mingyu reintroducing the idea. His cock and toy planted so deep inside you, fucking both of your holes until you’re rendered into like what he calls you, a perverted little slut. You don't mind in the slightest; in fact, when the thoughts swirling through your mind are nothing but incoherent, you're utterly indifferent to anything else. Your state of matter was to be fucked, double fucked, and fucked to ruin until you’ve come over and over again.

“Stupid slut…stupid…perverted…fucking slut…Look at you…you like getting fucked in the pussy and ass, hmm?”

“Yes god yes,” you confirm, devoid of words otherwise.

He smacks you full against the cheek, groaning into the sex thicken air as he melts into your body like butter. “Yeah? How does it make you feel?”

“Full…”

“You like that?” Another smack to your ass. “Fucking pervert likes being fucked full. Big fucking surprise.”

His thrusts grow rough, already annoyed by the toy in his hands when he’s eager to plant both on your body and fill the full extent of your body. “God you’re hot,” he mumbles, “Why does a pervert like you get to be so hot, hmm?” He rams into you, feeling you jump back against him.

“Makes me want to fucking drain my cock in you, but no, I have—“ he slams again, a burst of ache living your lips, “—Work! God, I fucking needed this. I needed you and every inch before I needed to leave.”

You’d respond if you weren’t so occupied. He drowns your thoughts out every second he’s inside you, to the point nothing else exists.

“Shit, I have work,” Mingyu repeats as if dawning the thought for the first time. He lets go of the toy and manages to direct it with his thrusts, moving him and the toy into you at the same pace. You scream at him, shattered breaths taking over you, and his name is the only consistent, as you spread yourself wider to take it, left with only the base of the toy and the end of Mingyu’s shaft.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you whine incessantly, shaking and bucking into him until you cum all over his cock, undoubtedly flooding and dripping down the side of your legs.

But Mingyu takes his time and it tastes sweeter than any candy, fucking your pussy and ass deeper, harder until his mind as gone as yours is. “Shit, shit, shit. Turn around and look at me.”

You do as told, dildo still in the pocket of your ass, as his cock is aimed at your lips, the condom abandoned just like its wrapper. His hands run in your hair, gripping from the root and he pushes you over the head of his cock, groaning as more pretty souvenir images appear for him to look back on. “Look at you. Good at taking cock there too?”

You nod, mumbling a confirmation before Mingyu penetrates deeper, noticing him lodged in you throat before bucking his hips in your mouth. “Then take it. Take all of my cum. Can’t leave another mess behind.”

Wide eyes of mischief look back at him, holding him by the back of his cock as you bob against him. He grips tighter to the back of his head, pulling and tugging as your hair become the size of his fists and you feel him hit the back of your throat. He now sees the white of your eyes, the flare of your nostrils, the quiver of jaw before it overwhelms him.

“Fuck, take it.” The load builds up to its full intensity, intoxicating him until theirs tears even in his eyes, the kind that supersedes one of joy.

You hold his hips with both spread hands, welcoming his release with closed eyes. Your mouth gets flooded, blown up so full you’re close to choking, gagging from the contents dispersed in you.

“Take it,” Mingyu says fatigued. “You don’t have to swallow it, but take it.”

But you do swallow it, what you could anyway, and it’s inevitable that you’re a coughing mess when you unlatch from him, dribbling in a concoction of your bodily fluids and cum running along your torso, cunt, and legs.

“Okay,” Mingyu pants, “Now I really need to get to that train.”

You’re catching your breath as he cleans himself off with wet paper towels he had on hands, cleaning off the work of his cock but leaving the rest of him untouched. It’s fine, however, seeing as he glows with an air of lust, making him more charismatic than he normally did, and you’re brimming with pride knowing you’ve caused it. “I’m surprised you have that much energy off camera.”

“It helps, that it’s you.” He timidly admits, raising the temperature in your body. “And who said we’re off camera.” He points to the security camera at the corner of his room, reminding you too late that he’s used to using more than one camera to capture any and all angles. “I even forgot about it for a second.”

“Oh.”

“I can delete it if you want.”

“No it’s okay, but um….Send me a copy.”

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alizalayne · 1 year ago

Text

Hello! this will be a quick process post so that you can see how I needlefelted a fursuit head!

I began by following the "bucket head" tutorial by Matrices, then added a layer of polyfill so that I wouldn't use as much of my merino wool. This is how I typically make a doll head, my "core wool" is often polyfill because it really likes to clump together and fuse.

Overall, this project took about two months of my spare time. This is the first fursuit head I have made, but not my first needlefelt project.

I would really like to encourage other people to try making masks this way! You can do any kind of subtle color with wool and the wool fiber is very cheap. If you wanted to make a fursuit head with the entirety of starry night flowing over it, or a head with tons and tons of complex colors, I think wool might be the best material. I also did not need to know how to pattern or sew in order to make this-- it was sculpture rather than sewing, which I am bad at.

The rest under the cut!

Another angle where you can see that I am building up the structure of the head.

I then made the ears, which are translucent because they're felted, just like real ears!

I wasn't happy yet with the proportions at this point, so I spent a lot of time figuring that out and deciding where and how I'd be placing the eyes.

I made a pair of sculpey follow-me eyes by using a little soy sauce dish as a concave circular mold and tried a foam clay nose and teeth. The sculpey eyes could be more successful, they took a lot of shaving and adjusting to get right and they eventually cracked from the strain I'd put them through while making them more shallow. For a while, I intended to make wefts of white wool to use on the sides of the head, but I ended up preferring a domestic shorthair head shape because it reads the most clearly as a cat vs any other animal.

I originally intended to have the eyes behind clear plastic domes and used "shaker domes" that people use to make greeting cards to cover the eye, but in the end they made the eyes too dull. I made foam clay housing for the eyes and painted it pink with acrylic paint. I used stick-on car window tint to create the pupils. My visibility inside the head is really good!

Finally, after fiddling, one of the eyes was deeper than the other and I had to re-set both to account for it. I added spot glitter on top of the acrylic paint on the eye using some gold watercolor paint I had, which was silly because I'll need to wash the head at some point. I will probably seal the eyes before washing and hope for the best. I intend to spot clean the head until it absolutely needs to be washed, at which point I'll remove some pieces or find a way to protect them while soaking the head in a cool dr. bronner's bath.

I glued down a layer of felt fiber on top of the foam clay "tear ducts" and then felted new fiber over the tear duct skin and cheeks to blend them into the face. I also removed the teeth and closed her mouth because I didn't have time to adjust the teeth as much as I wanted before the con that my friends and I attended. I would like to modify this head so that she can open and close her mouth.

Lastly, I added wire whiskers with little glass beads looped onto the ends and paper eyelashes that I also watercolored and sealed, like the insides of the eyes. Like I said before, it's gonna be a problematic wash, but I'm confident I'll figure it out, and I can always repair her or replace her lashes if something goes wrong.

Last thing, to keep the inside of the head nice and cool and prevent fogging since in the end I closed the mouth and had sealed eyes, I made a snorkel out of a snorkel mouthpiece fitted into two collapsible auto funnels.

I would say that realistically this entire project cost me less than $150. I had some materials lying around, like the wire and the beads and the sculpey.

I added two ear vents on either side of the head so that I had options on where to feed the snorkel out. If you look at the other pictures on the blog of me wearing the head, you mostly can't even see the snorkel mouth. However, it was a little problematic to let go of the snorkel to talk. it would be perfect for a silent suiter, but I'm lucky that so many people wanted to talk to me. I'd like to try and replace the snorkel mouth with something I can talk in, but I'm not sure what to use. It should be something that can create a seal to keep my breath out of the head. it's possible that I will be able to make something with a painter's mask.

I hid the "seam" between the head and my body with two yards of tulle tied into a big bow and sewn down onto the neck so that it wouldn't move around.

I hope that if you try making something similar you'll show it to me!

#fursuit #fiber art #needlefelt #sculpture #dolls

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queers-gambit · 2 years ago

Text

Affirmation King

prompt: ( requested ) attending university as a full-time student is hard, but your boyfriend makes some of the stress worth it.

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 3.1k+

note: author gives unsolicited advice in the form of sharing a citation website to make college essays a little easier! this is not meant as promotion or anything, it's just your author trying to share a resource they know of.

warnings: cursing, small hurt large comfort (reader snaps a little at Carmy but he handles it like a fucking pro), author gives unsolicited college advice in the form of a recommended website, reader is in a masters program and not undergrad, fluff.

The 16 inch screen glared into your retinas, fingers feeling numb from the hours pounding away at the loose keyboard. When the screen started to warble and darken, your head ducked down slightly to try and preserve your visual; glaring up at the offender when they pressed the screen closed after forcing you to retract your hands.

"You're cute and all, but not so cute as to interrupt me like that," you deadpanned, eyes wide and burning from your lack of lubrication via blinking.

"You've been sat here for hours, it's time for a break."

"Funny when I say that to you, it's always, 'Get outta my kitchen.'"

Carmy smirked, "Come eat something."

"Let me finish this essay and - "

"No, it's time for a meal."

You felt your irritation spike, narrowing your eyes slightly, "I'm on a deadline, Carmen, so either be fucking helpful and productive or get the fuck out of my space. I've got work to do and you're just slowing me down."

He offered a patient look, asking, "Is that what you really wanted to say?"

You paused, then shook your head, "No... May I try again?"

"Of course," he nodded.

"I appreciate you trying to... Alleviate some of my stress," you spoke slowly, stringing the sentence together in realtime, "but this project isn't something I can ignore right now, so, I'd like to finish this thing before we do whatever else."

"Better," he teased, knowing you ran a short fuse when stressed out and overworked. "What's got you riled up?"

"I have this 20-page paper due."

"20 pages!?"

"It's not that bad, honestly, once you have your thesis together," you chuckled dryly. "it's just time consuming and meticulous."

He frowned and stepped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, mocking in a sarcastic tone, "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"I'm so tired," you pouted up at him. "Do I really need this degree? This is so much stress for such a little thing such as a piece of paper that cost me $50k just to say I'm allowed to join the work force."

"Hey, hey," he laughed. "Just remember what you're working towards. You're one assignment closer to your internship turning into a full-time gig, right?"

You nodded, "You're right. I want that job so bad... I just hate how busy I feel - it's like, how can I remember to eat let alone write 6 different response posts to my classmate's work?"

Carmy nodded with empathy, "Just remember that end goal, baby. Keep grinding, keep moving. Almost at the finish line, right?"

"Right," you nodded with a smile. "Thank you, angel face."

Carmy smiled at you before softly asking, "Want me to bring you anything? Something to eat, drink, a condom?"

"Stop quoting Mean Girls at me!"

His hands shot up in defense, deflecting, "I was just trying to be a gracious host. If the missus wants anything, I'll make sure she has it."

"Pretty sure 'missus' is a term used for wives - " His groan made you laugh lightly, then covering, "No, thank you, baby, I'm okay. I should only be about another hour or so...?"

"All right, yeah, sure. I'll start dinner in 30, okay?"

"Sure," you smiled, already distracted again as you lifted your screen again to stare at the Word document that had been haunting your hard-drive for about 3 weeks now.

"Hey," he interrupted, "don't forget your glasses."

"Thank you," you mumbled, reaching for the special, blue-light filtering glasses Carmy had gifted you when you first started your Master's program. He claimed staring at a computer screen was going to cause long-term damage (he read an article) and got you a pair, which, you had to admit, made a huge difference.

Your hair was raked into a new bun as you reread the last of your essay, trying to get back in the academic mindset in order to finish the last bit of your assignment. There were textbooks spewed around your work table; laptop plugged in, highlighters and pens and notebooks within reach and a nearly-finished bottle of water was set to the side. You wrote ferociously once you got back on the right mental track, feeling your headache stir to life as you blindly reached for your water bottle.

However, when you picked it up, you blinked in mild shock when the bottle was heavier than before. Glancing over, you realized Carmy had replaced the bottle because there, under where it had sat, he left you a handwritten note:

replenish what you lost from crying!

You chuckled, knowing you were a stress cryer and when tackling big assignments like this, you were ten times as stressed as usual. Still you worked, even putting your headphones on to play soothing background noise - like rainfall. Your neck cramped, back ached, temples throbbed, and hands were cramping. Still you worked, using sticky notes to flag the important quotes you wanted to use from your textbooks and notebooks. Your stomach growled, your eyes begged for reprieve, chest felt tight, and shoulders were too tense.

Still. You. Worked.

Deadlines were important to you, and while you were a professional procrastinator, you always turned everything in on time - no matter your mental state. You could smell whatever Carmy had started cooking, focused on writing as you only used spellcheck as you went - and still you worked. You knew you surpassed the hour limit you told Carmy, but you couldn't stop, you were so close to finishing, it almost put tears back in your eyes, but this time out of relief. You only paused to look at online sources and apply chapstick, cracking your tightly-wound knuckles, and when you finished the last body paragraph of the essay, grinned to yourself.

All that was left was your conclusion, to create a bibliography, and to edit - but you were almost home free!

Suddenly, you jumped in fright when a hand planted on your shoulder; whipping around to see your boyfriend's own startled expression. "Sorry," Carmy apologized with a wince when you removed your headphones, "didn't mean to scare you, just wanted to check on you."

You nodded, 'Yeah, no, I'm almost done. Like give me 20 minutes, almost done-almost done."

He smiled softly, "Dinner's ready when you are."

"I'll be there soon, thank you, angel face."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Uh," you cocked your head, "you know what? Maaaaybe..."

"Really?" He grinned, perking up. "You never let me help!"

"It's not really work, per se," you amended, "but would you mind letting me read this out loud to you - see if it makes sense? The mark of a good writer is to act as if the audience knows nothing about the subject and make them understand, and you're exactly that."

"Lemme hear it," he nodded, taking a seat, "I might not be much help but I can still try."

