#he started drums and. wip. that’s all.

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[drabbles-mc]

Lucky For You

Tyler Owens x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+, fluff, mentions of hospitals/injuries, no use of "y/n"

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: earlier tonight i lied to myself and said i wouldn't work on any new oneshots until i finished a wip. but I've been marinating on this idea since last week and i just had to write it down. just a short cute little fluffy somethin'! my first twisters fic. hope you enjoy!

You were shaking your head as you walked back over to the side of the picnic table that Tyler was sitting at. You had a beer bottle in one hand, the other resting on Tyler’s shoulder as you stepped in so you could plop back down beside him at the table.

“I’m still trying to figure out what you guys told Lily to say,” you gestured to Lily then Kate with the bottom of your beer bottle before taking a quick sip, “to get Kate to cave so quickly.” You gave Lily a playful smile. “What’d you say to convince her? Hm? ‘Cause lord knows it wasn’t either of these two,” you said as you nodded to Tyler first, then Boone.

Both men looked at you with dramatic looks of offense. “What?” Tyler asked, grin starting to curl his lips as he spoke. “You don’t think we were charming or convincing enough on our own?”

You rolled your eyes as he draped his arm around you. “No, I don’t.”

It got another wave of laughter. Tyler took the momentary distraction as an opportunity to lean in and kiss your temple. “Seemed to work just fine on you.” He reached across and stole your beer bottle from you, taking a sip before allowing you to snatch it back. “And you said yes to a way more dangerous proposition.”

You shook your head even though you were smiling, even though you could feel your cheeks warming. It was no great secret, or even breaking news at this point after the last few years you’d spent married to the ridiculous man sitting on the picnic table bench next to you. Sometimes, though, you couldn’t help the cheesy grin that crossed your face when you became a little more aware than usual of the wedding band on your hand.

“That’s different,” you said, not that it mattered, not that it helped your case at all as Tyler continued to nettle you good-naturedly.

“How’d you two meet, anyway?” Kate asked.

It was a fair question. You didn’t chase with the rest of them, never had. You’d met and fallen in love with Tyler before he decided to make a career out of it. The journey wasn’t always a smooth or easy one, but you never doubted him, or your relationship, not even for a second. Even in the hard times. A lot can happen over the course of six years, but you still clearly remembered when you first met him.

Tyler had started watching you the second he realized where Kate’s question was going. He watched the little twitches and shifts of your hands and facial expressions as you went rapid-fire back down memory lane. When you ended up with a little smirk on your face, he knew that you were all too happy to tell the story.

You took another drink from your beer bottle before just handing it back to Tyler, rather than trying to make him steal it again. “When I met Tyler, I’d say about, oh, seventy percent? Yeah, seventy. About seventy percent of his face was covered in bruises and bumps. Fractured cheekbone, split lip.” You turned and looked at him even though you were talking to Kate. “He was lookin’ real cute.”

She laughed, but you could see the mild confusion in her eyes as she looked back and forth between the two of you. “You find him after a rough chase, or…?”

You smiled and shook your head. “We met back before he was the infamous Tornado Wrangler.” Leaning forward, you braced your arms flat on the picnic table, Tyler’s hand sliding from your shoulder down to the center of your back, his palm warming you through your tank top. “They brought him to the hospital that I work at after he got stomped out by a bull at the rodeo.” You felt his fingers drumming against your back and your smile stretched a little wider. “I wasn’t even supposed to be checkin’ in on anyone in the wing he was in, but the nurse who was supposed to help discharge him had to leave.”

Tyler had a cocky little smirk on his face. “Lucky for you though.”

You gave him a look that didn’t pack nearly as much of a punch as it should of since you were grinning. “Yeah, real lucky for me that Jay’s kid got in a fight at school so he had to leave and he left you to me.”

Tyler laughed. “He was cute but I gotta say, I think you’re a little cuter.”

You gave him a playful shove, which he responded to by looping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer again. You shook his head at him before looking back at Kate. “Anyway, as I was saying. I go into his room to talk through some of the paperwork with him, and with one eye practically swollen shut still this man right here is tryin’ to get my number.”

“Actually, if I remember right—”

“You were concussed into next Tuesday—I doubt you remember much of anything right.”

“If I remember,” he repeated with a laugh, “I was actually tellin’ you that you should just jot my number down from my patient forms so you could call me sometime.”

You looked at Kate with a feigned nonplussed look. “Told me somethin’ about making a ‘house call’. Real bold for a man who was about half an inch away from some serious brain damage.”

“Probably what gave him the confidence to ask in the first place,” Lily piped up with a laugh.

Everyone was laughing, and listening. Kate might’ve been the only one in present company who hadn’t heard the story before, but it wasn’t as though it was something that the two of you were constantly rehashing all the time. The two of you usually kept the retellings amusing enough anyway, allowing the rest of the crew to throw in their two cents even though they hadn’t been there when it all started. After all, Tyler might’ve been the one you met first, and under some pretty dire conditions, but you’d been around to help out the rest of the team plenty of times since then. Whether you were making sure they were all alright after a rough chase, or meeting up with them in the towns that had been blown through to see who you could help even if you weren’t off the clock. You might not have chased with the rest of them, but you were still part of the team.

“How long did it take for him to wear you down, then?” Kate asked.

 The shit-eating grin on Tyler’s face grew tenfold. He lightly bumped his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead. Tell her.”

You dropped your forehead so that it rested on top of your forearms for a moment before looking up and at Kate again. “I gave him my number after I pushed him to the lobby in his wheel chair.”

“Doctor’s orders, by the way,” he interjected with a shake of his head. “I didn’t need it.”

You rolled your eyes but kept going. “He was pretty persistent the whole way down, so I told him if he still remembered my name and number by the time his fractures all healed up, I’d meet him for a cup of coffee or somethin’.”

“Cup of coffee ended up bein’ a split six-pack and a failed bonfire at her cousin’s place, by the way,” he added on with a chuckle.

“Yeah, and your lip still wasn’t fully healed.”

He smirked. “Didn’t stop you though.” You lightly swatted his chest with the back of your hand but you didn’t say anything to refute his statement. “So really, what I’m hearin’, is that you shouldn’t be havin’ any doubts about our charms.”

“Sayin’ yes to a date is nothing like—”

“You also said yes to marryin’ him,” Lily added on, always happy to stir the pot just a little. “Y’know, with the ring that he almost lost in a chase.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “If I left it at home I was sure she’d find it!”

“Yeah,” Lily laughed as she argued, “and if the chase went wrong somebody on the other end of the county would find it. Then what?”

Tyler laughed and shrugged. “Corner store sells Ring Pops.”

You had no shot at tamping down your smile. “Prob’ly still would’ve said yes, too.”

(divider by @saradika 💞)

Twisters Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added to any of my taglists): @garbinge

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “SWEET LIKE NECTAR.”

— #. synopsis. because to whitney, there’s nothing prettier, downright satisfying to gaze upon the rosy cheeks you adopt in response to the invasive questioning, that pride of yours so amusing to patiently chip away at, piece by piece. in fact, if you could, you’d evade it altogether though that would mean defeat, wouldn’t it? and there’s nothing you detest more in this shitty world than to fucking lose.

— #. content warning! step-cest, dub-con, anal fucking, nipple sucking, some light degradation here and there as in the use of ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ , referring to whitney’s chest as ‘tits’ , big brother whitney being a bitch, loser male reader being an even bigger one in that respect and fuck, did I forget anything else?

— #. word count? 5.2k, if I remember correctly. this is a repost.

— #. something more to say, asher? : “I couldn’t help myself. had to bring back the classic onto here, y’know. ruining whitney’s slutty hole never gets old, specially big brother.”

Moreover, you should’ve probably have expected this one measly question to slip past your older brother’s lips, leering gaze openly taking your conflicted expression in as if taunting you to properly answer. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? ‘Course not, like you could anyway. He’d see right past it like he usually does, testing the waters — he’d call it, laying out the fresh bait for your conscious little self to latch onto immediately.

Because to Whitney, there’s nothing prettier, downright satisfying to gaze upon the rosy cheeks you adopt in response to the invasive questioning, that pride of yours so amusing to patiently chip away at, piece by piece. In fact, if you could, you’d evade it altogether though that would mean defeat, wouldn’t it?

And there’s nothing you detest more in this shitty world than to fucking lose.

Especially to this one bastard. Too damn nosy to discreetly mind his own business, y’know? Always the one to hover too close for comfort, bated breath feathering delicately against the soft skin of your flushed ear, to keep you tightly on edge. Long past that, it’s starting to get on your nerves how self-assured he is in his flawed reasoning, simply since he had you sloppily suck him off once on the worn couch and now, it’s what? Only natural to drag you around like some sort of thoughtless puppy? Shamelessly refer to you as his trained, little bitch who’ll get on his knees for the right price?

Gotta be fucking kidding then.

It was the alcohol. Nothing, but the intoxicating substance drumming along your veins that had you act in such a debauched manner, had your painfully hard cock straining against the front of your pants. Yeah. Right? That’s all there was to it. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what you keep insistently reminding yourself of despite the growing, churning heat in your stomach, the not-so-subtle twitching of your hardening cock stirring beneath your ripped jeans or the individual droplets of sweat gently trickling down the navel of your slouched back. Alright, keep fucking lying to yourself then. Surely that’ll help you with your current predicament that you’ve stuck yourself into, muddied foot deep within the shallow trenches and a solid grasp firmly placed around your ankle, threatening to snap your dignity in half.

“Well?” Visibly irritated by your lack of answer, it’s Whitney’s increasingly impatient, snappy voice that unfortunately draws you back from your spiralling calculations — whether to respond with the humiliating truth or not. Can’t let it go, can he? Hence why he so nonchalantly has you sat on his used bed, the rusted springs hidden beneath the dusty mattress alerting your every subtle movement with a distinct creak reverberating through the thin walls.

“Well, what?” Idiot, you know very damn well what he’s getting at, it’s not like you suffer from some sort of amnesiac disease to utilise cluelessness and have him fooled with such blatant tactics.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Should be wiping that snide, awful smirk that instantly appears on his face as he carelessly articulates the question once more. Shameless in his pursuit, hungrily eyeing you up and down like an untouched piece of meat to greedily feast upon, sink his pearly, white fangs into.

Oh, thank the heavens that you weren’t consuming any sort of liquid right this moment because it would’ve been shot straight out of your throat, maybe your nose even considering the absurd sentence from your very own brother — step-brother, to be exact. Still in denial that you two could potentially call each other family, far too homely of a term than the puzzling relationship you both share. Speaking of, you haven’t replied to his question yet and by the looks of it, he isn’t looking too pleased with you if you were to stretch this on any further than it should be.

“N-No, I’ve actually fucked my fair share of girls.” Oh yeah, he’s definitely believing you with that stuttering, the uncertainty all too evident in your tone that only a complete, utter moron would’ve fallen for it. Fucking liar. It wasn’t as though you were entirely lying though, having indeed fucked a girl before, but does it really count if that same person were to be your younger sister, Kylar? At most, you’ve had your decent amount of experiences with others, dated a few girls here and there which is to be acceptable for the average boy of your age. However, beyond the intimate acts of holding hands and bashful kissing, you remained oblivious to the process of well, sex — save for the over the top, raunchy porn you’d occasionally watch and that sole encounter with Kylar that taught you far more than any cheap film ever could.

So, it’s still reasonable, is it not? Though this is Whitney you’re directly dealing with and you know better than to assume he’d take plain ‘no’ for an answer, often brash in his selfish desires. No, more like every time whenever he does act, it leads up to the very same, repetitive situation you’ve familiarized yourself to. You, beneath him. You, helpless in the face of his cruel actions.

Not this time though — fuck, that nasty, little scheme of yours slowly, but ever so surely lurking within the depths of your working mind, grateful for the blonde’s clear ignorance of the shit you were ready to commit to regain that minuscule shred of dignity back. None the wiser, preferring it’d remain that way.

And he can only sharply scoff back to your half-assed attempt at muttering obvious falsehoods. Too cunning of a bastard and god, does it mess with you. “Bullshit. You think I’d believe that? Fuckin’ cmon, admit it. You’ve never really fucked a girl before, huh?” That sickening, creeping nausea steadily filling the depths of your guts from the way he so arrogantly taunts you through his ‘light-hearted’ insults, inadvertently painting you as some sort of virgin loser that never so much as had the slightest chance of growing affectionate with another woman. Fucked your goddamn sister so that’s a one-up on you, huh? Hell, you know better than to let such an obscene admission escape you — since she’s your sister now too, that innocence you so greedily stripped away that one faithful evening within the four corners of her room.

Rather not indulge in such sinful thoughts at the moment, not when your prolonged silence is only confirming his self-righteous suspicions to which he so stubbornly convinced himself of. Knowing better than to reason with your older brother, it’s merely when you do finally relent with a reluctant nod of your head — still maintaining a thin layer of deceit, mind you — that his smug grin widens considerably in return. “So you’re an unused slut, basically.” Choice of words never was the delinquent’s forte, but his crude, frank vocabulary certainly is as he so eloquently puts it. “Hah — I fuckin’ knew it. Wouldn’t be cumming so quickly if you weren’t.” He huffs back in amusement at the sight of your apparent fluster, always so damn squirmy whenever he playfully pokes fun at one of your concealed insecurities. Oh, you really don’t know the dizzying effect you have on him, do you?

The numerous nights spent lazily fisting the base of his cock underneath the woollen covers placed over his bare, sweating body to at the very least obscure his depraved actions — not that he cared much whether he was scandalously caught or not. Much so, he’d prefer if it were you to coincidentally’ walk in on him mid-jerk off session, land a helping hand to big brother and let him use you however he saw fit. Fuck, yeah. That’d aid him in his ever growing lust for you, borderline animalistic in how he addictively sought you out as expected, like a sweet, sweet drug longing to be taken. A sweet nectar freshly ripe for the taking, plucked free from the gracious buds of the tree to gratefully sink his fangs into and savour the refreshing taste lingering on his tongue.

Feels so right to defile your prudish self, doesn’t it? So, don’t blame him then. Don’t blame him when he suggests— no, coldly orders you to strip off your damn pants which prompts another gaping stare of yours to the sudden command. Handsome, but so, so clueless, aren’t you? Needs to tell you to do everything for your sluggish brain to eventually catch up to his ever approaching rhythm, cocky grin plastered onto his lips signalling that your step-brother is indeed not kidding around as per usual.

“What’re you waitin’ for? I said, strip.” It’s not a gentle reminder nor a well-intentioned push in the right direction, it’s a repeated warning of his thinly veiled frustrations peeking its way through, past the useless restraints he placed onto himself when he could easily be given what he’s wanted. Not without force, though that is in Whitney’s nature to be as rough as possible, having grown accustomed to things going his way whenever he inevitably turned to bloodied brutality. After all, the bully doubts so himself that you don’t furtively desire this all the same too, conflicted movements headed towards the leathered loop of your belt as you willingly comply as tasked to. Good boy, knew you had it in y’a.

“Do I really gotta do this?” If it weren’t for the pretty, pink flush adorning the entirety of your face right now, your older brother would’ve definitely snapped back with a snarky remark of his own, however the sight itself is enough to let him have your dumb self uselessly hope a little further. What does it look like, little brother? Has Whitney ever backtracked on his truthful words?

“Yeah, you gotta cuz’ I told you to. Now just fuckin’ do it already, slut. I don’t got all day.”

“..Fine.” Having fully predicted such a response, heavy shoulders slouching lazily in defeat from the refusal, you shyly carry on with the clumsy strip tease of yours. Can never get your way with him, can y’a?

Goddamn it, shamefully reprimanding yourself for even following suit to his harsh retort though, can you really blame yourself? He’s got you — fucking, trained you like a dog. That’s what it is, a stupid, dumb mutt that can’t help but intrinsically cave in to its depraved instincts as his rightful owner happily taught him to, mindlessly huffing and wagging its fluffy tail to the sugary sweet praise whispered to him. Conditioning you to his every whim as a promising, rewarding treat awaits in exchange for your dutiful obedience, not bothering to keep your remaining underwear either. Big brother knows best, huh? Look at that pitiful expression etched along your features, averting gaze straying away from his piercing own that’s settled precisely on the drooling tip of your fat, twitching cock dribbling out an alarming amount of pre-cum. How you resist the underlying temptation to automatically press your legs together, denying Whitney of that upfront, perverted view of your spread thighs. So damn easy to get you riled up in a matter of seconds when a tight, warm hole is involved in the filthy equation.

As ensured, you’ll receive as you wish, pup. Only natural to fulfill what you so gravely desire when you’ve been so good so far, right? Offer you the bearing fruits of your well-earned efforts in return while you thoughtlessly salivate over the mere idea, yeah?

“Whitney, this is kinda embarrassing..” Kinda? Practically humiliating to display yourself so lewdly like this, however not as if you hadn’t experienced this rarely either in the past few weeks that steadily transpired. Should’ve grown used to it by now, actually. Still, the lingering shyness of brazenly exposing yourself like this was too much to bear at times, especially with the other’s daunting ogling. Really has to unabashedly eye-fuck you every single time or something. It’s.. somewhat flattering to be throughly appreciated like this despite instinctively knowing it’s out of pure, utter objectification.

Aimlessly losing yourself in the middle of your straying thoughts, it’s the recurring shuffling of fabric carelessly being thrown onto the wooden, creaking floor that draws you back to the hazy reality before you. Fuck, a wet dream is a far more suitable term with how this is stereotypically playing out, the confident, sure movements of your older brother’s calloused hands busying themselves with the hem of his waistband and — oh, he’s surely tugging his sweats down, okay. His.. fucking dick, god — how didn’t you conveniently notice how rock hard his cock was beneath that cotton thin material? Leaving you to breathlessly gawk at the free view of Whitney’s drooling tip roughly smacking against the tensed muscles of his stomach, briefly connecting strings of pre-cum to meld with his cooling sweat. Retaking that relaxed, slouched position along the single bed as if he isn’t currently stark naked in front of your unmoving eyes. That distracting to you, huh? Horny mutt.

“Like what you see, slut?” That fucking conceited tone of his makes you want to respond with anything but an affirmative yes, though through the thick lump you swallow down your throat, it’s the muted nod of your head that further serves him to grin widely in satisfaction. Wanna prove him wrong so badly, so damn so. Yet, how can you when he’s shown you all the reasons not to?

Should’ve been paying closer attention then, baby brother. How your brain immediately shuts off in a haze of confusion, numbing static prickling at your empty mind once the blonde instead settles himself comfortably onto your awaiting lap. “Fuckin’ nice seat.” Would’ve been a more comedic remark if it weren’t for the provoking press of his bare ass flush against your pulsing cock, questionably twitching in approval from the brief physical contact. Christ, get a grip on yourself, you moron but, oh — Fuck. You could just.. fucking slip it in and it wouldn’t hurt to let Whitney take the lead as predicted, greedily relish in the slippery warmth fervently welcoming you? Since at the end of the day, you’re just a man, no? A simple man with stupidly horny urges and needs to gratefully sink his cock into the nearest wet hole that merely happens to be his big brother’s whorish one.

Still, that portion of your mind beckons you to reason along with the weirdly alluring pull of plainly muttering out fuck it, shove it in and— and, do the nastiest shit possible, y’know? Yeah, you should do it. Actually, no. No way in fucking hell should you proceed with it. Uselessly humping your hips upwards with a sickening jolt that draws a relieving sigh from the both of you. Stop it, you pervert. You’ve become no better than him, have you?