You agreed and finished typing the outline of your conclusion, then scrolled to the top of your word document, and explained to him what your class was before starting to read. He listened intently, sitting on a spare stool with his elbows resting on his knees; keeping him leaned forward to provide his undivided attention. You managed to reword a few sentences, only noticing they didn't make sense when you read them out loud. Once or twice, Carmy even offered an alternative phrasing you liked - making the changes and rereading, then continuing through your assignment.

By the end, you were able to beef up the conclusion and Carmy was grinning at you in pride. "That's real good, baby," he complimented, "it all made sense and rolled nice together. I think that has to be an 'A'-worthy paper."

"You should be the one grading theses, my professor's the worst," you frowned. "It's why I got so in my head, I got a fucking 76 on my last essay and need to do really well on the next few to help average my grade."

"What about the tests?"

"We don't have any, this class is all about writing material and turning it in," you pouted.

"Hey," he spoke seriously, making you look at him in question, "I'm really proud of you."

You giggled nervously, "Oh, yeah? Why? What for?"

"For doing this," he nodded to the desk. "Look at all you're doing, baby, there's no way I'd ever be able to keep up with this kinda shit. You're doing such a great fucking job - I want you to remember that. What you're doing ain't easy, but you're handling this like a pro."

"I cry, like, everyday..."

"So what? You still get shit done while emoting - call that multitasking, baby."

"Got me there."

"Seriously, though, you're not told enough what a fantastic job you're doing; how strong and resilient you have to be to deal with this kind of stress day-in and day-out. I see the hard work you put in," he promised, "and I want you to know how fucking proud I am of you. It's all gonna be worth it one day, but until then, I love watching you grind through school. I might not take the classes with you, but I'll help however I can, whenever I can."

"Thank you," you whispered. "It's really nice to hear... I feel myself burning out and it's nice to be reminded that what I do now will influence my future. Validates me in feeling stressed out, you know? Sometimes, I feel silly 'cause, like, there's so many bigger things to be upset about and here I am, stressed out at a place that's guaranteed to stress me out..."

"It's not silly, it's normal. College ain't easy," he reminded, "and you're just trying to keep yourself afloat."

"Yeah, but there's bigger things in life than something trivial as my education."

Carmy scoffed at you, shaking his head, "Ain't no way."

"What?"

"My girl just said her feelings are trivial... Nah, she said her emotions about her education is trivial," he shook his head again. "Should wash your mouth out with soap - talkin' crazy like that. Baby, you know, first and foremost, your education is high on our priorities list, but your emotions? You think they're trivial? Nah, if anything causes you to have any emotion, it's valid - it's not something silly or redundant."

You pouted slightly, "You always know what to say."

"Hungry?"

"You're the perfect man," you laughed, looking at your document again and humming. "Okay, so, lemme just cite my sources and turn this in."

"Then you wanna have date night?" He smirked.

"No, no, I'm so tired - "

"I meant we can stay in."

"Oh, then count me in!"

"Change into something cozy when you're done, we can watch a movie with dinner. Yeah?"

You agreed, accepted his kiss of encouragement, and then took his leave to reheat the dinner that had surely cooled off. It didn't take long to cite everything when you used an online citation source website - that IS N O T plagiarizing! It's a handy-dandy tool you discovered your undergraduate freshman year by an actual professor. It was as simple as choosing which style, APA or MLA, and then to either paste the URL of the website you need sourced or you type in the book's information. Hit the generate button and BAM! A perfect citation for your bibliography every single time.

Or if you didn't like that, you could always just Google citation examples and do your best to write it out yourself. But the website, Citation Machine dot net, was a great tool. After perfecting your in-text citations and saving your work, you uploaded it to your university's assignment portal, crossed the essay off your to-do list, and stretched on your feet.

Cleaning up your space minimally, you hustled to your bedroom to get a quick hot, relieving shower, change, and then met Carmy in the kitchen. "Hey," you sighed with a soft smile.

"Hey, doll. All done?"

"For tonight," you groaned, "but tomorrow's a new day with new assignments."

"That's a future problem we'll handle at a later time," he eased, showing you your dinner plate. "Ta-daaaa!"

You grinned, "Oh, baby, this looks amazing!"

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured as a full-time student right now, nobody was gonna remind you what incredible job you're doing, so, I'm more than happy to step up to the plate. And what better treat than your favorite meal, huh?"

"Thank you," you whispered, pecking his lips.

You often thought his love language was "food", but then you realized it was technically under the acts of service and quality time. He loved cooking for you - it was like a gift. He loved cooking with you - it was time spent bonding. He loved introducing you to new dishes - it's a present! He loved when you let him give you a culinary lesson - it was time well spent.

"C'mon," Carmy lead you to the living room, both crashing on the couch you had been gifted from your grandmother's house when she was put in a nursing home. Normally, you wouldn't have splurged on something like this, but considering it was free, you and Carmy were happy to use it. Settling together on the couch, you got cozy under a shared blanket and Carmy flicked some movie on for background noise, but instead of watching, he just asked you about your coursework.

You told him what you could, shaking your head and huffing about how annoying your program was. How hectic. How jam packed and fast-paced it all seemed to be. How your head felt like it was spinning. How you couldn't nail down workable coping mechanisms and just felt totally out of control. You were spiraling.

You needed this rant session.

Carmy listened intently.

He never once tried to say, "oh, but if you had time management," or anything like, "if you do THIS instead..." or some bullshit, "my way works better." His bright and wide blue eyes watched you the entire time, sighing when you got to the end of your meal and vent session.

"It just feels like, I turn in one assignment, I get three more right after. Turn in those three, and all of a sudden, there's another 10!"

"Does the syllabus say anything about that?" He wondered.

"No, it just said what our reading schedules were and when major assignments are due. But those dates all got shuffled around that it feels like a train wreck. You know, if the original schedule was kept from the syllabus, I wouldn't feel so worked up! It's the rearrangement and added assignments without warning that's throwing me off."

"That doesn't sound easy," he validated. "Anything I can do to help?"

"No, you're doing more than enough," you whispered, pecking his lips. "Thank you for dinner."

"I made dessert, too."

"No!" You gasped with a grin.

"Mhm - wait here. I'll grab it."

"Wow, dinner, movie, and dessert?" You teased, "I'm being spoiled tonight."

"You've been working your ass off for weeks now," he smirked, standing from his seat to pick up your plates, "this is the least I could do. I know I said it, but you know how good a job you're doing, right? Damn, baby," he chuckled, "ain't no way I could ever handle shit like that on the regular."

"I could't do what you do, either."

"We all balance our crazy different. Want some tea? Wine?"

"Tea would be great."

"Comin' up."

When Carmy returned, you pulled the blanket back to let him sit again with the dessert plate between you both; two steaming mugs of tea sat on the coffee table. "What's this?" You wondered, seeing a sort of pastry.

"Marcus told me 'bout this," he chuckled. "Kinda like a poor man's version of this one thing he makes. So, look, it's Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, right? In the middle, there's raspberry preserves - or jam if you want that instead. It's baked then drizzled in melted white chocolate."

"Wow, you got all fancy on me," you beamed.

"Hardly, more like I was a little impulsive after hearing your essay. Figured you could use some dessert - you really earned it, baby. You always earn dessert," he grinned, "but tonight, you were kickass. Know that? Hear me?"

You shook your head, "This is nothing compared - "

"Hey, hey, nah," he interrupted, "nah, nah, don't do that, don't try to invalidate or downplay yourself. Look, shit is always hard in college, right? But you handle it so well, I can see the work you're putting in and the little reward you receive in return, and know that shit's gotta add up for you. But my baby just keeps cool, does her work, and does what she can to earn the grades she does. Right?"

"I mean, I try to..."

"You succeed. C'mon, lemme hear you say it. 'I kick college's ass.'"

"I kick college's ass."

"'I work hard.'"

"Carmy - "

"Saaay it!"

You huffed, "I work hard."

"'I'm an incredible hard worker.'"

"I'm an incredible hard worker."

"'I am only human.'"

Another breath in, repeating, "I am only human."

"'I am a success.'"

"I try to be a success."

"That wasn't the quote."

"Well, I don't know if I'm succeeding because grades aren't finalized yet and I have - "

"No, no, no," he smirked again, "you're still successful 'cause you're doing such a kickass job. You could get a fucking 'D' on something, and guess what? You're still successful 'cause you don't let this tear you down, you learn from mistakes and apply whatever lessons you learn to your upcoming assignments. Some people say you might even learn more from losing and failing than from undisputed success. Look, I'll be honest, I thought my job was hectic as shit, but hearing your essay tonight? Goddamn, you're not just beautiful, but so fucking intelligent, too. Baby, I was shook - that sounded like some academic paper that college kids need to defend their thesis or some shit. Something scholarly, not some assignment you gotta hand in by a deadline so you just wrote down whatever. So, give yourself credit and tell yourself you're a success."

With a long, deep breath, you answered earnestly, "I'm a success."

"Good girl," he muttered, handing you a fork finally. However, unlike Mikey all those years ago, you didn't launch your utensil at anyone and used it to cut off a corner of pastry.

You moaned when you tasted the gooey goodness. You managed through a mouthful, "Mmhhh! Mhm! Mhm! If you make this every time I have some assignment pissing me off and stressing me out, I'm afraid I'll get used to this treatment."

Carmy grinned, "You deserve whatever dessert you want, whenever you want. Huh? Yeah? Lemme hear you say it."

With another grin, you mused, "I deserve whatever I want, when I want it... And however I want it!"

"Atta girl!"

"You're so fucking corny," you laughed lightly, feeling as if you were falling in love with him again, "but thank you, my Affirmation King."

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

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kiame-sama · 8 months ago

Note

I wanna bang the monster men!!! (Malleus, Rollo and Lilia specifically)

Sees requirements... Nevermind!

But seriously, imagine how odd it must be for Reader to cradle and sing lullabies to her and Malleus's eggs for 50 years or so. It reminds me of the weird high school baby egg projects. Would prolly dress the eggs in a pinafore and bib for funsies.

Hybrid bat fae human babies must be cradled like glass if the wings are that delicate. Though I can imagine Reader walking around with her babies clinging to her bust. If we look at how baby bats cling to their momma by sucking on the underarm nipple.

As for Rollo's core, call me awful but can Reader use the same fire that's used by their baby to cook meals? For early cooking lessons? I'll see myself out...

For Malleus the egg timer is dependent on love given to the egg. 50 years is how long it would take if neither parent showed the egg love. Both parents caring for and tending the egg means it could hatch within a month. Basically love and how much care is put into the egg determines how long it will take to hatch. The hatchling knows the voices and unique presences of their parents due to this love determined growth rate, making the newly hatched offspring similar to newborn kittens in that they hate everyone but their parents and will spit flames at anyone other than their parents.

For Lilia, the infant's wings are glass fragile and typically stay wrapped in a swaddle to prevent potential breakage until the bones harden up. This swaddle has to be carried around by one of the parents in near constant and even held while sleeping as the infant will become wiggly and distressed if not being held (Lilia has it covered, don't you worry). The wings remain fragile until they are several months old and the bones have time to stiffen and strengthen, similar to how the skull is not fused at birth but fuses over time. At about one year the bones in their wings are their sturdiest bones.

As for Rollo, it is very frowned upon to use the flame-pit a core is being grown in for anything other than growing the Nymph/Elemental. Even the type of wood/kindling can impact how the infant grows as some fuels burn at different temperatures or take longer to burn, some even burn different colors which can impact the final color of the infant's flame. The core will keep the fire burning so long as there is something to burn, so the main part of tending a Flame core is feeding the fire and sheltering it from the elements.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au

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ugotnojamzzz · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 9

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 4k

Masterlist

Chapter 8

—

There was something oddly poetic about planning an escape with a weapon meant for slicing chocolate cake.

The knife lived permanently under her sleeve now.

She kept it close during the day, tucked just high enough on her forearm that it never peeked through her clothes, and laid it under her pillow at night. Not because she planned to use it in her sleep, but because it felt wrong not to know where it was.

Dull and pathetic as it was, the cake knife was still hers. A shard of control. She didn’t dare leave it in her room long enough for Mrs. Shin’s hawk eyes to find it. The woman might’ve seemed warm, but Y/N had seen enough to know better.

And so, it stayed hidden in plain sight.in the silk of her blouse.

She hadn’t seen her new roommate, Jungkook, since their icy introduction. Only heard him.

Footsteps outside her door—one slow pass, late every evening.

Water running in the shared suite’s bathroom at odd hours.

The dull thud of weights hitting the floor, once.

Sometimes she wondered if he was watching her through the security feed. If his silence was another kind of trap. A presence meant to unsettle more than any threat could.

No matter.

She stuck to her routine: eating, pacing, studying the guards. Taehyung’s half-assed check-ins had become her best resource. He was cocky, distracted, prone to oversharing when he got bored. She’d learned about shift changes, patrol rotations, and who kept forgetting to relock the service stairwell door. All she needed was a sliver of chaos.

And chaos came, just after sundown.

The wind began howling through the high trees of the estate, moaning against the windows like a warning. Rain followed soon after, then thunder, rattling the fine china on the dining room table. Taehyung had just lit a few extra candles when the power cut out entirely with a deep, mechanical humph.

“Great,” Taehyung muttered, frowning toward the hallway. “Stay here,” he told her, already stepping back from the table. “I’ll go check the fuse box.”

Y/N nodded dutifully.

He was gone before she’d even dropped her spoon.

She waited a beat—two—then stood, quietly pushing her chair back in. The knife was already back in her sleeve, her steps silent on the polished floor.

The house had gone nearly black, save for the flicker of candlelight bleeding through the open door. Thunder cracked again, closer this time. She moved fast, following the dining room wall to the tall glass window facing the east courtyard. A wide, three-panel monstrosity meant to impress guests with the estate’s vast manicured view.