“W-What’re you doing..?” Is all you can pathetically muster to his blatantly obvious actions, knowing full well what he’s truly doing. Riling you up. Teasing along the edges of your withering limits till it collapses fully onto the ground. It’s what he does best, driving you insane on the daily from school, to outside, to home and his room you frequently pay visits to at night.

“What does it look like I’m doin’? I’m about to fuck your cute cock, pretty boy.” Pretty. Ah, that shouldn’t be your main focus with how he announces it so casually, essentially admitting he’s planning to ride you. Struggling to grasp onto the foreign concept of him, well— being on the receiving end of sex. Doesn’t he like, usually prefer to be the one in the dominant position? In fact, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he had selfishly decided to fuck your ass next, fill it to the brim with his seed. Yet, here he is, contently rubbing himself on your flushed, oozing tip, swearing gently as it barely grazes his puckered hole, thoughtlessly clenching around practically nothing. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m only doing this to stake my claim on you, alright? Not fuckin’ fair if some bitch gets to fuck your virgin dick first so, hah— I’m making you into a proper slut. My slut.”

Very convincing, Whitney. Not so much so when he’s shuddering eagerly above you like a man about to be given the slightest taste of heaven itself, namely your cock it seems. Hot. Shit, it is a pretty hot sight, you’ve gotta admit.

So, is this purely a flimsy excuse of his to fuck himself stupid on your dick? Need that much to blindly persuade you he isn’t some sort of drooling cockwhore deep down? Nice try, big brother. Well, you can effortlessly see through his nonchalant act, the barely discernible, rosy flush dusting along his cheeks confirming his secretive, depraved and filthy desires simmering deeply within his core.

“Fuckin’ — ah, help me put it in already.” The resounding gasp escaping him is so breathy, so unlike the dominant, assertive Whitney you’ve familiarized yourself with that your lethargic brain hardly registers his direct order, sounding more like a frantic plea than anything else. Put it in? The little, stuck-up bastard is having difficulty sliding it in, resorting to your aid to lend a helping hand to his futile struggles? That’s cute. The indiscernable trace of a smirk beginning to form onto your lips from his uncharacteristically submissive demeanour, still withholding a decent amount of control in this situation here. Ah, what’re you even saying? He’s given you full leverage to wreck his tight, little hole as you happily please, fuck yourself deeper in that wet warmth you’ve been subconsciously seeking out. You’re the one cupping him within the palm of your hand, oddly contented with this newfound revelation, this switch of power dynamics.

“Can’t you put it in yourself then. It’s not that hard, is it? You’re the one always wanting to everything so I think it’s only fair you do it.” Indulging in the scowl that appears shortly on his straining features only to dissolve under another one of his tough exteriors. “Fuck, you want me to? Can’t put it in yourself, huh?” He counters snidely, grasping for the bottle of lube conveniently placed on the night dresser nearby, accompanied by barking out a sharp huff of laughter as you cuss out loud a fuck! from the cooling, sticky mixture squirted plainly onto your cock.

“Shit! That’s cold! Why’d you pour it on me? Aren’t you supposed to put it in your— y’know? Your—“ Pausing bashfully in your tracks, immaturity running so deeply you couldn’t even properly stammer out the term if you wished to.

“My what? My ass? I’m not putting that in there, I can fuck myself on your cock just fine without that crap.” Lewd. That’s so lewd how he outwardly states it, blazing face hidden behind your cupped palms as though such a gesture would make this alright, make whatever he’s doing — smoothly grinding on the tip of your lubed, quivering length, how his hole teasingly snatches onto your flushed, leaking cock head only to disappointingly let go again. Fuck, fuck — Fuck. Doing this on purpose, isn’t he? Intent on driving you mad before he even manages to shove it in.

But, as previously stated before, there’s nothing you hate more than to lose, don’t you?

Really, he should be the one blaming himself for your rash and impulsive movements, shouldn’t be letting out that surprised yelp, silenced by a high-pitched gasp as you finally have had enough of his provoking mockery to mutter out a sharp fuck it and drive your increasingly impatient cock right in. Head stupidly thrown back in sheer shock from the unfamiliar yet admittedly pleasurable sensation of having his tight, virgin hole stuffed full of your cock right about now. Clear outline of your entire length pulsing deep within him by the noticeable quivering of his toned tummy, which you don’t hesitate to firmly plant your palm against to draw another satisfying, strangled whimper past his lips. Whore.

“Ah, fucking shit— You’re so fucking tight. Relax a bit for me or I can’t move.” Might as well be snapping your dick in half from the unbearable clenching of his unused insides, warm insides that you’re pervertedly staining white with every glide of your forceful thrusts, every harsh slam of your hips against his ass. Can’t stop yourself though — God, no. Not when the addictive heat of his hole envelops you so damn fucking well, rendering you both to mindlessly cling onto each other, entangled bodies slick with hot sweat trickling steadily down the navel of your arched backs. Namely his. And oh, he really does feel so good. Never mind all the shit he’s done, the stingy tugs of his fists deep within your messied hair, urging you to fuck yourself deeper into his trembling frame. This is the sweet taste of revenge you’ll so dearly savour, hungrily imprinting every choked moan to memory for later reminiscing.

Isn’t he so cute too? Tightening fingertips digging harshly into your shoulders for proper stability, an immediate roll of his eyes to the back of his skull whenever you angle your hips to hit that overly sensitive spot that sends a sickening jolt up his spine. Bound to be leaving marks, though that’s the least of your concerns with how goddamn pretty he looks when fucked stupid, fucked utterly brainless to match the feverish haze of his glazed over eyes. “See? I think you secretly enjoy it, Whitney. I think you— hah, fuck — enjoy that I’m taking the lead for once. ‘S that it? You like havin’ my cock inside you, huh? Like it when your little brother fucks you?” No matter how many times he may blatantly refuse and deny it, through the clawing of his nails, etching bloodied scars into your back that are sure to reside in your skin later on— You fucking know by the squeeze of his slutty hole, ring of cream having settled nicely around the base of your cock.

“F-Fuckin’—“ Big brother having trouble speaking? “Bastard, shut— ah! up!” The pitiful whine echoing deeply from his throat almost makes you want to cease your endless blabbering, but y’know what? Fuck that. May as well endure the severe consequences of his actions, from the second you had arrived here, it was bound to end solely in one conclusion. You, balls deep in his ass. You, stupidly drunk off the mere act of ruthlessly fucking your older brother cuz’ shit, does it feel so amazingly good. “If you keep looking at me like that, it only— hah, makes things harder for me here. God, Whitney.. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me, ‘kay?” Not really doing any better than him either, any semblance of control within you possibly thrown out the window with every pleasurable stroke of your cock being sucked so sloppily by his stretched out hole. One thing the delinquent was right about — You being the equivalent of a dumb mutt. A dumb, drooling mutt huffing over his bare chest, depraved instincts kicking in to suck on whatever happens to be nearest and that consequently leads to your dazed gaze zeroing in on his swollen nipples.

Pretty, so fucking pretty. It’s not fair.

Deserving of every torturous inch his tight hole greedily swallows up, the sight of his neglected, puffy nipples almost too much to bear for your watering mouth.

A little taste wouldn’t hurt, would it?

How careless of you to overlook such an area that so desperately needs your loving attention too. Bad little brother you are for that, huh? “Promise to make you feel so good.” Sighing out a guttural groan as the softened pad of your thumbs find home to idly flick at the erect glands, eliciting another strangled curse from the delinquent once again. Sensitive here, isn’t he? “Shit.. Every time I touch your tits here, you tighten up like crazy, hah. Want me to suck on ‘em too?” It’s more of a fervent heads up for your upcoming actions than a polite request, pink tongue curiously poking out to glide along the sheen of sweat settled thickly on the rosy buds. “M-Motherfucker.. Don’t you fuckin’ dare— hmph!” Hastily cut off by the palm of his own hand clasped upon his mouth, he can’t help but to cave in at your perverted antics, specifically that weird obsession of yours with his chest or tits as you so obscenely call ‘em. Shivering lightly at the rhythmic lapping at his nipples which is soon followed by the roll of your tongue against the sensitive flesh, fully latching onto on of them to appreciatively suckle on. The things you do to him, a full on body shock simply from having his pretty tits toyed with, his nipples coyly sucked on by the moist engulf of your warm mouth. “W—What?? Stop, ah, that!” How the fuck do you get to him like this every damn time?

And why the hell does it have to feel so fuckin’ good too?

Screw you, really.

Having managed to get past his carefully placed barriers he put upon himself, a means of protection for his fragile pride that you so selfishly tear away. Because it’s fun to, an absolute power rush to intently observe your slutty older brother fall apart on your fat cock, split his ass open while you’re at it. Teary eyes threatening to spill free more droplets down the length of his scarlet cheeks, bitten lips oozing fresh blood from your nipping teeth and tongue to gently suckle at as a well-deserved reward. Golden locks becoming increasingly more disheveled from every bounce on your cock, the guidance of your hands locked firmly onto his hips to witness the disappearance and reemergence of your leaking tip to reach that one single spot deep inside him.

And it’s real adorable when you draw your hips further only to be halted by the weight of his legs wrapped securely around your waist to prevent you from pulling all the way out, so stubbornly too. “Oh, want me to cum inside?” The derisive pitch of your laughter has the blonde simmering in his humiliating position, too caught up in the intoxicating pleasure of being fucked so mercilessly like this to bother uttering out a curse of denial. Fangs bared, seething glare shot solely towards you, its you. Of course, it’s you who has the final say, the upper hand regardless. As always. “I-I swear to fuckin’ god, if you pull out now— I’m going to fucking kill you, asshole.” He threatens as per usual, but the shaky incoherence of his speech riddled with whiny moans discredits his shitty attempt at intimidation, coaxing you to readily follow suit to his orders.

Ah, look at him. Fucking bitch in heat.

Can’t say no to that face, can you?

“Wasn’t planning on it anyway, Whitney.” You mutter out soothingly in the shell of his ear, slightly unsettled by the softening tone you’ve taken on to address him. Is it due to the pathetic appearance he’s took on from your relentless bullying? ‘S not fair he gets to look all cute and pouty while you’re struggling to keep up here, stuttering hips clumsily humping forward to make up for the messy pace because ah— fuck, you’re nearing your fill and so is Whitney, by the looks of it. “You can’t—“ Cutting himself off in a soundless gasp as your balls heavily smack against his ass, mind gone completely blank from the sheer euphoria of having his hole filled to the brim. Can’t? Sure, he can handle just a little more, can’t he? Cmon, he can do better than that. Drool dripping freely from his parted lips for yours to plant sloppy kisses against, stifling his open moans. Drawing your hips one last time to relish in the tight warmth of his wet insides— really, you’ll miss it, fuck— you barely get to process the thick ropes of cum spurting out of his bobbing cock, accompanied by your own climax shortly after. “S-Sorry, oh my god— I’m so sorry, you feel too good. I can’t—“ You sputter out uselessly, a hollow excuse when you continue on with your sloppy thrusts, burying yourself to the hilt to shoot your thick load into. Staining his walls white with your seed since your hips can’t stop themselves from fucking your cum deeper till the both of you tirelessly settle down in a heap of bodies on the creaking mattress.

Alright, so maybe you did end up going a tad bit too far this time, but it’s not like he didn’t ask for it. Or so you mumble to yourself to soothe your ever growing worries of where this may lead after the shortly lived, euphoric high you’ve just experienced. Nervously lifting your gaze to seek his as you’re greeted with.. ah, it seems you did fuck up. If anything, you’ve dug yourself a hole so steep you couldn’t possibly climb out of it now. Okay, he looks pissed. Doesn’t mean you don’t have time to mend things, right between the two of you, right? It’s as you finally muster up a foolish smile to meet his sour expression, that his frown significantly deepens in return.

“..So, uh. Did you like it?”

You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?

Should’ve probably expected this one. The shockingly loud slam of the wooden door closed shut on your face, promptly interrupting your frantic pleas and apologies. Heaps of dirty clothes thrown right into your arms for you to awkwardly pick up from the floor soon after. “Whitney, don’t be like that. Whitney, c’mon. I’m sorry—“ You’re not actually all that sorry, it’s just he looks too cute when angry, really.

“Fuck off!!”

Stubborn as ever, huh? At least, you’ve got to imprint those slutty sounds to memory for later use, having gotten your answer to leave him be for the time being. And oh, glancing down to be met with the sight of your still-hard, neglected cock tented pitifully against the front of your jeans. Seriously? Didn’t you just cum too?

..Well, you’ve always got the bathroom to take care of that.

[phyrestartr]

Prisoner of the Coast | Sukuna x M!Reader (WIP)

#SFW wip, reader is a water dragon, sukuna is a ronin, lore, mythology, there's plot, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, probably sad ending?, AU note: I JUST WANTED TO POST SOMETHING IDK

tags: @kamote-kuneho @prettorett @memedealer-exe @tr4nniez @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @memedealer-exe @silvern1006

Fear was not what he felt. Ryoumen Sukuna did not fear you who he faced; he was not a weak man. He was not a faint-hearted warrior. He was not a coward. But gleaming, ghastly eyes reminded him of mortality. Of the very human blood embedded in his veins. 

And the longer those round, moonlit eyes stared, the longer they sliced through the endless, empty blankness of the forgotten seaside palace, the louder that sound of drumming shook Sukuna's skull, against his ribs. But he was not afraid; he did not fear the gods. He would not fear one of their ilk in the flesh. 

The sound of water shifting echoed in the infinite void, dancing off distant walls as shards of light managed to catch on gentle, lapping wakes. Yet your head never moved an inch. Sukuna had seen other snakes do the same in his travels, keeping their heads still while their bodies squeezed and slithered–but their eyes were bound to fall closed. Yours stayed awake. Staring like the head of a Lion Dance puppet. Abnormal. Unaware of such abnormality. 

Sukuna gripped one of his swords tightly, ready to quick-draw if you'd chosen to strike. Gods were like that–hateful, horrible, honourless–and he expected nothing less from a beast like you; however, you'd been meandering towards him his entire stay, he realized too late. Slow. Quiet. Patient. The way one might approach a scared animal. 

I'm not getting paid enough for this shit. Sukuna found a smile, though. Maybe I’m getting paid too fuckin’ much. Who the hell does this thing need protecting from, huh? 

The question gnawed on his mind as your grandeur size became near-tangible–then, your eyes closed. Right when Sukuna started to make out the glint of scales against the moonlight of your eyes, the shimmering glow vanished, leaving only dappling sunlight streaming in from time-worn holes in the towering ceiling. 

“What do you want?” A man’s voice, your voice, asked from the shadows. The source was lower than before, ringing from a height so oddly human it gave Sukuna whiplash. 

“Ho? A shapeshifter?” Sukuna wondered, grinning. “You think you can take me on like that?”

“I don’t intend to ‘take you on’ at all, samurai.” You sighed and paced. Sukuna followed the sound of bare feet stepping on stones, coupled with the stiff drag of something scratching against the floor. Perhaps a tail? Perhaps fins? He didn’t know. The sunlight protecting him proved too stark against the shadows you dwelled within. 

“Someone has sent you here,” you decided. Sukuna felt your stare on him, though he could not see the twin lights. “My parents.” 

The grip on his blade lessened. “More or less. Said there was a godling that needed babysitting.” 

“Babysitting–?! The fucking audacity. Well, I promise you, this isn’t babysitting.” You snapped, bitter. 

Sukuna smirked. Never did he imagine a god-like thing would be so rough around the edges. “Then what would you call it?”

“Imprisonment.” You stepped toward the light when you said it, coming from an angle Sukuna didn’t expect, making him whirl in place and face the shadowed silhouette standing too close yet too far away. “And you’re my own, personal jailer.” Then, after a moment, you added, “Well. I guess it is glorified babysitting afterall. Expensive babysitting, at that. Congratulations on the easy money.” 

“That mean you’re gonna make this simple for me?” Sukuna asked. He tucked his arms into his sleeves as he waited for you to say something, but you only stepped back into the empty blackness filling your glorious cage. 

“Might as well,” your voice echoed, wilting, “I don’t care to leave this place anyway.” 

“‘N why the hell not?” He asked. 

But there was no answer; there was only the quiet splash of water, and twin ghost lights disappearing into the depths.

[mawofthemagnetar]

TFC’s Completely Normal Afternoon Where Nothing Goes Wrong And Nobody Dies Horribly

(shoutout to @lindentree for inspiring this silly fic!)

TFC sat in his little bachelor pad, coffee in hand, watching the steam rise out of his mug. 

It was a nice mug, all things considered. A gift from the other Hermits. A handmade blue thing, turned on a potter’s wheel, with an extra-large handle to give his old hands a break sometimes. Full of coffee from his ancient coffee machine, that gurgled and growled like a jackhammer being waterboarded.

TFC took a sip, and winced. Okay, so maybe it was time to leave the mine and get more coffee. He’d re-used the grounds for the fourth time, and now it was really starting to get properly bitter. 

He drummed his fingers on his glass-top table, listening to the echo against the cold stone walls of his little antechamber. Maybe he’d decorate the walls at some point soon. 

TFC shrugged, and opened his comm. Hopefully one of the other Hermits had some coffee beans. He wiped the stone dust off his screen, and held down the three buttons to switch it on. Yes, he kept his comm strapped to his arm like almost every other player with some semblance of sense. No, he refused to let the damn thing be awake for any longer than it needed to be. The Hermits were chatty folks, and when TFC was deep in his mines and deep in thought, the last thing he needed interrupting his musings was a million buzzing noises as Cleo and Jevin got into a slapfight in the general chat. 

TFC’s personal logo flashed across the screen (the three letters of his name in red, natch) and he took another slurp of his bitter coffee, wrinkling his nose. The comm beeped, and TFC opened the group chat and tapped out a quick message. 

<Tinfoilchef> anyone got any more coffee? I’m clean out. 

He put his comm down, and took another swig. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

TFC frowned. He was a patient man by nature. The same could not be said of the other Hermits, who were usually falling over themselves to help each other out. 

And he hadn’t gotten a reply yet. 

It had been a whole ninety seconds.

TFC scrolled up in chat, and he sighed, rubbing his face. He sank back in his chair in annoyance. 

Of course. 

He tabbed upwards, watching things spiral out of control… in reverse. 

<Renthedog was blanched to death> 

<Renthedog> THE PAIN! THE PAIN IS INDESCRIBABLE

<Vintagebeef was portaged to death> 

<Vintagebeef> RUN! THE BOATS! THE BOATS ARE COMING!

TFC rubbed his temples with his free hand, sighing in exasperation. ‘

“Guys, I dug up five stacks of diamonds, don’t make me do this…I don’t want to re-dig those tunnels…” TFC groaned. 

And of course the nonsense kept coming as he scrolled farther and farther back. Gee, that last message from Ren was about four hours ago, now...

<Iskall85 became part of the weft> 

<Iskall85> HELP GOD THE LOOM’S GROWN LEGS

“Does anyone on this server besides me even know HOW to weave?!” TFC growled, averting his gaze from his pile of unfinished weaving in the corner of the room. It didn’t exist. He couldn’t see it. His WIP’s couldn’t hurt him.

And on and on it went.

<Xisumavoid was hooked to death>

<Grian was torqued to death>

<Tango was unraveled to death> 

<Zombiecleo was racqueted to death>

“Right, I’ve seen enough.” TFC sighed, “On the bright side, at least I’ll have all the coffee I had a week ago, so there’s that…” 

He carefully tabbed through his various screens and menus until he arrived at the one bit of his comm that was set aside for admin functions. Now, TFC wasn’t a server admin. That much was true. But he had slight admin privileges, for one thing and one thing only: server rollbacks. 