No one was watching.

She wrapped her hand in her linen towel, crouched, brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, and waited. The second the light of a bolt split the sky like a bone, she counted.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

CRACK—a roar of thunder echoed loud enough to cover just about anything..

Right on cue, Y/N struck.

She hit edge of the window with a force that jarred her wrist. Fuck, that hurt. Glass spidered, cracked, held for half a second longer—and then shattered outward with a second hit of her elbow.

The thunder swallowed the noise.

She was through before the curtains had even stopped fluttering, dropping into the wet grass below. The storm met her head-on, rain lashing her face, wind flattening her clothes to her skin. Her bare feet hit the mud hard. But she didn’t stop.

She ran.

Past the trimmed hedges, the marble fountains, the reflective pools and stone benches. The perimeter fence loomed ahead, black iron barely visible through the storm.

She headed east.

That gate was the weak point. She’d seen it up close when Taehyung had taken her for a walk in the courtyard two days ago. One of the locks had been replaced hastily. Sloppy. A guard had joked about it, not realizing she’d been listening.

Now she was there.

Breath ragged, rain soaking her through. She crouched low, checked the latch. Still unsecured. Someone had truly forgotten to double-check it.

Her chest pounded—not from fear, but hope.

She was one click away from vanishing into the night.

And then—

A hand landed on her shoulder.

Heavy. Steady.

“Tell me,” came the low voice behind her, “did you actually think that would work?”

Y/N froze.

That voice.

She turned slowly, the rain sliding down her cheeks.

Jungkook stood behind her, dressed in all black, soaked to the bone, hair slicked back by the storm.

Of course.

Of course it would be him.

Y/N didn’t wait to think. She swung the knife—blunt as it was—toward his ribs, hoping to catch him off guard with speed, not strength.

But he caught her wrist mid-swing.

Like he’d been expecting it.

The impact sent a jolt up her arm, his grip ironclad as he twisted sharply. She tried to pull away, but he didn’t budge. The rain had slicked their skin, the mud beneath their feet shifting dangerously.

“Let. Go,” she hissed, planting her free hand on his chest and pushing.

He barely rocked back.

“You’re gonna have to try a little harder than that.”

Her knee came up fast, aiming for his gut—but he deflected with a sideways turn, dragging her arm in a cruel arc that spun her around. She stumbled, mud splattering up her legs, her breath ripping out of her lungs.

“I swear to God, I will end you—” she spat, fury radiating off her in waves.

“Allow me to doubt that,” Jungkook shot back, voice cool and infuriatingly steady.

She lunged again with a grunt, twisting in a desperate attempt to throw him off, but her limbs weren’t cooperating like they used to. Her balance was off. Her breath too short.

He caught her wrist again—this time the one holding the knife—and twisted.

Pain lanced up her arm.

“Drop it,” he ordered.

She gritted her teeth, dug her heels into the wet grass.

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

With a sharp shove, he slammed her hand into the wrought iron gate.

Once. Twice.

The knife clattered to the ground, useless and dull as a discarded toy.

She gasped, hand pulsing in pain.

Jungkook took a step back, rain dripping from his jawline, eyes narrowed.

“Mrs. Shin’s been looking for that,” he said, nodding to the pathetic blade at her feet. “I told her not to worry. Figured you’d try something eventually.”

Y/N stared at him, chest heaving, soaked and livid. They had known all along. Of course they had.

“You think we don’t sweep your room? You think we didn’t know how long you’ve been hiding that stupid thing?”

“You arrogant, surveillance-obsessed son of a—” she spat, bucking forward, trying to knock him off with the weight of her body.

He absorbed it.

Barely moved.

Her arms thrashed against his hold, but his strength was suffocating. She kicked, clawed, shoved against his chest with every ounce of energy she had—but it was like fighting a wall. A breathing, infuriating, immovable wall.

“Still think you’re going somewhere?” he asked between breaths.

She was panting now. Exhausted. Mud soaked through her clothes, hair sticking to her skin, blood pounding in her ears. Her muscles ached in a way that felt unfamiliar—soft and heavy, not honed like they used to be.

God, when did I get so weak?

She hated this. Hated him. But most of all, she hated the realization that she wasn’t who she used to be. The girl who used to scale rooftops barefoot, who could slit a man’s throat in silence, who trained five hours a day just because she could.

It was boarding school that did it. Four years of golf tournament, brunches, and etiquette drills—while her edge rusted into dormancy.

She hadn’t realized just how far it had dulled until now. Until her movements felt heavy. Predictable. Amateur.

And now here she was—mud-caked, panting, pinned by a man who didn’t even break a sweat.

“Get off of me,” she growled, voice cracked and low.

She stumbled, hit the gate again, breath knocked from her lungs.

For a second, they just stood there—both soaked, both breathing hard, both staring at each other.

“You done?” he asked.

The rain pounded between them like a war drum.

“I said,” Jungkook growled, stepping forward, “are you done?”

Y/N wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. “Not even close.”

She lunged.

He caught her easily—of course he did—but she kept thrashing, teeth clenched, eyes wild. She struck out blindly, her fists catching his chest, shoulder, jaw—whatever she could reach. He grunted once when her knee clipped his thigh, but his grip only tightened.

“God, you’re relentless,” he muttered.

“And you’re a kidnapper!” she spat, voice raw.

Jungkook’s patience snapped.

He grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and began dragging her—feet slipping, body jerking against his grip—back toward the mansion.

“Let go of me!”

She twisted violently, heel digging into the wet ground. They stumbled, feet tangling, and both of them crashed into the mud with a loud, wet smack. The wind knocked out of her, but she barely felt it—she was already trying to push herself up.

Jungkook, covered in dirt and rain and rage, shoved her back down with one palm on her shoulder.

“You’re going back in,” he gritted out, “whether you like it or not!”

She struggled harder, slapping his hand away, crawling back onto her knees. “Fuck off!”

“You want to keep going? We can do this all night. But you’re going back.”

“Over my dead body.”

Jungkook exhaled harshly, wiping mud from his face with the back of his sleeve.

“You done being dramatic?”

“Not even a little.”

“Fine.”

He surged forward, grabbing her by the waist before she could move. She screamed, kicked, clawed at his arms, but he was done playing nice.

“You wanna make it difficult?” he said through clenched teeth, hoisting her up like she weighed nothing. “Let’s make it difficult.”

And with that—humiliation of humiliations—he threw her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” she shrieked, pounding her fists into his back. “You absolute psychopath! I will kill you in your sleep!”

“I don’t sleep enough for that,” he replied coolly, stomping back toward the mansion through the mud and the downpour.

Her legs flailed behind him, kicking uselessly at the air.

“I’ll break your jaw, I swear to God!”

“You’ve got a real loud mouth,” he grunted.

“I’m not afraid of you!”

“Then you’re as stupid as you sound.”

Lightning lit the estate in sharp relief. The world was all grey-blue and fury—their figures streaked in rain and dirt, Y/N screaming like a banshee and Jungkook grim-faced and silent, walking through it like a man carrying fire.

She stopped screaming—not because she’d calmed down, but because the lump in her throat had finally caught up to her anger. It was a quiet, festering kind of despair, the kind that didn’t get to cry, only burn.

Jungkook climbed the back steps like he was dragging a war prize.

The rain was still coming down in sheets, and the wind bit through every layer, but he didn’t falter—not even when Y/N renewed her thrashing with a renewed burst of venom, nor when her elbow dug savagely into his lower back.

“Try that again and I’ll drop you in the koi pond,” he muttered.

“Do it, I’ll drown if I’m lucky, you complete—!”

He shoved the rear door open with one shoulder, the lock clicking loose under his weight. Warmth rushed to meet them. The candles in the hallway flickered faintly as the backup generator whirred into life somewhere below.

Y/N’s soaked hair clung to her cheeks, her breath sharp in her throat. Jungkook set her down roughly on her feet just past the threshold. The moment her boots hit the polished floor, she shoved him back with both hands.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat, teeth bared. “Don’t even look at me, you smug, oversized—”

“Careful now,” a voice drawled from deeper in the corridor, calm and unhurried. “The carpet is antique.”

Both Y/N and Jungkook froze.

She knew that voice. Instantly. Knew it in her bones, like an echo she’d hoped not to hear tonight.

Namjoon.

And, as if perfectly choreographed by the devil himself, the lights snapped back on with a gentle hum, bathing the hallway in clean, golden clarity.

Namjoon stood in the open archway of the drawing room, one hand tucked in his trouser pocket, the other holding a lowball glass half-full of something amber and expensive. His hair was immaculately in place. His shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. His sharp gaze flicked over the trail of wet footprints and globs of mud bleeding across the Persian runner.

He raised a brow.

“I’d say wipe your feet, but…” He gestured lazily toward the muddy chaos. “Bit late for that.”

Y/N opened her mouth—rage boiling in her throat—but all that came out was a scoff and a glare.

“Your hound almost broke my hand,” she snapped, pointing toward Jungkook, who stood silently behind her like a wall still catching his breath.

Namjoon hummed.

Her fists clenched, jaw tight with the ache of unsaid curses. Her clothes clung to her skin, filthy and dripping, her hands scraped and red. And Namjoon just stood there, cool and clean and perfectly dry, like a man who already had all the answers.

“Come on,” he said, lifting his glass toward the far end of the hall. “Let’s take this to my office.”

Y/N didn’t move.

“Do you need to be dragged again?” he asked mildly. “Because I’m sure Jungkook’s happy to oblige.”

She shot a murderous look over her shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered through clenched teethz

Jungkook chuckled, barely a breath of sound.

Namjoon just smiled. Not kindly.

“Follow me, little raven.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, the click of his shoes echoing down the corridor—leaving behind the storm, the mud, and the girl who suddenly realized she wasn’t done being a prisoner just yet.

Namjoon’s office was just as she remembered—over-designed, over-scented, and over-compensating.

Y/N stood near the door, dripping mud onto the hardwood floors, arms crossed and posture locked in defiance. Jungkook hovered a few steps behind her, quiet and unreadable, still smeared with rain and dirt. He hadn’t said a word since they’d walked in, and she was beginning to wonder if he ever would again.

Namjoon was already behind his desk, watching her like one might observe a thundercloud rolling in.

“Jungkook,” he said without looking away, “stay. This concerns you too.”

Y/N’s gaze snapped sideways. “Oh, of course it does,” she muttered. “Because what’s a lecture without an audience?”

Namjoon raised his glass slightly in mock agreement. “Exactly,” he said.

She rolled her eyes.

“I must admit,” he began, voice casual, almost amused, “I’m a little disappointed.”

“Well,” Y/N snapped. “That makes two of us.”

He smiled. Not kindly. “We’ve gone to some lengths to make your stay… let’s say, tolerable. Haven’t we? You have your own room. Heated floors, if I recall correctly. Quality meals. A room with a view—rare in this house, I’ll have you know. Clean sheets. Entertainment. A whole staff at your disposal, not a single one of whom has tried to poison you, might I add. Frankly, that’s more than most of my own men get.”

“Touching,” she bit back. “Would you like me to write a thank-you card?”

Namjoon leaned back in his chair, clearly unbothered. “And yet, despite all this,” he gestured vaguely toward her mud-splattered state, “you remain… hostile. Unreasonable. A little uncivilized, even,” he added looking at ger mud-caked figure with distaste.

Y/N’s jaw clenched.

“I suppose,” he went on, folding his hands over his stomach, “some of the fault may lie in the planning. I don’t usually deal in captives, you see. It’s not our style. We’re more about… transactions. Leverage. Respectable things.”

“Is that what this is to you?” she said, stepping forward. “A miscalculation?”

“I’m not above admitting a misstep,” he said with a tilt of his head. “In fact, I pride myself on correcting them.”

He set the glass down and stood, moving around the desk with the calm authority of someone who never had to raise his voice to command a room.

“It seems,” he continued, “that one of our operatives—Kim Taehyung, as much as I hold him dear to my heart—has become somewhat… lax. Possibly charmed, even.”

“Oh, don’t blame poor Tae for having taste,” Y/N said sweetly.

Namjoon ignored the interruption. “It’s a recurring weakness with your kind,” he said. “Ravens do have a certain pull, don’t they? Mysterious. Magnetic. Just dangerous enough to keep things interesting.”

She glared at him. He stepped closer.

“So,” he continued, “to remedy this lapse in discipline, we’re making a small adjustment to your security schedule.”

Y/N’s nostrils flared. “And what will it be, may I ask?”

“Effective immediately,” Namjoon said, turning slightly to Jungkook, “your new shadow will be Jungkook.”

She froze

Silence.

Then, in perfect unison—

“What?”

Y/N whipped around to face Jungkook just as Jungkook stepped forward, eyes flashing.

“Him?“ She jabbed a finger behind her. “You’re assigning me the human meat cleaver?”

Jungkook’s voice cut in, sharp and low as he stepped forward. “No can do. I’ve got business in Daegu at the end of the week.”

Namjoon gave the smallest shrug. “Taehyung will go in your stead.”

Jungkook’s jaw twitched. “Taehyung is an idiot.”

“Agreed,” Y/N muttered, arms crossed.

Namjoon smiled faintly. “He’ll learn.”

“No, he won’t,” Jungkook said, tone hardening. “He doesn’t have the contacts, he doesn’t know the layout, he’ll mess it up—”

“Do you suppose I make such decisions lightly?” Namjoon said, the warmth vanishing from his voice like a candle snuffed out. “Without thought?”

“Still, you can’t be serious.” Jungkook’s mouth tightened. “I’m not a fucking babysitter.”

“This is not a negotiation,” Namjoon continued, stepping around the desk again, slower this time. “I’ve let you pick your targets for months now. You’ve run operations, managed leads, even picked your own crew. But this?” He pointed a finger—not at Jungkook, but at Y/N. “This is mine. And she’s too valuable to be watched by someone who forgets to lock the elevator panel when he’s bored.”

Y/N bristled. “Oh good, glad to know I’m still an asset despit—”

“You will do good keeping your mouth shut,” Namjoon snapped. Jungkook seemed like he was about to protest some more, but Namjoon’s head snapped in his direction, “both of you.” He paused. “Now. Are we clear?”

Jungkook looked like he wanted to punch the wall. His shoulders were drawn tight, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

Namjoon waited.

Finally, Jungkook exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

“…Yes, sir.”

The air shifted—he obeyed, but the tension didn’t dissipate. Not even a little.

Y/N noticed it—the stiffness in his posture, the way his jaw locked like he had to swallow whatever he really wanted to say. The submission wasn’t clean. It was coiled, bitter, personal.

Namjoon, satisfied, sank back into his chair with the air of a man who had just won a round of poker without even touching his cards.

“Good,” he said softly. “Now that we’re all in agreement, you two should probably get some rest.”

—

The moment Namjoon dismissed them, Jungkook grabbed her arm with an iron grip.

Y/N didn’t flinch, but the muscle in her jaw ticked.

“I told you to keep you hands off—”

“Save it.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. His hand locked around her wrist like a man leading someone to their execution, and with one tug, they were out of the office and down the corridor in silence.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them inside together.

Rainwater pooled beneath their feet, dripping steadily off their clothes. Jungkook stood beside her, arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack bone.

Silence pressed in like walls.

Then, quietly—delicately—Y/N giggled.

Not a full laugh.

Just a small, mocking flutter of amusement that slipped past her teeth like a secret she couldn’t hold anymore.

Jungkook’s head turned, slow and deliberate. His eyes found her, storm-dark and sharp.

“Something funny?” he asked, voice flat.

She didn’t look at him. Just tilted her head back, watching the light flicker overhead.

“Nothing,” she said breezily. “Just thinking about how the universe works in truly hilarious ways.”

He didn’t respond, but his stare hardened.

She smiled faintly. “I mean, if you’d just let me walk off into the night like I wanted, you wouldn’t be in this little predicament.”

“I’m not in a predicament,” he said tightly.

“Sure,” she said. “You’re stuck here being my lady in waiting, while your precious mission gets handed off to a guy who thinks password123 is a secure login. Sounds like paradise.”

His jaw flexed.

“You’re terribly smug for someone whose grand escape plan just landed in the toilet”

She said nothing.

“A cake knife,” he scoffed, “really?”

Her ears burned. The heat crawled up her neck and settled across her cheeks, not from shame, but rage at the way he looked so goddamn calm. Like he’d already filed her away as stupid. Reckless. Weak.

She inhaled sharply and waited a beat. Then, with a slow breath and a barely-there smile, she turned to him.

“Alright, then,” she said, brushing a clump of wet hair from her face, “if you’re going to be assigned to me like a glorified footman, we might as well set a few expectations.”

Jungkook’s brow ticked.

“I wake up at seven. I take my tea with honey—not sugar—and I expect it hot. Not warm. Not lukewarm. Hot. I like my breakfast light—fruit, but no melon, and porridge with salted butter. Cinnamon only. Don’t forget that, or I’ll send it back.”

She didn’t wait for a reaction—just kept going, voice calm and effortless.

“Don’t mumble, don’t drag your feet. Oh, and don’t hover. It’s annoying. And if you insist on shadowing me, I’d rather you don’t breathe so loudly.”

Jungkook’s jaw was clenching tighter by the second.

Y/N turned to face him fully now, eyes shining with cold amusement.

“You should really write this down. I’d hate for you to get in trouble with your boss.”

That one landed.

She saw it—just a flicker. His eye twitched. His jaw locked. She could almost hear the grind of his teeth

The moment the doors slid open, he yanked her out like she was a problem to be dealt with, not watched. Not guarded.

And then—without ceremony, without warning—he shoved her into her bedroom harshly. She stumbled in, spun around, eyes sharp and blazing.

“You’re a brainless brute,” she snapped, voice low but biting. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, stepping just inside the threshold. “I’m not exactly thrilled about this shit either.”

“Really? You seemed perfectly content back there playing Namjoon’s lapdog.”

His glare was a storm.

He stepped closer. She didn’t back up.

“Let’s get a couple things straight,” he said, voice cold and clipped. “I’m not Taehyung. I’m not here to flirt, or get played, or let you traipse around this place like you’re on a luxury retreat.”

“I never—”

“You did,” he snapped. “You pushed. You tested. You smiled at the staff and mapped the exits and made a game out of it. That ends now.”

He took a breath through his nose, shoulders squared.

“You want to play Raven Princess? Fine. Play it from inside this room.”

Her stomach twisted—not in fear, but fury.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he said, backing toward the door, “you’re not going anywhere.”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

“No walks. No sitting rooms. No meals in the sunroom with the staff pretending you’re just a guest. I’ll bring your food up. You want anything else, don’t bother asking.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re on lockdown.”

She stared at him, seething.

Y/N stepped into the doorway, rainwater still dripping from her clothes onto the floor.

“Fine,” she spat.

“Fine,” he snapped back.

“FINE!”

With a growl in her throat and fire in her chest, she grabbed the door and slammed it shut with enough force to shake the frame.

Princess in a tower, guard dog at the door. What a fucking fairytale.

—

I’m baaaaack. Hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters! Also questions and remarks and feedback are welcome xxx

Chapter 10

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

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tanadrin · 10 months ago

Text

Pr and the Mniw

Pr is a minor planet orbiting the millisecond magnetar MMR CHA J1712-2901 ("Ast"), about a thousand light years from Earth, in the constellation Sagittarius. Ast has four major planets: Wsjrhp, Hrw, Mnw, and Bstt. Hrw has one moon, Jmstj. There are five large minor planet in eccentric orbits within 3 AU, Jrb, Bjr, Rrj, Zr, and Pr.

Planetoid

Pr is a large asteroid with a rotation period of about two hours; its average density is less than 4 g/cm^3, but its internal composition is highly variable. About 40% of its solid material is composed of massive diamond fragments fused together at seams formed of carbon glass, and the interior of the planet contains a large irregular cavern roughly 250 kilometers in radius. This cavern is sufficiently enclosed to retain an envelope of water and air with minimal outgassing. Due to the very high rotation speed of the planetoid, the surface of the cavern, at its lower levels, experiences a centrifugal force about 1-2% of Earth's gravity. The axis of Pr's rotation is nearly perpendicular to its orbit.

No complete model of the formation of the Ast system has yet been offered, but several hypotheses have been suggested to account for some of its more unusual features. The formation of a protoplanetary disk may be due to the disruption of a stellar companion, or fallback from the supernova that formed Ast in the first place; the diamond fragments which make up Pr may have originated in a disrupted carbon-rich planet or planetoid, or gas giant. The interior atmosphere of Pr is perhaps due primarily to biological processes releasing volatiles into the cavern.

Deliberate planetary engineering has been mooted as a possibility, but the crew of the DSE Scholiast, the only vessel to survey the system so far, has not yet found evidence of such engineering by other civilizations, and the indigenous inhabitants of Pr are likely incapable of such undertakings at this time.

[Map of Pr, with some regions and bodies of water labelled, plus many major settlements. The relief of the cavern interior is very great; the large plateaus have scarps tens or hundreds of kilometers high. Note that the equilibrium potential at the interior surface of a rotating body is cylindrical, not spherical, and this projection is adjusted accordingly, and so shows true shapes near the poles. The nature of the geological processes that have shaped Pr's interior are not fully understood at this time. The total land area visible here is roughly equivalent to Texas or the Iberian Peninsula.]

Biology and Ecology

Pr's internal heat is maintained by the radiation from Ast, which is converted to thermal energy in Pr's crust. Thinner regions of the crust, particularly near the equator, have higher heat flow from the exterior; the high axial tilt of Pr also means that the northern and southern hemispheres can experience somewhat different heat flows throughout the year. Much more important to Pr's seasons, however, is the variability of Ast's magnetic field created by the eccentricity of Pr's orbit. When Pr is closest to Ast, organisms can extract energy from the magnetic field, as Pr's rotation allows them to create selective ion gradients whose diffusion provides energy, or to directly extract mechanical energy from electrically charged cilia. (Induced current is much too weak to be a useful source of biological energy).

As on Earth, the native lifeforms can be broadly classified into producers and consumers, but even the consumers on Ast obtain a significant portion of their energy budget from autotrophy, using heterotrophy only to supplement this budget. A minority of producers are also radiotrophs, who extract energy from the radioactive elements in Pr's crust.

Pr biology does not use DNA and is highly resistant to radiation. It also does not seem to experience Darwinian genetic drift. Instead, cells seem able to adapt their own internal machinery in response to certain kinds of stress, and to disseminate these changes throughout the organism, or even to conspecifics. The nature of this process and how it could have evolved is still a mystery, nor can they apparently account for all of the different forms observed among the native life.

The interior of Pr is dim, but not dark. Some plant species have evolved to emit light as a form of signaling, incentivizing some animal species to evolve eyes in response.

Because of the energy inefficiency of pure heterotrophy, to say nothing of pure heterotrophy that involves predating on other heterotrophs, no carnivorous animals are known on Pr.

[Above, the Mniw. The upper Mni has a fully-grown set of skin-plates; the lower Mni has either shed or removed hers, possibly as a cosmetic choice. The dark patches of skin shown are the rough beds from which the skin-plates grow.]

The Mniw

The Mniw (singular Mni) are the indigenous inhabitants of Pr. They are 12-18 centimeters long, with tough gray skin, and usually found with a mineralized defensive covering that grows out from the skin. They have a single sex, and reproduce via parthenogenesis. However, they still engage in a form of sexual intercourse, which is divorced from reproduction: instead, sex among the Mniw exists as a means of facilitating horizontal gene transfer, which then alters the nature of the offspring they bear. It can also allow a limited sharing of experiential memory. In addition to sight, hearing, and the other usual senses, the Mniw have the ability to sense the weak induced electrical currents in Pr's crust, which helps them perceive their environment better.

Mniw hatch from eggs and are generally raised in family units; they do not make sex-based distinctions, but do make social distinctions based on relationships. A mwt is the Mni who laid the egg; all other adults in the same household involved in childrearing are jtw; the sntw are siblings who share a mother, while other children raised in the same house are snw. Children from one's own eggs are srtw, while children from one's partner(s) are mnw.

As in humans, Mni adolesence is marked by gradual sexual maturity; reproductive fertility comes later in life, however, around the age of 30. Past 50, fertility declines slowly, as does the capacity to engage in horizontal gene transfer, though the capacity for sexual intercourse remains. Past 65 or so, Mniw enter their equivalent of "old age," but Mni do not experience a sudden collapse in their physiological health late in life, and can in principle life forever so long as they are not felled by accident, violence, or disease. In practice, lifespans are around 130-200 years, with a great deal of variability.

Mniw have many social elements, like hierarchy and emotions and social roles, that would not be entirely alien to humans, but they have no direct analogue to human sex roles or orientations. Instead the major cleavage in Mni society historically is between Mniw who tend to be primarily exogamous, preferring to mate and rear children with Mniw from distant communities, vs Mniw who tend to be primarily endogamous, with about 85% of Mniw being primarily endogamous; these traits perhaps evolved in the context of horizontal gene transfer to take advantage of different patterns of dissemination of useful traits.

Mniw can survive outside of Pr, but without a strong, moving magnetic field must consume a large amount of food; and the food they are normally adapted for will not grow at all absent such a field. An Earth-standard gravitational field would render them totally immobile, and would be extremely unpleasant, though probably not fatal, and it's possible given their unique physiology that they could eventually adapt to such an environment.

Mniw generally inhabit large, almost hive-like cities that are built out in three dimensions; historically, these could be strongly fortified against attack in a way that made wars of conquest nearly impossible until the invention of gunpowder. Mniw have had writing for about 5,000 years, and the first confederate states emerged around 3-4,000 years ago. The dissemination of gunpowder weapons 1,500 years ago radically altered politics and society on Pr, but the absence of easy paths to industrialization has caused a certain degree of stagnation since.

Modern Pr is divided into about a dozen large states, in an area of roughly 750,000 kilometers square, with a fair amount of diversity in languages, cultures, and social systems, given the small size of Pr. A very loose framework of international diplomacy is carried out through a series of councils called the Jaw Mwad, and on the occasion of the Scholiast's arrival, the Mniw convened a great council, a Wr Jaw Mwad, for the first time in over a century to open formal channels of communication.

#tanadrin's fiction #speculative evolution #speculative biology #tanadrin's art #pr and the mniw #conworlding #life on a pulsar planet

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loveshotproductions · 7 months ago

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Oh no, I thought about that Helluva Boss rewrite I made a couple years ago

And worse yet I’m considering bringing it back?!

Some of my mutuals might know what I’m talking about, but during like season one of Helluva, I took a stab at how I would write the series without the predatory coercion and the toxic yaoi. I even drawn redesigns for the main cast, though they were rough at best and I even tried converting them into original designs for a brief period but never did anything with them.

Thanks to the mess that is Helluva’s second season, that rewrite came flooding back to me and dear lord I’ve never been more willing to do a full rewrite/overhaul of Helluva Boss in my life it’s actually insane. So I took another stab at my old Blitzo redesign and fused it with a design that I made that was based off that old redesign, so in a way it came back full circle. I made his face scar more gnarly and gave him a glass eye(though I imagine it’s just a marble he found on Earth and he just popped it in the socket)in place of his missing eye. He also has a prosthetic for his horn that got destroyed in the accident, tiny vestigial wings (he can’t fly;the most he can do is hover), and a chubby dad bod. If people are interested, I would be willing to go more in depth with this overhaul mini-project

#loveshot36 #loveshotproductions #traditionaldrawing #sketches #characterdesign #traditionalsketches #helluva boss redesign #helluva boss critical #character redesign #redesign

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rocketroseart · 1 year ago

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You Voted for a Fused Glass Project. Who is the Winner? A little Unexpected.