While, say, Hypno would have had an extensive wall of options, showing his permissions and all sorts of bells and whistles, TFC’s admin console had a text box to input a date and a big red “GO” button. 

He looked mournfully at his ender chest, and, with a sigh, keyed in a date one week prior. 

And TFC jabbed his thumb on the big red button. 

The world flashed white, utterly blinding him, and a second later TFC was deep in the branch mine in a half-finished tunnel, the same spot he’d been exactly a week prior. 

Unfortunately, he was still in a comfortable sitting position, resting all his weight on a chair that suddenly wasn’t there, so he immediately toppled to the ground, landing on his ass in an undignified heap. 

“Ow.” TFC muttered, sitting up slowly and tapping through his messages. 

<Xisuma> oh, we rolled back. Is everyone alright!?

<Tango> Mumbo you are BANNED FROM TIME TRAVEL

<MumboJumbo> It wasn’t me this time! I mean it was. But blame Zedaph! 

<Zedaph> ME?! No! Blame Cub! Cub gave me the doodad! 

TFC rolled his eyes and typed out a message. 

<Tinfoilchef> Does anyone have any fresh coffee beans?

Silence. 

No messages. No new complaining. As all the hermits re-read TFC’s words and soaked them in. 

Finally, Cleo broke the silence. 

<Zombiecleo> TFC. How many times did you re-use your last filter of grounds. 

<TinfoilChef> eh, six? Seven?

<Zombiecleo> are you telling me we’d all still be in shuttlecock hell if you hadn’t gotten sick of the taste of reused coffee grinds?!

<TinfoilChef> Pretty much, yeah 

<TinfoilChef> anyway 

<TinfoilChef> does anyone have some fresh coffee? 

[ki-yomii]

careful | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.2k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dom!jk, sub!reader, dirty talk, mild dom/sub dynamics, orgasm control/edging, slight brat kink, slight brat tamer!jk, pet names, degradation kink, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, finger fucking, sub drop, pussy smacking, wet & messy ➥ summary | you should always be careful what you ask for ➥ notes | what's that - posting a fic that isn't any of my wips/requests? more likely than you think 🥲

i started writing today with the intent to work on my vampire jk fic cuz spooky season. instead, i found myself here... i'm sorry 💀

also i’ve seen enough run episodes to know you don’t want jk’s hands smacking you anywhere 😬

🩷 masterlist | inbox | AO3 🩷

“Look at me, baby.”

The low warning cuts through your muffled whines, Jungkook’s weight pinning you to the wall. Thick fingers grind deep inside your cunt, digging into your g-spot mercilessly.

Pressure builds behind your hips, borderline painful as you shift around in a vain attempt to dislodge him.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, “You know better.”

Whenever Jungkook speaks, his voice scrapes down your spine, low and whiskey rough. His chest is a long line of heat, plastered to your front from stem to stern.

The rapid gallop of his heartbeat echoes your own rabbit-fast rhythm, the scent of his cologne clogging your nose and clouding your thoughts.

He bites out your name, the palm shackling your hands above your head squeezing your wrist. Blunt nails dig into the delicate skin of your pulse point.

A silent prompt you know better than to ignore. And yet, the temptation to do so is almost too much.

Keen awareness roots low in your belly, dripping down between your thighs like candle wax. Your thighs tense with the strain of controlling the involuntary drop of your hips; the urge to rock down into his touch choking the breath from your lungs.

“I…”

The instinct to comply is almost Pavlovian. After all, you’re Jungkook’s good girl, aren’t you? Loved and fucked and trained to his liking.

(But how can you be good when he looks at you like that? It’s just not fair.)

Being good all the time is boring.

No. Your mouth snaps shut, and any response you have turns to ash on your tongue. The words catch on the backs of your teeth like candy. Not this time.

“Why are you being like this, huh?” Jungkook’s brows shoot towards his hairline, his dark head ducking to try and catch your eye. “I know I taught you better.”

How could you ever forget the rules when he’s fucked them into you so thoroughly? Took you apart piece by piece only to stitch you back together in his image - his precious little darling made to take his cock and swallow his cum.

“You really don’t wanna play this game with me right now. Trust me.”

Breath lodging somewhere in the middle of your throat, and tasting suspiciously of regret, you shake your head and dig your heels in. Resist the urge to crumble at his feet, beg for forgiveness with your mouth, your hands.

It’s already too late to back out - it’ll just be worse for you if you do.

Jungkook might hide his less… savory traits better than most, but you’ve experienced his greedy kisses firsthand, felt the tug of his teeth and tasted the salt of his skin. Heard his ragged moans honey sweet in your ear, felt the harsh grind of his body along yours.

When he smiles, it’s wicked, "Last chance. Show me those pretty eyes of yours, baby.”

Anticipation hooks behind your navel, stomach swooping as heat curls up in the valley of your hips. Blood rushes in your ears, starting as a slow thrum that crescendos into a rapid drum. Your heart tattoos itself into your ribs.

Licking your lips, your refusal shudders from you in a throaty rush, “No.”

A low hum fills the following silence, noncommittal. The mounting tension threatens to strangle you, sets your teeth on edge. Sparse hairs at the nape of your neck prickle.

And then, before you have time to consider taking it all back, plush lips ghost over the hollow below your ear. Whisps of dark hair whisper over your skin, soft and ticklish. Shivers race down your spine, spread through your fingers and toes.

“Alright, have it your way,” Jungkook smothers his words in the tender slope of your neck, “but remember: you asked for it. Don’t come crying to me afterward.”

Readjusting, Jungkook’s broad shoulders curve forward and the slackened hand on your wrists renews its grip. The cold tip of his nose traces along your jaw, inhaling the perfume of your silken skin.

An exhale shudders from him in a vulgar husk of breath. When you clench around his fingers still buried inside you, he laughs low and mocking.

“Damn, baby, your pussy’s just sucking me in. You really wanna cum that bad?” Kisses pepper up the side of your face, skirting the side of your mouth. “Heh, yeah, I know you do - such a dirty little slut.”

“Oh!” You sigh, sparks sizzling through your limbs, as Jungkook flexes his fingertips playfully against your swollen g-spot. Your hips tilt into the touch. “Hah…”

“That feel good, huh?”

A low keen escapes when he draws your earlobe into the moist heat of his mouth, his lips clamping down while the sharp points of his canines roll the tender fat. Little kisses of pain burn, brighten the arousal blooming deep within you.

“Yeah, of course it does,” Jungkook breathes, his voice low and husky in your ear as he strokes at your fluttering walls. “Just look at you.”

Unable to swallow the broken gasp of his name when he hits your favourite spot at the right angle, you tremble against his chest from where you’re pinned and squeeze your eyes shut, “J-Jung--!”

Holding up your own weight on weak knees is an endurance sport - one you’re losing as they bow and shake, threaten to give out. At the same time, your arms feel like lead, going numb from having them suspended over your head for so long.

Head light and floaty, your nails bite into the backs of his hands as a sharp spike of pleasure slices through you. “I’m--”

“Gonna cum soon?” Jungkook asks, the devilish grin tugging at the corners of his sculpted mouth more a baring of teeth. “Don’t lie to me.”

At your frantic nod, he tugs his fingers free from the tight clutch of your body with a sloppy squelch. Slick oozes from your cunt in a sticky rush that wets your inner thighs, your gut clenching hard with hollow satisfaction as he rips the ebbing flow of your orgasm away without warning.

“Shit!” 

The noise you make at their loss is low and wounded, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. Your body locks up so hard your stomach aches, walls fluttering as a cramp knots up behind your hips.

Your swollen clit throbs with angry sparks of pain that make you whine and wince, orgasm thoroughly ruined.

“W-Why did you…” Voice cracking around a hiccupping sob, you pitch forward into his powerful chest. “Jungkook--”

“You know why.” His reply cuts you off, chilly and brusque, while he stares at you without remorse, “I gave you a chance to change your mind.”

“But I -”

“Stop.”

Sniffling, you peer at him from beneath damp lashes.

Breathless and feral, Jungkook stands before you a vengeful god, robed in shade and shadow. It’s criminally unfair how good he looks; jaw clenched, eyes twin black holes that threaten to pull you in.

Harsh, hooded, hungry as they trace over the tear tracks cutting lines down your cheeks, the quiver of your lips. In moments like this, he’s as beautiful as Belladonna and twice as deadly.

“I don’t know why you’re even trying to sweet talk your way out of this.” 

If his glare alone wasn’t enough to curb your tongue, then the shuttered expression carved into the planes of his regal face would.

Displeasure sits heavy on his brow, tucked into the corners of his mouth like an ill-fitting mask. Then his hand is slipping between your shaking thighs once more, the backs of his knuckles dragging over your abused, messy folds.

Jungkook hums when you sigh, jolt at the touch, and says, “Now, shut up and be a good girl for me.”

It’s deliciously painful, like blowing on numb fingertips in winter. Your legs spread wider to accommodate him on instinct alone.

Head rolling back to rest against the wall, the cool stone heaven on your sweaty neck.

And then a strike, viper quick, lands on your exposed pussy. Your reprieve ripped away and smashed at your feet as the wet, sloppy sound of an open palm making contact with tender flesh almost drowns out your wounded cry.

“A-Ah!”

You flinch away from the touch, flickers of pain pulsing through your sensitive clit. Nerve endings burn with sensation. Tiny cavities pepper your field of vision, the world a blurry kaleidoscope of color through pooling tears.

It’s hard to think, harder to breathe through the lingering throb and mounting shock.

Jungkook didn’t hit you too hard (he knows your limits), though he may as well have with how hypersensitive your pussy is. And still, amid prickles of pain, fresh arousal gushes from you to soak the length of his palm.

Cooing, he says your name, his lips cradling the syllables like a precious secret as his hand rubs circles over your mound. “Are you finally going to listen to me?”

Air hisses through your teeth as his fingers dip into your entrance, and it’s all suddenly too much. You drop too far, too fast. Lost and left adrift. Small. Fragile.