Here are the results of your vote on design options for that fused glass project. Very interesting and a little unexpected.

Here are the results of your vote on design options for that fused glass project. Very interesting and a little unexpected. The majority vote wins, and now I have two designs for you to vote on. I will make the winner, based on your choices. If you have any questions or comments, please enter them in the Comments section for the video. Continue reading You Voted for a Fused Glass Project. Who…

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#Bullseye glass #COE 96 #float glass ideas #float glass project #fused glass ideas #fused glass plate #fused glass project #fused glass techniques #fused glass tutorial #fusing projects #fusing techniques #glass fusing project #glass fusing tutorial

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shhtickerbook · 1 year ago

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Burnt Sugar

Wonka agere one shot fic! for all those asking for more CG! lofty content. This was very self indulgent and comforting for me heh. As always A03 link below or just read under cut!

Willy Wonka was sitting at his workbench, his chocolate making case taking up the whole table. A line of multicoloured corked bottles sitting on a shelf beside, each labelled with a symbol. (it was much easier than reading small lettering)

With extreme care he used a pipette to sample out just a few drops of liquid sunlight, dropping it into the glass spiral condenser. The amber bead travelling down the clear corkscrew before it made contact into a heated flask filled with a light blue serum. It was supposed to turn an aqua hue, but instead it became more of a mint green. Willy frowned in annoyance, tapping the glass gently to try and encourage it to mix further. Stubbornly it remained the same, it didn’t make sense, he was sure his measurements were correct. Biting in his lower lip as his foot shook up and down as he concentrated.

Very carefully again, he transferred one more drop of the golden liquid through the pipette. But squeezed the dropper a little too hard with his shaking hands, Willy cursing under his breath. He was exhausted to say the least, the past few days had been filled with constant recipe revisions and experiments. This batch was to be of his new idea! Mood lollipops, the idea was that with each lick the candy would change hue and flavour to match your mood. But the mechanics of it were proving to be insanely complex. Scattered papers and sketches of blueprints and experiments littered all around the tabletop and room.

With the excess force added to the dropper, far more than what he wanted poured into the mix. The aqua base quickly turned bright, almost neon green, not before it began to bubble worryingly.

“Nonono-“

Wonka muttered, pulling at his hair anxiously. Quickly he scrambled through his case in search of an ingredient to try and balance out the PH of the elixir. Just managing to find something that could work, but by the time he had turned around the solution was boiling furiously, a foam starting to build and ride up through the glass tubing. Willy didn’t know what to do, he was about to lose hours of work. He pressed his thumb against the neck of the tube, but the green candy mixture rose up to meet his skin, which was burning hot.

“Owwwch!”

He yelped as he removed his hand, the molten sugar having burned a small circle onto his thumb. Sucking on it hard to try and relieve the pain, having to watch in defeat as his hours of work pumped out of the tubing, emerald foam spilling out across his desk. Molten candy mixture spreading over everything, his plans and other important equipment.

Wonka’s face screwed up, clenched hands shaking in frustration. All that work for nothing, the experiments and a complete waste of expensive ingredients, all for him to mess it up and ruin all of it. It wasn’t often Willy got angry, it just wasn’t the kind of person he was. But this was too much, frustration bubbling over just like the melted candy had. In one sweep he attacked his work station, the spiral conductor being thrown from the table and smashing into splinters against the floor. Thick molten candy also exploding into his wall and floor, fusing itself to the surface. Willy scared himself with the noise, flinching away in alarm. He hadn’t meant to destroy it, instantly regretting his decision. The glass spiral now lying in three pieces across the floor.

Said conductor was one of his first pieces of equipment he got, it was whilst he was travelling through Germany in search of ingredients. He’d been feeling under the weather and visited a local chemist, who then introduced him to his laboratory equipment. A world of beakers, flasks, and more. Upon discussion he had the idea of using the them to expand his chocolate making. The old man sold him that conductor for half the usual price, as well as the exchange of a few chocolates of course.

Willy stood in silence as he stared at what he’d done. The smell of burning sugar filling the room horribly. The realisation of what he’d done only made him feel even worse, holding the back of his chair before kicking it over. He didn’t care anymore. Mood lollipops were a stupid idea anyways, he tried to reassure himself. He stepped back before falling to floor, biting hard on his lip. Childish tears threatening to fall, but he squeezed his eyes shut tight to keep them at bay.

He was so caught up in his misery that he didn’t notice the door creaking open, the sound of very small boots entering. Followed by a shocked exclaim in a pertinent voice.

“Willy Wonka what on EARTH has happened in here.”

The Oompa Loompa had heard such commotion from the workshop, having to come investigate. He wasn’t expecting to see such carnage inside, glass and melted sugar everywhere. Putting down a teacup he had in hand, he carefully stepped over broken glass as he looked around in horror at the mess. Willy groaned at the arrival of Lofty, his head buried in his hands. It was the last person he wanted to be around right now.

“Go-way”

He mumbled miserably, he didn’t have the brain to deal with Loftys judgment. But he wasn’t going to get out of it that easily, especially not from Lofty of all people.

“Not a chance, look at the mess you’ve made in here? Why there’s melted sugar stuck to the ceiling of all places!”

He looked up in horror, kicking away pieces of glass as he approached the chocolatier. Who was curled up on himself in complete defeat. Even Lofty realised that he was clearly feeling quite woeful right now, sighing sympathetically.

“Nevermind, we can deal with all this later. Out you get before you break anything else”

The Oompa Loompa barked out the order as he pinched his brow, tugging at Wonkas sleeve. He knew that Willy had been working himself too hard over the last couple days, and was clearly in need of some TLC. But yet again he was ignored, which he didn’t appreciate in the slightest. Placing two hands on his hips he spoke again, more firmly.

“Willy Wonka you are to get up immediately, you’ve been working yourself silly and this nonsense is clearly a direct result of it.”

He gestured again to the mess, Willy lifting his head to look at it apprehensively. It somehow looked even worse, and the state of his favourite conductor broken on the floor just upset him further.

“Leave me ‘lone”

He murmured wearily, glaring at the Oompa Loompa. Who just returned the expression with a glare, meaning business. From the tone of his voice, Lofty began to suspect the boys current state of mind. His tone of voice and body language giving it away.

“I’m not going anywhere, now. OUT.”

His voice rising sternly, Willy jumping at the noise. Before glaring hard and standing to his feet, towering over Lofty as he snarled.

“FINE!”

Wonka yelled back, stomping his way out of room. Nearly bowling the Oompa Loompa right over. Whilst leaving, his boot collided with the last remaining spiral of his conductor. Splintering entirely underneath his shoe, he paused for a moment before continuing outside. Willy felt as if his body was filled with boiling oil, ready to explode just like his chemistry supplies. He marched through his flat, not even sure what to do with himself. He felt overwhelmed, tired, frustrated and any other possible word for just plain horrible! It didn’t help when the set of small footsteps followed behind him curtly.

“Careful! You’re going to track glass throughout the house with that stomping.”

Lofty commented, but it only further aggravated Wonkas mood. His pretentious tone of voice feeling like nails on a chalkboard to his already sour mood. Turning around suddenly as he stopped him in his tracks, Lofty looking up cool as ever with his teacup back in hand.

“Oh don’t you ever SHUT UP!”

Willy threw out his arm, accidently hitting the teacup from Loftys hand. It smashed against the door frame before exploding into ceramic shards.

There was a terrible long silence for a moment, once again Willy highly regretting what he’d just done in a temper. Lofty looked at the remains on the floor as his took a breath in, trying to keep his own composure. It was one of his cups from Loompa Land, he had a few others, but it was still a sentimental item from his home. The clay itself collected from the river that ran through the island, before being fired in a uniquely designed Loompa kiln. It was a lengthy process, but the island produced some of the most beautiful ceramic.

He looked right up, making eye contact with the chocolatier. His face was unnervingly neutral in expression, that’s when Willy realised just how big a trouble he was in. Lofty lifted a hand and motioned for Willy to lean down, remaining his stone cold expression.

“Whilst I can understand that you’re feeling upset, that wasn’t acceptable behaviour.”

His tone was slightly different, extremely serious but still gentle. As if someone slowly poured a glass of icy cold water down the back of his shirt. Willy felt his sleeve being pulled, before being taken by surprise as Lofty briskly lead him away. He had to hunch over due to his tiny stature, and tried to pull away. Somehow Lofty’s grip was incredibly strong regardless of his size.

“What are you doing? Let go of me!”

Willy had meant for his tone to come off commanding, but it came out instead as pathetic and whiny. Giving the exact opposite impression he wanted to convey.

“If you are so intent on behaving like a child, then you are going to be treated as such.”

Lofty continued as he led the man into the sitting room, pointing towards the corner where a circular woven rug sat. Willy looking in complete bewilderment, wondering what in the world Lofty was playing at.

“Sit. There. Ten minutes”

Willy frowned in confusion before chuckling in utter disbelief. Once again trying to jerk away from the iron grip on his sleeve.

“You’ve got to be joking me-“

“Oh I certainly am not. If you are choosing to act out like this then you’re going to be treated accordingly.”

He stated, no longer willing to tolerate this misbehaviour. He was well aware that Wonka had times in which he felt younger than his physical age, and all this behaviour pointed towards him feeling so. Acting like a complete brat must be his way to communicate said emotions.

“I-Im not going to be put into a timeout”

Willy said defensively, hating it even more so when he could feel his defensives starting to crumble. The tone of voice and instructions making him feel very vulnerable. His reaction only furthered Lofty’s suspicions of his dwindling headspace.

“Are you sure about that? Because I disagree.”

Lofty firmly pulled him to the corner, before tugging hard down. It was remarkable how strong he was, considering his size. The jolt unsteadying Wonka as he fell onto his rear. It didn’t hurt, but paired with Lofty’s firm expression and his already sensitive emotions?

It made him feel too vulnerable and small, swallowing hard to keep down any tears. But even still against his own self control, a few dribbled over. Curling in on himself as he sniffled to himself miserably, it seemed to be the last straw for his headspace slipping.

Even Lofty sympathetically shook his head at the sorry sight, but had a suspicion that it was what he needed. Wonka was the type of person who far too often bottled up any negative emotion, always trying to keep his signature (and often irritating optimism)

So pulling a pocket watch from his waistcoat, he checked the time.

“Your ten minutes begin now”

Willy looked up with a glare, he didn’t want to wait ten minutes. It wasn’t fair, he hadn’t meant to break Loftys silly teacup. Although there was a part of him that felt guilty about it, it was a pretty teacup. He watched as the Oompa Loompa turned on his heel, gathering each shard of ceramic from the floor.

Wonka didn’t even know why he had even entertained this silly idea, but with his current headspace Willy couldn’t stop the onslaught of tears, mixed with self pity and overwhelm. Whining and groaning from pure frustration, wanting any kind of attention. He wanted Lofty to come over and apologise for putting him here, or at least offer some kind of response. But Lofty didn’t react at all, just continuing to clean. The lack of any kind of reaction though infuriated Willy further.

He’d been placed onto the oval rug, legs tucked up to his chest. So with a huff he kicked both his legs out from underneath him, boots slamming onto the floorboards with a loud clunk. Lofty was faced away as he swept the broken crockery, but sighed before responding.

“Please remove your shoes from the floor, I don’t want you leaving scuff marks on the mahogany”

He sternly requested, Willy swallowing and instinctively pulling his feet back. Cursing himself for being so easily scolded, it was something about his tone of voice that just cut through him like butter. It just built even more anger and frustration within himself. He was scowling to himself when he thought came to mind, remove his shoes Lofty told him.

Fine. He’ll remove his shoes alright. Fumbling a little with the laces, Willy untangled the lace from his boot. Grabbing ahold of the sole he pulled hard to get it off, holding the boot to his chest with a frown. Before he could change his mind, he raised the boot high above his head. And in one angry motion he hurled the shoe hard, colliding with the doorway where Lofty was disposing of the mess. A chunk of the skirting board chipped off from the projectile hitting from such force.

The Oompa Loompa jumped in surprise at the projectile, but still retained his cool exterior. Taking another deep breath to regulate himself, he knew a reaction was exactly what Wonka was trying to get out of him. So he calmly just pulled out his pocket watch once again, resetting the timer with a sigh and a shaking head.

“Congratulations Mr Wonka, you have now had your time reset , with an added five minutes for throwing that shoe. Even think about doing the same with the other one, and you can trust me when I say you’ll be spending the rest of the evening on that mat.”

He spoke with a dead serious tone, turning to look Willy directly in the eye to show he really really meant it. Wonka’s angry body language visibly deflating like a balloon, shrinking down. He knew that Lofty wasn’t taking any more of his tricks. He couldn’t even be naughty properly, just like how he couldn’t finish that stupid recipe. With only one boot on he tucked his legs back under his chin, sniffing as he felt his eyes watering. This time he couldn’t hold it in, bursting into floods of tears. Quickly escalating into bubbling sobs, everything all at once crashing in on itself.

Willy couldn’t even tell what he was crying about, whether it breaking his condenser, yelling at Lofty or being scolded at for throwing the stupid shoe. It seemed to be days of pent up emotion just exploding out of him. His cries ended up hitching and hiccuping , making his head throb horribly. It felt as if he’d been marooned on this silly carpet for hours. After five minutes his sorrowful howling had escalated to the point where he wasn’t sure if he could breathe, any time he tried to stop he just dissolved into panicked sobs again.

Lofty knew that he had no option but to intervene at this point, regardless of his punishment. Slowly walking over before sitting down across from him on the floor.

“Alright you’re going to make yourself sick at this rate, you’re not taking in enough air with your silly gasping.”

Willy looked up through his tears to see the Oompa Loompa sitting across from him. Although still amongst the meltdown, he glared at him.

“Go-a-WAY!”

He yelled as best he could, but his voice cracked and whimpered which ruined the effect he wanted yet again.

“Not happening I’m afraid. Now try take in some deep breaths with me, before you keel over from lack of oxygen.”

Willy’s head was in-fact feeling a bit dizzy, as were his hands that were beginning to tingle with pins and needles. As if he had a fizzy soda pop running through his veins. It was difficult to try and break out of the cycle of hyperventilation, watching closely as Lofty demonstrated. Who placed an orange hand to his stomach, before breathing in deeply.

“Copy as such, hold a hand over your belly and breathe in, hold it for a few moments before letting go. Feel your stomach rise in and out the way as you do so.”

Willy found this all rather silly sounding, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even if Lofty had been so mean as to put him in timeout. He took in the breath, but halfway through it hitched again. Falling back into the unhelpful gasping.

“Try again, with me this time”

Loftys tone was still firm, but gentle also. Willy swallowing as fat tears kept on spilling over. He nodded and tried again, holding his hands over his belly. This time successfully taking in a deep breath and feeling his stomach rising and falling. He carried on following Lofty’s example for a couple minutes, and although the torrent of tears hadn’t stopped, Willy had managed to calm down a little.

“That’s much better, now would you say we’re done with the tantrum at last? I fear for the house’s interior if we plan on throwing any more shoes.”

Willy nodded tearfully, looking over at the ceramic shards that had been swept into a pile, sitting to the chunk that had been chipped from the skirting board from the boot. Then remembering the mess in his workshop he caused, he just ruined everything.

“Mmso-sorry..”

Face screwing up again, swallowing to try keep himself from falling to pieces again. Lofty sighed sympathetically, shaking his head as he unfolded a handkerchief from his waistcoat.

“Now that’s enough of that, I know it was an accident- well at least some of it was. Regardless, from the look of it you’ve served your time anyways.”

Lofty checking his pocket and watch before he stood up to daub around the chocolatiers hot teary face. A surprisingly gentle and kind action that was quite unheard of coming from Lofty. The fabric was extremely soft, there was even a pretty design embroidered onto it. He was then handed the cloth once Lofty was satisfied with his mopped up eyes.

“Now blow that nose of yours, you’ve probably given yourself a terrible headache.”

Wonka sniffed with a nod, but felt the pretty stitching with his fingers. It felt a little sacrilegious to make it gross by blowing his nose into it.

“It’s too- pretty”

Willy mumbled, the corners were stitched with tiny little exotic flowers and vines. Maybe they were the ones you got in Loompa land. It was a shame that he didn’t spend too much time there on his travels, only a quick stop in search of cocoa beans.

“It’s quite alright, keep it if you’d like. I can always make another.”

Lofty said flippantly, seeing a flicker of a smile in Wonka’s face at the gift. Although it wasn’t like he deserved it from how miserable he’d been acting. It was clear that with Lofty’s small hands he could then create the smallest and most intricate detail.

Even still, Willy didn’t want to ruin it. Stuffing the hanky into his pocket before resolving to use his sleeve to wipe his nose. Much to Loftys utter disgust, Willy just hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind on the gift.

“Ugh, and I give you a perfectly good handkerchief for nothing”

Lofty spoke, shaking his head in disappointment. For the first time Willy letting out a small chuckle, although still between the tears dribbling down his cheeks. Even Lofty couldn’t help but smirk, pleased to see that his spirits had lifted even a little.

“I suppose you can get off that mat now, I gather you’ve certainly learned your lesson.”

Loftys small hand patted Willy’s knee, who took in a deep breath as he nodded. Apart from the headache he already had, Willys head was feeling extremely fuzzy. The outburst had caused him to slip very small, very quickly. Thankfully Lofty had already connected the dots on that matter, and it was very clear Wonka was going to need some caring for this evening. Willy knuckled his bloodshot eyes as he stood up, feeling a slight head rush as he did so.

“Careful! Don’t need to add falling over and flattening me to the list of trouble today.”

Lofty warned, standing and dusting himself off. Looking up at Willy as he stood fidgeting with his hands. Not quite sure what to do with himself, thankfully Lofty took charge again. Despite his towering size over him, all he could see above him was a tired little child. One that seemed to be in desperate need of some comfort and rest.

“Come on then, let’s get you settled and into bed.”

Lofty held up his hand, just high enough so that Willy could hook a finger into the palm of his small hand. Willy allowing himself to be lead through the flat, his other hand making its way to his lips as he chewed on his thumbnail. It was only early evening, but Wonka felt exhausted regardless. The upset had taken all the energy from his system and left him drained and weary. Lofty swiftly delivered the boy to his bedroom, greeted by the warm red and pink tones decorated throughout.

Similar to his childhood home, Willy had a bed built into the wall much like his mother’s canal boat. The structure having a short ornate barrier that on the boat was meant to prevent one from falling out during a storm. Although no longer on the water, it was an aspect that Willy always found comforting. The raised sides creating a safe barrier, he often fell out of his ramshackle bed at scrubbits during the night when he stayed there. The hardboard flooring extremely unforgiving to your body when you fell upon it. Even still, there was also a homemade rag rug sitting on the floor beside. Noodle and her Mother had made it for him as a housewarming gift for when he first moved into his new home.

Willy let go of Lofty’s hand to kneel down on the floor to run his hand over said item. It was made from scrap pieces of multiple kinds of fabric tied together, he liked the texture of it.

All the while Lofty tutted at the rooms lack of organisation, disapprovingly picking up a discarded vest that was lying on the ground.

“Really Mr Wonka, you’re too old to be keeping your room in such a sorry state”

Lofty couldn’t help but comment, before looking over at the little chocolatier who was just kneeling on the carpet, running his hand over its surface, the other chewing on his thumb. Lofty realised his own irony of his comment, chuckling to himself.

“Well, perhaps not at the moment I see”

There was something endearing about Wonka like this, well apart from the tantrum. That part he could live without, but you can’t exactly pick and choose these things. Willy himself was feeling very small, head fuzzy and little. But especially tired, he was so sleepy. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for the past couple days, mind too busy with calculations for new candies and chocolate.

“You need to get into bed, get changed into your nightclothes and I’ll return in a few minutes with some sustenance.”

Lofty called, Willy turning away from the rug to look over with a weak nod. Eating and drinking properly was yet another matter that he’d been neglecting. By his bed sat a drawer containing his nightclothes, deciding to just shuffle on his rear over rather than walk.

Willy ended up deciding on his favourite pair, an incredibly soft magenta material. It had small gold buttons down the middle though, and he had a little trouble getting them done up. The fabric felt heavenly against his skin, the material reminding him of one of his mother’s old smocks. With his eyes closed he held the sleeve close to his cheek, just imagining the sweet smell of her perfume, a soft gentle tune being hummed.

On his bed he spied a familiar looking companion, a navy knitted toucan was peaking his beak from beneath the blanket. Willy pulling himself up to crawl onto his bed, carefully collecting his bird friend, Chester. Both button eyes looking up at his own red bloodshot ones from crying. He manoeuvred his wing to reach up and wipe his own eyes.

don’t cry willy, it’s okay

As Willy continued his imaginary conversation with the stuffed animal, Lofty re-entered the room. Holding a wooden tray with him, he couldn’t help a fond chuckle at seeing the man in some kind of whispered conversation with the inanimate object. Wonka heard said laugh though, head whipping around as he threw the plush behind him. His face burning scarlet, Lofty must find him so silly.

But the Oompa Loompa wasn’t phased in the slightest, shaking his head with a small knowing smile.

“I believe I’ve already met- Charles is it? Before, no need to throw him away in my presence”

He reassured indifferently with a shrug, Willy feeling a little better.

“Chester! name is Chester.”

He had to correct the mistake, frustrated that Lofty had once again forgotten his name. Lofty simply looked up and shook his head.

“My apologies Chester”

Willy then turned to pick up the toucan again, whose eyes had been a bit skewed by being thrown. Which gave him a very understandable expression of annoyance.

ouch! You’re lucky I didn’t split a seam there. Charles though huh? Makes me sound fancy, don’t mind it.

Willy held the bird close to his chest in apology, who thankfully was very forgiving. Lofty approaching and placing the tray on the side table. On it sat two drinks, one small mug of tea, and a glass bottle of what looked to be hot chocolate.

Willy blushed a little again at the sight of it, remembering it had been something Abacus had purchased for him. A rubber nipple was stretched over the neck of the glass bottle to keep it sealed.

“Abacus already warned me of your capability of spilling drinks when you’re feeling young, I thought especially right now, it’s what you need”

Lofty stated matter of factly, not willing to risk Wonka creating any more mess tonight. Willy looked down played with his fingers, feeling a bit torn on whether he wanted it or not. But before he could make a decision, Lofty caught sight of something, clicking his tongue.

“Oh for heavens sake let me fix those buttons, you’ve created quite a mess of it.”

Without hesitation he reached forward to fix them, unbuttoning and rebuttoning each row. Willy hasn’t even realised he’d buttoned each row into the wrong buttonhole, looking down to watch as Lofty small hands fixed the error. Chuffing to himself smugly when finished, Willy didn’t think he could feel any smaller. The simple action had sunk him even further into headspace, but he appreciated how Lofty took charge like this. There was no room for him to start second guessing or feel self conscious.

So when Lofty did offer the bottle afterwards, he didn’t hesitate and took it with both hands. It was hot, but not so hot that it burned. It was filled with a milky sweet hot chocolate, whilst Lofty sipped on his own dark mocha.

“Cmon, into bed now. I do say there may be a possibility of a story if you get settled quickly.”

With widened eyes Willy quickly scrambled beneath his blanket, he did love stories so. Abacus always read in his comforting baritone rumble, but he’d never had a story yet from Lofty. There was a small stack of hardback books piled underneath a shelf, yet another gift from Noodle. She knew how much Willy enjoyed books, whilst both little and big now. But he had a soft spot for these picture books, they were short and had easy rounded lettering.

Pointing at the stack once settled inside bed, Lofty began to sift through them. Smiling at the charming watercolour illustrations, each book was its own story but they seemed to all share the theme of the characters being animals who acted much the same as humans. Beginning to understand now that Willy struggled with decision making at the moment, Lofty chose one of the books himself. Settling on one which depicted a family of kittens performing household chores.

Willy smiled when recognising the title, reaching out to trace the covers illustration when Lofty perched on the bed beside him.

“Now are we all comfortable?”

Lofty turned to see the chocolatier tucked into bed, the small toucans beak hooked over the covers. Willy held the bottle in both hands, only realising now that he was quite peckish. The hot chocolate was soothing against his raw throat from crying, and he guzzled it down eagerly. Although he was quickly interrupted with a gentle nudge of the elbow from Lofty.

“You’ll give yourself hiccups again if you drink it too fast Wonka, it’s not going anywhere.”

He chastised, Willy releasing the grip on the bottle with a sheepish giggle. Lofty then returning to the book, reading out the title in a clear gentle tone.

“Five little Kittens…”

By the end of the story, the rest of the bottle had been drained to nothing. Willy loved the book, even more so with Lofty reading. He would often pause between pages to rely his own thoughts and comments, which made Willy laugh. Surprisingly Lofty also did voices! Lowering his pitch up and down for each of the different feline characters.

“Alright then, how about one more and you try get some rest.”

Lofty spoke quietly, wanting to settle the boy in hopes he would fall asleep. Willy’s eyelids were beginning to flutter, the hot chocolate having filled his belly with a bloom of warmth. Lofty just chose the next book in the stack, this one’s cover featuring a squirrel in a blizzard whilst he hid inside a tree trunk.

By the time that Lofty had gotten through the middle of the story, he heard a gentle rumbling from beside him. Willy Wonka completely out for the count, snoring softly with one hand still ahold of the glass bottle. It was an endearing sight, even Lofty couldn’t lie. With a fond chuckle, he laid a hand to gently stroke his brown curly hair from his face.

“I do say, I definitely prefer you like this.”

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harshdakadam · 7 months ago

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deepspaceboytoy · 8 months ago

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Into the Breach, part 1

The first shot rang out even before Corvus Nino raised his head above the trench line. The plasma round glassed a patch of dirt behind his head, and when he looked back at it, the fused soil reflected his helm lenses back at him, red like the sun filtered through Tremaine’s febrile atmosphere. His color decanus pulled him back below the lip of the trench as more sniper shots shrieked overhead, the superheated plasma rounds igniting the air around them.

All along the trench line, officers rendered anxious and nervy by the years-long siege took glances out into the hellscape separating Nino’s lines from the Igorians. A blasted, pitted ruin of bleached, sickened trees, left baking in the sun like skeletal totems, and broken, blasted-apart bodies, it was Nino’s responsibility to get his troops from one side to the other, and damn the risk of devastating casualties. It was not the first time this war saw an action like this required of him. It would certainly not be the last.

He checked the internal chronometer projected onto his field of vision by his helm’s onboard computer. Five minutes, he thought to himself, five minutes to see whether the 244th Drop Assault Legion survived the day. He shunted a data dump to his officers, filled with as much up to the minute recon intel as he could scrounge from what was left of Legion Intelligence’s sensor capabilities. It was woefully incomplete. They barely had terrain scans, let alone a picture of enemy numbers, positions, or armaments. All he knew about the Igorians was that he was going to lead his troopers into a withering hail of munitions.