Heart lurching in your chest, the bitter ache throbbing in time with your pulse. Reminding you of how empty you are.

Sobs drip from your lips like dew drops, unintelligible words frantic as they break through the great, heaving gasps, “J-Jungkook, I can’t… Please, ‘m sorr- I can’t.”

“Oh, baby. You look so pretty when you’re such a fucking mess.”

Your breath hitches.

It feels like your skin’s too small, stretched tight over your bones until you’re bursting at the seams. The slightest touch will make you shatter to pieces, scattered across the floor like shards of fine china. 

Before you spiral too far beyond his reach, Jungkook guides you back, keeping his voice low and gentle in your ear while he shushes your warbling sniffles. Affection softens his smile, his eyes dark with perverse pride.

“Stop crying,” he chides tenderly, circling your clit with a ginger thumb. “You’re fine, promise. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Kisses wick away the last of your tears, sweep over the delicate skin of your undereye.

“You did this to yourself.” Jungkook searches your eyes for confirmation, his brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, albeit stiltedly.

There are always consequences when you try to give him a taste of his own medicine - some worse than others. This time, you took things a little too far.

Now your cunt’s going to suffer the consequences of your stubbornness, but maybe if you butter him up beforehand…

The bob of his Adam’s apple captures your attention, your eyes tracing over the slope of his jaw, the tick of muscle as he grits his teeth.

Gnawing on your lip, you weigh your options.

You both know you hoped this would happen when you started acting bratty. Jungkook knows your dirty thoughts and filthy fantasies, how soaked you get from the thought of being pinned down, helpless.

Forced to take everything he gives.

… It isn’t even a question worth asking.

“Didn’t catch that.” Jungkook’s lips twitch with amusement, his fingers biting into the soft fat of your hip. “Come on, you’ve gotta use your words.”

The despair gripping your throat in a vice loosens with his lighthearted tone. Wetting your lips, you take the first step towards sparring yourself a brutal punishment by apologizing.

“I know it’s my fault - and I,” you swallow the flood of saliva pooling under your tongue, “I’m sorry.” 

"Mm, apology accepted." Jungkook hums, tracing the seam of your puffy pussy. “I’m so lucky I’ve got such a good fucking girl all to myself.”

Heat sinks into the apples of your cheeks, your thighs clamping closed around his wrist. There’s no denying the needy twitch of your hips at his words. A pleased rumble vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“Yeah, you like when I call you a good girl, baby?”

You whine, your eyes rolling back and your lashes fluttering.

Heat pulses through your belly in rhythmic waves, the residual pleasure from your interrupted orgasm kindling to light with little effort. You’d been so close, your body still desperate for relief. Thoughts slow and syrupy, cunt soaked and sloppy.

“Jungkook, please - lemme cum.” You try to rock down on his fingers only for his hand to restrain your hips. ”Fuck! Promise I’ll be good this time - jus’ need to…”

He tsks, saying, “Shh, you can cum all you want.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank-”

“If,” his smile is knife sharp, his eyes full of mischief, his words honey sweet, “you keep your eyes open and on me the whole time.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You’ll be dumb and drooling, starry-eyed and stupid once he stuffs you full. The burning stretch of his fat cock buried balls deep in your gummy walls while the spongy head slams into your g-spot without mercy, your cunt milking his shaft with every gushing orgasm fucked out of you. His name a holy prayer on your tongue.

There’s no fucking way.

Jungkook knows you barely remember to breathe once he’s on top of you, let alone maintain eye contact. Your inevitable failure will taste all the sweeter when it fizzles, pops, bursts under the bite of his teeth.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“Good luck, baby.”

Panic grips you by the throat, your eyes wide and pleading. “Jungkook-”

“You’re gonna need it.”

Well, shit.

[forgeofthenine]

If you're still interested in requests (feel free to ignore, since you've got a lot of 'em!)

How would everyone's favorite tieflings react to their Tav *not* being at the tiefling party, because they've ended up spending the night keeping the tiefling kids entertained in Mol's hideout? Celebrating with them, having fun and goofing off with the kids (and making sure Mol isn't trying to exhtort who she can, by selling firewine around the camp by doing so)

Bonus points if s/o is a bard class~

(2) Asfgghkkkl I was the ask for the s/o/Tav who spent the tiefling party just playing with the kids - I (maybe) forgot to mention that I had the idea of them doing it secretly, or like, getting stuck escorting Mol back because the kids!!! Want to see the hero too!!!

Hi Anon, thank you for the great request! This one was a blast to write and I really enjoyed it, I hope it's what you were after :)

For anyone wondering, this was the WIP referred to as 'adopting all the kids'

The bachelors finding you in the kids cave at the grove instead of at the party

General

The party was just starting to ramp up, making your rounds and catching up with everyone when you see it from the corner of your eye

A small tiefling with a cunning grin and an eye patch sitting on a rock at the edge of the clearing

Sneaking off to the edge of the firelight, with only a sideways glance from Halsin, you finally reach Mol

It really didn't take long for the girl to convince you to leave the party, her threat of upselling stolen firewine was almost enough convincing on its own

The two of you make your way back to the familiar cave that the children like to hide in, cheers being the first thing that meet your ears as Arabella and Mirkon happily rush up to you

The other children stay back but look excited in their own ways, Silfy peeking out behind a blanket wrapped around her, Mattis turning his attention towards you, and Doni letting out a small grunt in greeting

With some light begging from some of the kids (and some egging on from Mol and Mattis) it's not long before you pull out your instrument of choice and start your own party for the group of children

It might've been minutes or hours you were there, you're not sure until you're interrupted

Dammon

Dammon had no intent on going to the party, not only is he not a particularly social person but he also has an entire makeshift forge to pack down

It's when he's stuffing his things into a pack that he sees you and Mol sneaking back through the grove and into your hidey hole

At first he chalks it up to the kids shenanigans but he grows curious at the sound of music emanating from the crack in the wall

Dammon is actually pretty quiet when he starts to make his way down the very tight, very craggy tunnel

That is until he slips and slides the rest of the way down, tumbling out covered in dust and letting out a small cough

The silence is absolutely deafening

"So this is where the real party is? Hope you don't mind me... Dropping in-"

The pun was bad enough for Mol and Mattis to want to kick the blacksmith out but you're quite happy to defend him

Soon he's joined your little group of rascals and you've scrounged him up a drum and the two of you are serenading the kids with a very one of a kind concert

It's only once all of the kids have finally fallen asleep that the two of you clamber your way back out of the cave, Dammon helping to dust you off afterwards

Dammon himself is stuck thinking about how good you were with the kids and how unexpectedly nice the night was, but he knows tomorrow they all get back on the road and he might never see you again

Zevlor

Zevlor, to no one's surprise, had been standing off to the side near Halsin when you left

Ever the wallflower in social situations, he'd seen you sneaking off with Mol

Knowing how much of a handful those kids are, Zevlor decides to go find you both soon after

He's spent this whole time letting the children believe he had absolutely no idea of their secret hiding place, but Zevlor isn't blind

Zevlors careful with making his way down the rocky tunnel, listening to the music that slowly fills the air

The paladin is so quiet in his descent that no one actually realises he's there until he claps at the end of your performance

The kids are all quick to scurry away, except for Mol and Mattis, and it's up to you to try and convince them to let Zevlor stay

It takes a fair bit of convincing but it ends with the two of you regaling the kids with stories of wild adventures

Those stories include musical interludes too at the kids instance

Once all the kids have fallen asleep, curled up around each other or lying on large stones, you and Zevlor make the rounds covering them all with blankets

It's when Zevlor is helping pull you back out of the cave afterwards, feeling the warmth of your hand against his, that he realises how alive you make him feel and how effortless it is to be around you

Rolan

Rolan had spent most of the night drinking and putting on magic shows for his siblings

At some point in the night you'd come and given him applause but the next time he went to look for you, you'd already disappeared

It was Lia that pointed him in the right direction, mentioning you'd gone back to the grove

And so a tipsy, affection-starved wizard decides to stumble his way back to the grove to find you

It's both the sounds of music and the light bleeding through the cracks in the stone that draws him in

And if you think Dammons entrance was grand, Rolans is grander

Accidentally sliding down the last part like a surfer before quickly using his magic to make sure he doesn't fall flat on his face

Of the three bachelors, Rolan is the only one able to convince the kids to let him stay by himself

Showing off a little extra magic helped somewhat

It's then that the kids insist you both entertain them, putting on a join concert/magic show

For Rolan it was like Cal and Lia were little kids again, looking out at the little tiefling faces that are 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing at the magic firework displays

"Ah, my adoring crowd, if you think that was good then behold this-"

You two made a good duo, bantering between yourselves and some of the kids, and putting on a good show till the early hours of the morning

It's only when the two of you make your way back out of the cave, hauling Mols smuggled wine she was planning on upselling, that you sit at the beach and indulge in a shared bottle

It's then that Rolan looks in your eyes, smiling and fatigued, that he realises how much he wants to kiss you

Whether or not he does is something neither of you can remember in the morning

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I'm ahead on studying so figured I'd get this going.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The television blares as you come downstairs. The hues flicker through the archway as you peek inside. Your father must’ve left it on. You’re used to finding him passed out on the couch but he’s nowhere to be seen.

You yawn into your hand, another week ahead of you. You near the couch as the volume makes your ear drums buzz. Why does he always have it so loud?

Your morning tea hazes your vision. You have those few moments of peace before you have to start the day. The warmth flowing into you, nestling in your stomach, comforting you. As you come around in search of the remote, you stumble to a stop.

Your father didn’t make it that far. He’s slumped over on the edge of the couch. Your heart leaps into your throat as you see the remote on the floor. He must have dropped it. You snatch it up and mute the television, leaving its glow to light the room.

“Dad,” you touch his shoulder, but you already know. He’s not rasping or coughing or choking. Oh no. Oh no no no.

You try to roll him onto his back, then to sit him up. You can’t move him. He’s limp and heavy and…

You run away, racing upstairs to grab your phone from your night table. The charging cord snaps out of the port as you flip it open and rush back to the first floor. You’re panting as you key in the emergency number and put the phone to your cheek.

“Hello!” You nearly shriek at the operator as they answer, “my dad! My dad!” You shake your head as you try to gather yourself, “my dad’s not moving. He’s not breathing.”

“Alright, ma’am, I need you to calm down, can you do that for me?” The man coaxes.

“I don’t know,” you whine.

“Ma’am, you gotta calm down. You wanna help him, don’t you? So take a breath, alright?”

You inhale and let it out, “he’s not breathing,” you babble again.

“Okay, ma’am, you gotta get him on his back for me, can you do that?”

“Y-yes,” you chuff out and go back to the couch. You push on your dad, lifting his arm until he flops onto his back, “he’s on his back.”

“Alright, do you know CPR?” The operator asks.

“I… yes,” you gulp. The doctor sent you to lessons after your dad got the tank. He said it was standard for family members. Your dad told you it was garbage. “Yes, I know how.”

“Good, I need you to breathe for him. You remember the steps, right?”

“I– I can do it,” you say convincing yourself as much as him.

“Do it now, alright? I want you to keep on until the ambulance gets there. You don’t stop,” he says calmly, “I’m tracing your location and I have people on the way.”

“I’m… I’m gonna do it. Now.”

You place the phone down and hit the button for the speaker. You stand over your father’s limp body as your eyes gloss with tears. He can’t be dead. You won’t let him do that. He never listens to you but you’re not going to let him die.

You tilt his head up and move the oxygen tube out of the way. You put your hands on his chest and pump, keeping count as you do. Then you pinch his nose and bend over him, blowing into his mouth, just how they showed you.

You don’t stop. You won’t. You can’t believe this is happening. It’s not going to happen. You can’t lose your dad. He’s all you have. He’s all you’ve ever had.

You hear sirens and the operator speaking to you. You tune it all out as you focus on your dad. You’re crying as you pump again. One, two, three…

The world is foggy around you as you count, over and over. You feel someone touching you, pulling you away. There’s noise all around as the colours turn to blurry orbs all around you. You fight to get free until you realise it’s okay. They’ve come to help.

You watch the paramedics in their white shirts work on your father as another stands beside you. She hands you your phone as the operator talks to you. 

“It’s okay, ma’am, they’re going to get him to the hospital,” he assures. “And take care of you.”

You thank him in a wobbly voice and shut the phone. The woman beside you gives a sympathetic look. The men by your father mutter.

“He’s breathing,” one declares, “get the stretcher.”

“He’s… he’s alive?” You squeak.

“Stand back,” the paramedic beside you stops you from going forward, “gotta let them get him loaded up.”

“Is he going to be okay?” You murmur.

“We can evaluate him at the hospital,” she insists, “you can ride with him but first, they need to get him there.”

You nod and wipe your wet cheeks. He’s alive. Barely. You think you might have saved him. For once, you think you did something right.

🧹

You call into work as you sit out in the waiting room. You hope missing your shift doesn’t affect your probation. Clara thanks you for letting her know but you expect it’s a hassle she doesn't want.

You have your spring jacket pulled over your pajamas and a pair of slip-on sneakers. You wring your hands almost raw as you wait and watch the clock. You are overflowing with anxiety. 

You rock in your chair as the minutes stretch to hours. You see others come and go. Some in rough shape, others on their own strength. Stretchers roll in and out, occupied or otherwise. The sterile scent dries your nostrils and stains your tongue.

As noon rolls around, you get up and find the vending machines just inside the entrance. You drop coins in the slot and push the button for an English tea. The cup drops down into place and the nozzle churns loudly, spitting out thinly steeped tea. It’s better than nothing.

You return to your seat and blow over the top of the cup. Your mind pendulums between the room down your hall and the beeping machines, and the empty house with its fantastical gardens. You should’ve been mopping Mr. Laufeyson’s floors that day.

You finish half the tea before you give up on it. It’s lukewarm and bland. You slouch down and cross your arms. Your eyelids droop but you won’t let them close. You yawn and watch a woman comfort her sniffling child as he sneezes into her shirt.

It’s all so surreal. It feels like a dream. It is your worst nightmare. The doctor warned you but you hoped… you hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

Your name is called and you sit up, nearly jumping out of the seat. You wave your hand and approach the woman in blue scrubs.

“That’s me,” you gulp.

“You can come see him now,” she says.

You blink, “he’s okay?”

She gives you a look, “he’s stable. Come this way.”

She turns back as the large double doors open inward and strides forward. You follow her and she leads you to a room. She points you inside. “He’s on the other side of the curtain.”

“Thank you,” you utter before she’s off. Everyone is in a hurry there. You suppose they have to be.

You turn and look at the closed curtain around the first bed. You pass it and peek around the next. You find your dad, eyes shut, tubes crisscrossed all around him as a machine echoes his heartbeat. You pull the curtain shut and sit in the stiff plastic chair just near the end of his bed. You stare at him, eyes welling hotly.

“I tried,” you croak, “I really tried, dad.”

You drop your face into your hands and let yourself fall apart. You bawl, swallowing down your sobs as you choke. You try not to make too much noise in your grief. You wouldn’t want to disturb your neighbour. But you can’t stop yourself. You’re sorry. You’re so sorry.

You let him down again.

🧹

Your father wakes up the next day. He isn’t cognizant as he thrashes and chokes on the tube down his throat. You hit the bell and stand back to watch in shock. The nurses rush in and shoo you out.

It’s hours before you see him again. The new nurse says he’s sedated and will need to be for a while. You ask if he’s okay. Again. Her answer isn’t much of one.

You spend the first two nights sleeping in the plastic chair. You can’t bring yourself to sleep in the house alone, but you have to leave him. You have a job that day and you need the money. Especially after seeing the invoice for the ambulance.

You go home and change on the third morning and go down to the east side for your assignment. You get through it without thinking. You just do. The familiarity of scrubbing, sweeping, and mopping mutes your emotion. Outside the hospital, you can almost pretend it’s not real.

When you finish, you go back to the hospital. You eat in the cafeteria before you go to your father’s room. Your stomach mulches painfully as your body greedily digests the processed chicken noodle soup. It’s your first meal since the day you got there.

Those yellow walls become your new home. You only leave to go to your third shift that week and otherwise linger. When the nurses send you out, you have tea in the cafeteria or choke down another unappetizing meal from a plastic tray.

Your father’s awake on Sunday night. They tell you they’re weaning him off the sedation. His eyes are glassy and confused. He doesn’t look like himself and for more than the tubes that keep him alive.

Monday morning you say goodbye and promise to be back after work. He grumbles and coughs. He doesn’t have a feeding tube anymore but hasn’t said a word. You don’t know if he can or if he just has nothing to say.

You set off to Mr. Laufeyson’s house. Another week. You’re halfway through probation but you won’t celebrate. You only want to panic. You need money. You need more shifts. Three houses a week for another month and a half won’t do.

As always, you just have to take what you can get.

You shake off the last week before you cross the threshold. Hopefully your eyes aren’t too swollen. Between the lack of sleep and crying, they’re raw and itchy.

You open your phone and click the stubborn button on the keypad to scroll. You put in the code and push through the gate. The garden is a blur of green as you ignore it. You’re not there to watch the leaves dance or breathe in the beauty. This place is just as gray as the rest of the world.

You go inside and begin. Shoe covers, gloves, and… you don’t have your water bottle. Oh well. You proceed down the list. Room by room, item by item. You don’t see him. You don’t hear him. You hope he’s not there.

You get to the second floor. There’s a new bullet point. ‘Study: grease the office chair.’ Huh?

You recall on your last visit how the chair squeaked with his every move. You huff and return downstairs. You go to the closet where the rest of the supplies are and find a new bottle. Small with a narrow nozzle. You read the instructions as you ascend back to the upper level.

You open the study door and stop short. You didn’t think too knock. You sputter but keep any words from spilling out. You keep a grasp on the doorknob but before you can back out, Mr. Laufeyson lifts his gaze from the laptop and catches you in his sights.

“Stay,” he demands and slowly closes the laptop lid. You wince as it clicks. “I thought you quit.”

You stand dumbly in the door. You glance from him to the wall then down at the bottle in your hand. He clicks his tongue and his chair squeaks as he leans forward.

“You may speak. I want to know where you were.”

Why? Your habitual silence keeps you from blurting that out. You clear your throat.

“I couldn’t work, that’s all,” you say, peeking up at him sheepishly.

He tilts his head as he narrows his eyes, “for what reason?”

You don’t know what to tell him. You don’t think he really cares. You roll the bottle in your grasp.

“I had an emergency,” you explain, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t–”

He puts his hand up, “they sent another one. I didn’t like her. She didn’t dust the mantle.”

“I’m sorry, sir–”

“Mr. Laufeyson will do,” he corrects.

“Mister–”

“We’re done speaking,” he interrupts.

You sniff. Did you offend him? Should you have told him more? You only want to be professional and it wouldn’t be proper to bring your personal life to work, would it? 

He stands suddenly and you grip the bottle tight, keeping your arms straight at your side. He struts around the desk, his height emphasized by his long steps. He approaches you, stopping as you move out of the way of the door.

“Fix the chair,” he demands, “that damn noise is driving me mad.”

He sweeps out, leaving you grasping the bottle of grease in confusion. Is he mad? And why is he so concerned with your absence? He doesn’t seem very fond of you. Will he tell Clara? Could he have you fired?

You try not to worry about it. You already have enough on your mind. You can only do what you can do. Grease the chair and finish the job.