“Shatriya, what do we think? Go time or call it off,” he questioned his executive officer, Captain Shatriya Demetrius Srinivasan, over a private comms line, careful not to let his friend hear the fear he could feel simmering inside him, burning steadily like the fusion reactor keeping his armor running.

“I think you need to stop worrying and get ready to get about it, Corv,” they replied, giving their rifle one last check before the order to go over the top. “Waiting’s only gonna make it worse. I say bite down and take what’s coming.”

“Pleasant phrasing there, Riya. You think it’s gonna be that bad? We’ve lasted this long, maybe 244 has a few more years left in it.”

Srinivasan grunted, either noncommittal or amused, though Nino tended towards the latter most times. “I don’t think any of us have a few more years. This world’s already dead, and it’s taking us with it,” they said, pointing to an ion supercell storm off on the horizon, marking the descent of another dead battleship falling from orbit. “You’ve got Imperial warships raining down like whale fall and sick earth beneath our feet. This place is a tomb,” they finished bitterly, helm lenses darkening briefly as they shifted suit power.

Nino’s own power armor ticked and whirred, damaged servomotors whining in protest whenever he moved. It was banged up, damaged goods just like everything else on Tremaine at this point. He thought-clicked through his onboard computer, the suit’s AI compiling and displaying a radar scan of his troops’ position. They were dug into the base of a plateau atop which sat Fort Zama, the floodlights ringing its defensive walls casting harsh light out over the barren earth in front of his trenches. Well beyond the trenches, you could see the faint pinpricks of light that marked the start of the Igorian lines, packed full of elite Fethtrite warriors.

He looked back to his captain, several responses on his mind. He thought he’d found the best one, a way to maybe open up to his closest friend, speak what had largely been unspoken between them, when the first alarm blared. The words died on his lips, unsaid.

Then everything else died around him. He was already up and over the wall, the first legionary out of the trench, his troopers streaming behind him, when the first defensive fire found his forces. Plasma batteries rained constant, arcing bombardments and fusion lances speared down into the tide of legionaries at his back. Black-armored giants were annihilated down to their constituent atoms, vaporized instantly by plasma munitions millions of degrees hot.

Nino’s command squad made it to the first rally point, midway into no man’s land, intact, his techcomm and color decanus dragging a few more legionaries into the blast crater Nino had marked out before the assault. A solid rain of eye-searingly bright plasma flew overhead, keeping them down close to cover. To his left, another squad of drop troopers hunkered in a shallow ditch. He was screaming orders to advance when a plasma bolo wrapped itself around the squad leader’s armored head, the twin explosives wiping the position clean of life. All that was left of his soldiers were a few smoking pieces of legionary armor.

He checked his legion’s progress against the tactical map displayed on his HUD, teeth gritting as he saw the casualty lists growing. Already, 7th Cohort’s 1st Maniple was gone, the few survivors instantly reassigned to other nearby units by Beatrix, his AI command assistant. Back at Fort Zama, she would be rapidly ingesting combat data from the suit computer of every one of his two hundred thousand troopers, giving him up to the minute intel.

They were taking steady casualties, but his forces were still advancing at speed. Most of his units had reached their assigned primary positions. The legion was ready for the final push. Nino shunted the order to his unit leaders, and it filtered out from there, a visible ripple in the Imperial line as the first units broke cover to pound their way across the remaining distance.

Nino’s squad cleared the crater, emerging back out into the blasted nightmare of no man’s land, onboard rad counters spiking as they passed a column of burnt out tanks, turned into rusting husks by Imperial artillery and fusion beamers. The irradiated wrecks turned their path into a maze, but one that mercifully provided cover from the storm of defensive fire flying overhead.

His boots pounded through mud and brackish puddles, stomping over the bodies of Igorians and legionaries alike, the remains of past, failed assaults left to rot between the opposing lines. He nearly caught himself on a half-submerged armored greave as he crested another crater, but Srinivasan caught him. He turned his head to nod thanks, but they were already pacing further ahead, legs pounding to cover the remaining distance.

All around him, other legionaries were doing the same, and the speed was having an effect. Tightly packed they may be, but the combination of power armor assisted speed and redoubtable armor plating kept more of his troops alive than he’d expected.

Ahead of him lay one last armored wreck, a superheavy siege tank, too big to go around. He lowered his shoulder, thundering his way into and then through the side of the monolithic vehicle, rusted armor first bending and then breaking, and he shot out the far side like a bullet.

He was looking into the face of an Igorian. He hadn’t realized just how far he’d come, already in sight of the enemy trench. He pounded out the last few meters before he and his command squad jumped as one into the Igorian line. He landed with a wet thud, armored book sinking into a blown open chest cavity as he came down hard on the reptilian warrior he’d been staring down just a second earlier. Immediately, his squad was in the thick of it, legionary battleplate and strength of arms carrying the day now that the volume of fire had slackened. The entire 244th Legion impacted as one against the Igorian lines with him, massive armored infantry simply driving over the first rank of Fethtrite soldiers.

Nino’s combat blade was deployed, jutting out from his wrist, the monomolecular edge flensing skin and severing arteries as he and his troops whirled through the overmatched defenders. He put two rounds into the skull of an Igorian lining up a shot on Srinivasan, the kinetic rounds shredding its head into a fine mist before lodging deep in the rear of the trench. His sword lashed out at an off-balanced fighter, cutting down through the shoulder and out the abdomen, viscera splashing across one of his troopers as the Igorian spun away, dead.

He took two glancing shots off his pauldron, turning on his heel to bear down on the Igorian who’d fired at him, batting the plasma caster out of its hands before he levered an armored fist through its face. His legionaries stalked this section of trench, killing enemies where they stood. Overhead, the first shells of a renewed Imperial bombardment flew past, landing several hundred yards ahead of Nino’s new position, blasting flowers of dirt, rock, and Igorian bodies hundreds of feet in the air. The bombardment lasted less than a minute, just enough to keep the second defense line’s heads down while Nino’s troops gathered themselves and finished clearing the first row of trenches.

Gunshots continued to sound out, legionaries breaching and clearing the extensive network of dugouts and pillboxes that dotted the forward line, mopping up the last pockets of Igorian resistance. Captured field guns and weapons emplacements were re-sited, positioned to face the second line of trenches, while legionary sniper teams began eliminating any Igorian gunners or officers they could see. All along the twelve kilometer long line, his troops were rechecking weapons, patching armor breaches, and securing what ammo they could from the bodies of fallen legionaries. Every round counted.

As the last few shells fell, Nino shunted the next order to his officers, and the trench line exploded with activity, tens of thousands of legionaries surging back out into the mined and boobytrapped land between the lines. Captured plasma lances gouged out sections of Igorian troops, searing light and superheated gas annihilating reptilian bodies where they stood.

Nino and his command squad ran through the maze of razor wire, tank traps, and minefields, dodging bursts of sun-hot plasma and high energy fusion beams. Inside his suit, the hairs on his arms and legs were raised, static-y from the constant discharge of legionary magnetic accelerators, the air heavy with electrical discharge. Already, ion arcs were leaping between his troops, blackening the paint on their armored pauldrons. This was where legionaries were most at home, riding the storm they generated as they thundered across no man’s land.

What few Igorian guns had been brought to bear did their best, reaping what toll they could as the armored infantry fell upon them, but it was not enough. The Legion’s charge wasn’t even slowed as they crested the last few hundred meters, falling like a wave across the secondary line.

The low hum Nino could just barely make out quickly shattered the illusion.

A shadow fell across his section of no man’s land, and instantly he knew doom awaited his soldiers. As the AV-14 Combat Armature hove into view, underslung macro-cannons swinging ponderously on its arms, it unloaded a torrent of smart missiles, hundreds of tiny engines bursting to life as they cleared the rotary guns. They fell amongst his charging troops, bursting armor plates open, cratering helms and breaking bodies. Scores of his soldiers lay dying already, and he could hear the telltale whir as the macro-cannons spun up again. Across the line, he could see other armored behemoths wading in amongst his warriors, bashing legionaries apart with their massive gunbarrels or stomping them into the mud with their huge, splayed feet. To his left, a micro-missile hit his quartermaster square in the faceplate, his head fountaining with gore and viscera, dead so fast his body took several more steps before it finally dropped.

Srinivasan looked at him, nodded once, and charged for the one weak point the armature had: its cockpit. The pilot saw it instantly, sweeping an arm into their path, knocking them aside and sending them flying back. It had given Nino the opening he needed. He sprinted, rocketing up to his full speed in the blink of an eye, and leapt, sailing through the air to land with a thud on the cockpit, combat blades extended, biting deep into the armored viewport, anchoring him to the armature. The warsuit shook, the pilot desperately trying to throw him off, but the blades were embedded deep in the internals of the suit. Nino imagined the pilot panicking, a thousand pounds of pissed off legionary inches from his face, frantically trying to find some means of dislodging him. He had to play his hand right, wait for his moment. The suit’s left arm briefly sagged, and he knew it had come.

In the same instant the pilot dropped his control stick to fire his sidearm, Nino retracted one of his swords and drove his fist as hard as he could into the armored, crystalline surface. The plasma shot glanced off his chestplate as his blade plunged into and then through the pilot’s cranium, bursting it like ripe fruit. The suit faltered, and then it toppled, Nino riding the fall back to the ground. He retrieved his rifle from where he’d dropped it, looking for any sign of Srinivasan in the muck. His captain rose slowly from the mud, and Nino could imagine the grin plastered across their face. His executive officer lived for this, the thrill of the charge and chaos of the melee.

Nino never saw the shot that blew Srinivasan’s head off.

#this one’s a long one #but I will genuinely be forcing myself to finish this story #and I’m gonna start posting 40k stuff too #but I think the writing posts will still primarily be original fiction stuff #so Victusverse #the victusverse #please for the love of Christ tell me what you think

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stardustrebels · 22 days ago

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On Paper - (Javi Gutiérrez x f!reader)

Pairing: Javi Gutiérrez x F!Reader Rating: 18+/ MDNI WC: 3.8k

A/N: A little later than I’d planned due to starting a new job, here is my entry for @mushgloomz PPCU smut challenge! I got Javi G and the boss/ secretary trope. Javi G to me, sweet baby angel that he is, has big subby energy, even if he is 'the boss', so I ran with that. This was fun to write, I hope it’s as much fun to read!! Enjoy :D Tags: Boss/ secretary, power dynamics, power reversal, submissive!Javi, Domme!Reader, workplace romance, Domme/sub dynamics,established relationship, everything is safe sane and consensual, light restraint, spanking, oral sex (f & m receiving), reader POV, minimal descriptions of reader, no use of y/n.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

The office was quiet, save for the tick of the carriage clock on the fireplace mantle opposite your desk. A single lamp on the corner of your desk cast the room in golden light that caught on the deep tan leather of the chairs, the warm wood of the bookshelves, and the delicate glass decanter Javi insisted should always be kept full, “just in case.”

Your heels sat discarded beneath the desk. One leg was tucked under you, your blouse sleeves rolled up, collar open more than usual. It was Friday. There was no one left to impress, and no one to see either.

Javi was out.

He’d been invited to some exclusive charity auction. A candle-lit affair held in a villa you couldn’t even find on Google Maps. He hadn’t been offered a plus-one. You hadn’t asked to go. It wasn’t part of your job. Not officially.

You wondered if he was enjoying himself. You hoped he was.

You could picture him too easily; you’d seen him in those environments so many times before. The flicker of the candlelight playing off his face, those expressive eyes a little too wide as he tried to pretend he belonged. He always looked as though he did, tailored to perfection with his self-effacing charm that made even the coldest investors pay attention. But you knew better. Knew how his hands fidgeted behind his back when he was introduced to new people. Knew he sometimes forgot to eat when he was anxious about making conversation for prolonged periods of time. Knew the weight of the mask he wore when he walked in to a room like that alone.

He’d been working so hard lately, you wondered if the mask had fused to his face.

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another; the film projects, his gallery opening, and the mounting pressure from investors. You’d watched it wear on him in slow, quiet ways. You thought back to when he wasn’t so tightly wound. When things felt easier, or maybe you both just felt more human.

Spain.

Late summer. The two of you standing barefoot in the tiled kitchen of a rented finca that smelled like orange blossom and sea salt, laughing over fruit he swore tasted better because he picked it. You remembered the way the juice dripped down your wrists, the sunlight catching gold in his eyes when he laughed. You’d both been hysterical, running around the counter, sticky hands reaching out, combined squeals of delight echoing off the surfaces around you when you’d collided and kissed the fresh citrus from each other’s tongues before collapsing on to the cool tiled floor, breathless with lust and laughter.

Then there was the long weekend in Paris— the rooftop bar he’d rented out just for the two of you because you’d once made an offhand comment about wishing you could watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle without other people around. He’d brought blankets and an absurd amount of wine, and fallen asleep half way through your third glass, head heavy on your shoulder, murmuring something soft in Spanish you hadn’t dared ask him to translate.

He’d been happy then. Or at least, less frayed around the edges.

Recently, his schedule had grown in to a tangle of meetings and calls that somehow always spilled past midnight, no matter how hard you tried to keep on top of it. Your carefully ordered calendar had become almost impossible to manage. It was no wonder you’d started staying later too, if only to make sure he was eating.

Still, there was something to look forward to. Your upcoming trip to Vienna.

Javi had booked it three weeks ago, and had been almost giddy telling you about it.

“Just us, “ he’d said, voice soft and hopeful. “No meetings. Not even a schedule. I promise.”

You hadn’t let yourself get too excited— not with the way things had been going. You might never make it to Vienna, but the idea of it tugged at a hope. A warmth that spread from deep inside your chest. The thought of cold air and Christmas markets, Glüwein in your hands, Javi’s fingers brushing yours, stolen kisses and snowflake- dusted noses bumping together. Getting warm by the fire, the look he would give you when he was totally at ease— those big brown puppy-dog eyes when he asked you in his sweetest voice to make him feel good. The swoop in your stomach before you steeled yourself, ready to take control. The whimpers and moans you could draw out of him while you teased and made him desperate while he promised to be good, just for you—

A soft click echoed through the room— the door unlocking. Your heart gave a strange little lurch and you blinked away the thought.

Javi was back.

The door swung open just enough to admit him, and you heard the snap of the lock once it had closed.

You resisted the urge to raise your eyebrow, harder when you heard his little exhale before he greeted you. When he turned, you almost ran straight for him, arms outstretched as if he could fall over at any second. His suit still looked impeccable, tie loosened only slightly, presumably in the car on the way over. His eyes gave him away. Glassy with exhaustion that you knew ran bone-deep. His mouth tugged in a faint attempt at a smile, but fell short of making his eyes crinkle in the way that you loved.

“You’re back early,” you said, matter-of-fact, lowering the screen of your laptop just enough to lessen the glare of it.

“I left,” he said, a little too fast. “It was—” his gaze dropped to the floor, then found yours again. “They won’t miss me.”

You gave him a soft click of your tongue in admonishment and snapped your laptop closed. “Have you eaten?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “Wasn’t hungry.”

Your brow raised then. “That’s not what I asked, Javi.”

His lips twitched. “No, I didn’t eat.”

You fixed him with a firm stare. “No, I didn’t eat, what?”

There was a pause, a couple of breaths that faded in to the tufted upholstery. More than enough time for him to change the tone if you’d read him wrong. An out. He considered you in the low lamplight, and you swore you saw his eyes start to sparkle.

“No, I didn’t eat, Mistress.”

He didn’t even flinch as he said it. If anything, he looked relieved.

“Come here,” you said, and he obeyed without hesitation.

He stepped around the desk until he stood in front of you, head bowed like he already knew what was coming.

You raised your hands and ran your nails down the back of his arms and back up— once, then again. Harder on the way down, you revelled in the twitch of his fingers. You leaned back in your chair and considered him for a moment, eyes following the line of his tie— silk, expensive, a deep shade of navy that brought out the warmth in his skin in the most gorgeous way. You took a slow breath before tilting your head up to him.

“Take your tie off.”

He swallowed, fingers pulling the silk from his collar as quickly as they could, looping the fabric over his fingers. You held your hand out and he placed the wound cylinder in your palm, tracing your fingertips deliberately as he moved his hand away.

You stood then, eye level with him in an instant, but his eyes didn’t meet yours, they stayed cast down on the chair behind you. It had been a while since you’d had the opportunity to do something like this, but you were pleased that he remembered the basics. Proud of him, even. You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple to let him know, and the way he shivered only fuelled the fire that had sparked to life within you.

“What you said,” you murmured, lips still close to his ear, “about no one missing you.”

Javi tensed, but only slightly, before nodding once. “I know.”

“You know what?”

“That I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Why not?”

His breath hitched. “Because it’s not true. And because I know how you feel about me talking like that.”

You took a few measured steps to move behind him, and gripped his jacket by the shoulders, before sliding it down his arms and discarding it over your chair. You leaned close enough to him that your chest brushed his back, tilting your head so that you could speak over his shoulder. “And how do I feel about it, Javi?”

He took a breath so deep his back pressed against you, grazing against your nipples that were hardening under your blouse. If you could see his face right now, you knew exactly what his expression would be. Vulnerable. Worshipful.

“You hate it,” he said, shuddering on the exhale.

You smiled, sure to adjust your tone so he could hear it. “Correct.”

You pressed him forward by the shoulders until his hands were flat on the desk, body bent just enough to feel controlled, but still safe, still in control of himself. You let him adjust for a beat, to drift from that mindset into a different one, before reaching for his wrists, one after the other, and encouraging him to rest his whole weight on the desk. You tied his wrists with his tie— loose enough to give if he needed it, and kissed the back of his neck when you were done. You bit back a smile when you felt goosebumps rise against your lips.

“You work so hard,” you murmured, fingers smoothing down his spine. “You wear yourself thin trying to be perfect for everyone else. You think I don’t notice when you disappear in to yourself?”

Your hand rested in the middle of his back, rising and falling with his rapidly increasing breaths. You scratched down through his shirt and the whimper he gave made your stomach flip.

“Answer me, Javi,” you said, resuming your smoothing motions up and down his back.

“No, Mistress. I know you notice,” he said, voice muffled by the surface of the desk, so lovely that you wanted to push his face harder against it.

“That’s right, I do. I always notice.”

Then your palm struck— sharp but measured— just below the swell of his ass. He jolted and gasped, but didn’t speak.

Another. A little harder.

“For the lie,” you said softly.

Another. “For not eating.”

And then a pause, your hand resting against the tender heat rising from his skin through his trousers. He was panting, knees trembling, fingers slipping as they grasped the silk of the tie around his wrists.

“And this one,” you murmured, “is for forgetting how much you’re wanted.”

The next swat made him moan— a shivery, deep sound that spilled out and rustled the papers on your desk.

“You’re always wanted, Javi. I want you all the time,” you said, fingers tracing soothing swirls against his ass cheek, which must have stung just a little.

He turned his head, cheek pressed harder with the effort to look at you. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and the look in his eyes nearly broke your heart.

“It’s alright Sweet,” you said, reaching over to caress his cheek, “I’ll make sure you don’t forget again. You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he rasped. “Promise.”

You smiled at him, then. It was genuine, but full of lust. It must have shown in your eyes because something shifted in his. He no longer looked tired— just pliant.

You gave him a moment, let him stay folded over your desk, wrists bound in silk. It was a good look for him, you had to admit. You kept your hand on the base of his spine as his eyes closed and his breaths evened out, just enough pressure to remind him that you were still there, that you’d take care of him. That you knew exactly how to make him feel good, even if he didn’t always know to ask.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Javi,” you murmured, voice honey-toned. “Bent over my desk. You’re happy to take whatever I give you, aren’t you?”

He whimpered again— a sound so wrecked it made your thighs press together.

You gave him a light swat on the ass. “I asked you a question, Sweet.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Javi whined, “Fuck. Yes.”

Your hands travelled down to ghost over the shape of his ass. He shuddered beneath your touch, breath catching as your fingers dipped between his thighs. Not quite cupping, just grazing.

“Please,” he moaned, pressing back in to your hand. You tilted your head to look round at his face. His eyes were closed and his jaw was slack against the wood of the desk. You didn’t think he even knew what he was begging for.

You rewarded his manners by tugging his shirt untucked, working around his bound wrists with extra fervour, jolting him in a way that made him whimper. You pushed the shirt up and peppered kisses to his lower back, drinking in the gasp he made with each one. You reached around and worked the button of his slacks open. The zipper followed, torturously slow. You let the trousers fall to his knees, revealing taut muscles and the outline of his need, straining against his boxers.

“Look at you,” you cooed. “Hard already. Just from a few words and a couple of spanks.”

He groaned at that— an honest, needy little sound that made your breath hitch too.

You moved so that your body was flush against his, one hand resting on his waist, the other tracing the line of his balls through the straining fabric of his underwear.

“You want to be touched,” you murmured, “Don’t you, Sweet?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me, Mistress. I missed you so much. I need this, I need you—”

You moved your fingers to dip beneath the waistband of his underwear, shifting forward just enough to tease. “I missed you too, baby.”

He whined again and you could hear the desperation laced within it. God, he was so pretty when he was like this.

Your hand dipped lower, cupping him, applying just enough pressure to make his knees buckle. He gasped and his head thunked against the desk with the jolt, back arching to your touch. You didn’t stroke, not yet.

“I’ve missed this,” you whispered. “Missed how you feel when you’re hard for me.”

You pulled his underwear down just enough to slip his cock over the waistband. He breathed a muffled ‘fuck’ against the hardwood and you smiled, adjusting your fingers against him. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, already leaking. He bucked into the touch with a desperate little groan.

“Ah-ah. No moving,” you said, tightening your grip.

You waited a few seconds, earning another needy whine from him, before starting to stroke him. Long, languid passes of your hand, just enough pressure to make him squirm.

You pressed gentle kisses to his shoulder through the shirt, other hand smoothing up to cradle the back of his neck.

“That’s it. Look how perfect you are for me.”

He moaned and you felt his thighs start to tremble again.

“Are you close already?” You teased.

“I think so,” he gasped. “You make me feel so good—”

You let go.

The noise he made when you released him was positively sinful— a broken, high whine of disbelief and need. His hips jerked forward, trying to chase the touch, but you placed a firm hand on his lower back to still him.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “Not yet. You have to earn it”

You helped him upright, pulling the tie so that it loosened and fell from his wrists and shimmied between him and the desk.You adjusted positions so that your skirt shimmied up with each shuffle of the hips until it was almost at the top of your thigh.

His eyes were blown, lips parted as he tried to regulate his breathing. Although you’d done this many times before— played like this— he always looked at you like he couldn’t believe it was happening. You caught his chin between your fingers, tilting it until his gaze met yours.

“On your knees,” you said, voice low and sensual.

He didn’t hesitate. He never did when you used that tone. He lowered himself as gracefully as he could with his trousers bunched at his ankles, eyes locked on yours as he did. You brushed your thumb across his cheek and felt the tension in his jaw melt under your touch.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmured. He let out a shuddering breath at the praise and swallowed hard. You smirked down at him and continued. “You remember how you can earn permission to cum?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

You slid your skirt higher and spread your legs, letting him see that you hadn’t put on any underwear that morning before you left for the office.

“You’re going to take your time and savour every second, aren’t you?.”

“Yes, Mistress, please let me taste you,” he whined, voice rough with want. You smiled— Javi was always to easy to read when he was like this. So responsive. So eager.

You slipped one hand through his hair, threading through the soft waves along his forehead, and guided him to where you needed him. You coaxed him, lavished him with praise for every kiss, every flick of his tongue, every desperate, loving sound he made in to your core. You came on his tongue with a cry of his name and a frantic breath of praise. You kept a hand in his hair the whole time, and when the time came to let him beg again, when he was so close to his own release that he trembled with it, you drew him back and gave him time to breathe. Again. And again.

His face was slick with you, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles to get there. You wiped your thumb across the corner of his mouth, collecting a smear of wetness, and brought it to your lips. He groaned low in his throat, and closed his eyes, closing away the pleading glaze in his beautiful brown eyes.

“Such a mess,” you said fondly, smiling when your tone made him jerk his hips toward you with want before he caught himself and stopped. “And so patient. So good.”

“Fuck, I’m—” He gritted out, fists clenching with the effort of not bucking his hips. “I’m trying— trying so hard,” he whispered, voice dripping with need.

“I know, baby.” You leaned down, just enough for your lips to touch his. “Don’t worry, I’ll reward you for your efforts.”

You gestured for him to stand and guided him in to the leather chair beside the desk.

“Keep your hands on the arms,” you instructed. “No touching.”

He obeyed, fingers curling around the leather, squeezing in to it so hard that it creaked. His cock stood flushed and leaking against his stomach, and you swore under your breath at the sight, before dropping to your knees between his thighs.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” you said, lips ghosting over his inner thigh. “And you’re going to hold still and take it. Can you do that for me?”

Javi nodded, his jaw ticking with the effort not to beg to come.

“Words, sweet. Use your words.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy,” you smiled, and licked the head of his cock. A soft flick of your tongue over the precum already gathered there. He cried out, hands tightening on the chair. You started with long, slow licks. Deep, wet kisses to the base. Gentle suction just where he liked it— just enough to drive him mad, and then you let go when he got too close. Again and again, edging him until his thighs trembled and tears gathered in his lashes. Until he could do nothing but beg— please, please, please let me come, please— and so you finally, finally decided to show mercy.

“Are you going to come for me?” You said, mouth hovering over the head of his cock, smiling up at him as he nodded. You nodded back. Once, giving him permission. His head rolled back as he groaned a string of frantic thank yous and you moaned as your lips sank over his cock once more.

You took him deep, one hand stroking in time with your mouth, the other pressed flat to his trembling stomach to hold him in place— and when he came, it was with a broken moan of your name, hips stuttering, fingernails leaving crescent shapes in the arms of the chair.

You didn’t stop until he was shuddering from overstimulation, gently pulling away to press soft kisses to his thighs, his stomach, his hips. You stood, wiping the corner of your mouth, and leaned down to press a slow, deep kiss against his lips. He was utterly boneless beneath you, completely spent.

You rested your forehead to his, and when he finally opened his eyes to meet yours, they were soft, glassy and wide with adoration. You cupped his cheek and peppered kisses against his lips, nose and cheek, drawing a satisfied hum from him.

“Are you with me?” You mumbled. He reached for you, fingers brushing against yours lovingly.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I’m with you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “You did so well for me.”

A noise escaped him at that, a sigh of incredulity, and he blinked, smiling in a way that finally reached his eyes. He reached for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you down into him with what little strength he had left. You allowed yourself to fall against his chest, knowing that he found your weight grounding.

His breathing began to slow, the tension pouring out of him with every even exhale. After a few moments, you shifted just enough to press a kiss over his sternum, then his shoulder, trailing slow, tender touches wherever your mouth could reach. You made it to his jaw and shifted to move.

“I’ll get you some water,” you murmured. “Stay right here.”

He let out a small noise of protest, clinging a moment longer before releasing you with a reluctant sigh. You moved quickly, returning with a bottle of water, and a blanket from the couch on the other side of the room.

He drank, then leaned in to your hand when you brushed his hair back, a sleepy hum of contentment leaving him as he and laced his fingers with yours and held them on his chest, right over his heart. You pressed a kiss to his temple, settling in his lap as you had been before, and he was quiet for a while before he stirred and whispered something that made your heart skip.

“I can’t wait for Vienna.”

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