[idlebeks]

Fresh SVSSS Fic Recs

Lotus Seeds by Anonymous

Upon transmigrating into the body of a xianxia antagonist destined to die after being gruesomely tortured, Shen Yuan decides he won't give in to the demands of the System to meekly accept his fate. Instead, he runs away. (WIP)

High Mountain, How I Long by Minimalistless

Shen Qingqiu, after enduring his trial, is placed into Luo Binghe’s custody at Huan Hua Palace.

Tarnished Gold by Prim_the_Amazing

Becoming emperor of the cultivation world will start with a first step as small and basic as becoming Head Disciple of Huan Hua Palace. For that, he must steal the position away from the current Head Disciple. Luo Binghe will sabotage, upstage, and completely and utterly best him.

The road to destroying everything and everyone who has ever wronged him, to becoming the highest ruler so that no one will ever have the right to control him ever again - it will start as simply as ruining Gongyi Xiao’s life.

Compared to everything else he’s already done, this should be easy.

-

Luo Binghe brings all his skills of cunning and brutality to bear on Gongyi Xiao, Head Disciple of Huan Hua Palace Sect. It… doesn’t go too well for him.

prophets on hold by nex_et_nox

Luo Binghe led the charge in the trial against Shen Qingqiu in < Proud Immortal Demon Way >. By all rights, the concept of a trial shouldn’t even be a glimmer in anyone’s eye until Shen Qingqiu’s blackened lotus has crawled his way out of the hell Shen Qingqiu tossed him in.

So why is Shen Qingqiu wrapped in immortal binding cables and locked away in the Huan Hua Water Prison?! 

[or: Luo Binghe is precisely one (1) year late getting out of the Abyss. This does not put a halt on anyone else's plans.]

Starstruck by Camorra

His phone buzzes again and Shen Yuan scoops it up irritably. It’s another message from DemonHeart. DemonHeart: you seem to be a Luo Binghe fan DemonHeart: we can get you access to him Shen Yuan scowls. PeerlessCucumber: do I look like I was born yesterday? The response is instantaneous. A picture pops up on screen. Shen Yuan vaguely recognizes the woman that plays the drums, still in full stage makeup. Next to her, arm slung around her waist, is a face Shen Yuan would know anywhere. Luo Binghe, giving a wry smile to the camera. DemonHeart: he’s a fan, you know PeerlessCucumber: where exactly would we be meeting

Immortal Lamb Crusader Way by Mikkeneko Shen Yuan finds himself transmigrated into the last video game he played before his death -- the dungeon-delving, cult-building anthro hit game of the year, Immortal Lamb Crusader Way. Much to his dismay he finds himself in the role of the BBEG, the God of Death, He Who Waits -- Shen Qingqiu! Is there any way he can guide the protagonist, Luo Binghe, to level-up and victory without falling victim himself to the Lamb Crusader's blade? And why does he want to pet the Lamb's fleecy head so badly? He's not a furry, okay! He's not!

The Scum Villain's Second Save File by the-night-gods-moon (HelloMyNameIsAlias)

Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua's shroom scheme falls through in a big way, and Shen Yuan is forced to re-transmigrate into another world that revolves around half-demons and messy, convoluted romances. Good thing he's an expert!

Can't we just skip to the end? by chaoticgoodlawyer When it was all said and done, Shen Qingqiu comforted himself that the end of the plot meant that, surely, all major events were out of the way. They were firmly in HEA territory and he could relax a little. Right? Right. A year and a half into his marriage to the protagonist, he cursed himself for a fool when he woke next to a Luo Binghe from ten years in the past. Meanwhile, a recently transmigrated Shen Yuan struggled to retain what little face he had when confronted with an overgrown, disturbingly gorgeous demon lord claiming to be his husband. Which is impossible, because he’s straight, the most hetero heterosexual to exist. System? A little help here?? Series

Celestial Afterglow by elanor_pamShang Qinghua, also known as Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky, stared flatly at what had once been a field boasting near sect-level Feng Shui alignment, and the drowned, bloated remains of the Sun and Moon Dew Flower cuttings that had sprouted within it. Their plan was now quite literally a wash. If only he could consult Cucumber Bro on how to save Cucumber Bro! But in the absence of Cucumber Bro, he could but rely on the one plot coupon the infamous Peerless Cucumber had ever applauded.

Tongfang by The Feels Whale (miscellea)

Shen Yuan is reincarnated as a cannon fodder character and eventual murder victim in one of the whodunnit arcs in Proud Immortal Demon Way. Things escalate quickly. Or: that one where young Luo Binghe’s career goal is ‘Bride’. --- Shen Yuan shut his eyes as a young man waiting to die in a hospital and opened them again as a wrinkly infant covered in substances best left unimagined. [Welcome to the System! The System is based on the concept ‘YOU CAN YOU UP. NO CAN NO BB.’ We hope to provide you with a rewarding experience. It is our sincere hope that during the course of your adventure, you can achieve your desire to transform a ‘Stupid Novel’ into a high-end and impressive classic. We pray for your happiness,] a mechanical and inflectionless voice announced over the general hubbub of the group of women handling him. Then it added, somewhat more worryingly, [Error.]

In Service by x_los

Emperor Luo Binghe goes looking for a Shen Yuan of his own. The one he finds has yet to fully ripen, but Luo Binghe is used to turning adversity into advantage.

[ladykailitha]

The Hellfire Exotic Club Part 3

Just a head's up, I'll be moving this story's posting date to Fridays to give time to breathe instead of languishing under the wave of WIP Wednesday asks like it was last week

This week we get a taste of most of the other Sins and a tease at why Steve and Robin needed jobs ASAP. It's going to be sooo juicy guys. I can't wait for you guys to see that for real!

Part 1 Part 2

~

Moloch didn’t bring the numbers as much as the rest of Eddie and his friends did, but his Sloth liked it that way. He like the smaller crowds, the slow music, the hour long tantalizing reveal of one of the dancers who did strip all the way down.

But it was the gradual sensual removal of clothes as he got “lazier” in his dance. By the end, Moloch would draped dramatically over a settee, bumping and grinding first with his hand and then by the end of the last song, weakly thrusting against the air.

It was one of the hottest things Steve had ever seen. It really played up to the sloth aspect of it and he definitely had to rearrange himself more than once.

He knew that he would get over it eventually, seeing it every Monday for weeks, but that first time? Steve was pissed more people didn’t come out.

Even though Steve didn’t work the next day, Eddie suggested he come and watch Mammon, too. So he could see the different styles of strip that they had, to allay his fears a bit about how far the Sins were willing to go when it came to undressing for strangers.

So he showed up about an hour before show time to try out of some of the drinks and get a feel of the vibe.

Steve would say that of the dances he’d seen so far, Lust, Pride, and Sloth, Greed’s more fit the club’s original roots as a 1920s speakeasy. The place was decked out in old timey opulence. And gold. So much fucking gold.

Then the lights went out and he could hear the dancers scurrying to get into position. A single spot light lit up a singular dancer. He was broad shouldered and deep-chested, his curly hair slicked to his head. Which he raised when the music started. He was dressed smartly in a period accurate three-piece black suit with a red button down shirt.

Mammon’s movements were far more graceful than anything Steve had ever seen in any symphony or dance hall. He used his bulk to make his movements work with his body and not against it.

Then all through the night he didn’t get undressed so much as he pulled clothes off others. But without Steve realizing it, his clothes were coming off, but they were being...not replaced exactly, but the clothes he was taking off the other dancers were covering him a la the Dance of the Seven Veils.

Then in the last song, he throws the clothes in the air, leaving him in just his pants and suspenders. As the clothes flutter to the floor you realize that all the other dancers were naked, all around him, laying on the floor. The red pieces of silk landing on them like blood.

Fuck. Social commentary wrapped in the sexiest dance Steve had ever seen. He could see why the club was packed every Tuesday night. Mammon wasn’t a demon, he was a fucking god.

Eddie slid up next to him at the bar. “So what did you think?”

“I think that anytime someone tells me that big people can’t dance,” Steve said breathlessly, “that I will send them here on a Tuesday night.”

“Isn’t he amazing?” Eddie asked giddily. “Him, Jeff, and Gareth are all my mates from high school. We even had a band together before I started dancing for my Uncle Wayne. I brought them on when we first changed over to Hellfire.”

“I know you play guitar,” Steve said with a smile, “I didn’t realize the other guys did, too.”

Eddie licked his upper lip slowly. “Would you be surprised to know that so does Rosier?” he asked, leaning into Steve’s space like he was sharing a secret.

Steve thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Not really. He seems the type if I’m honest.”

“What about Moloch playing the drums?” Eddie asked, leaning even closer.

“Now that is surprising,” Steve said, “and at the same time makes sense now that you say it.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I do too, now that I say it out loud like that.” He rubbed his chin. “Any guesses on what Mammon plays. Especially now that everyone else has been named and shamed.”

Steve laughed too. “What band would be complete without a kickass bassist.” Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Unless he’s something weird like a keyboard, or violin or some shit like that.”

“Nope!” Eddie said, popping the ‘P’, “you had it right, I was just a little surprised as all. But, yes Mammon was our kickass bassist.”

“Have you guys thought about playing again?” Steve asked, leaning in. “Like here at the club. I know every night is themed, but Chrissy is already working on fairy tale themed night. So why not have a night where you guys play. Maybe even just as the music for whoever’s dancing that night or even just night of you guys rocking out.” He stopped for breath, wide-eyed at what he just said.

“That was certainly something else,” Eddie said a little stunned. He hadn’t really thought about it. Sure, he played the guitar as part of his tease, playing up into the pride aspect of it. Proud he could play and sing, proud of this club, proud of his ability to dance. But to play with his band again? A part of his dream he put back on the shelf when he was made owner? “What would we even play?”

Steve shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far. But he saw how wistful Eddie got when he talked about them being in a band. “What did you guys play before?”

“Mostly metal,” Eddie said, returning Steve’s shrug. “Some hard rock. A little grunge thrown in there for variety.”

“So perfect for the club then,” Steve replied with a smile.

Eddie blushed and shoved his hair in front of his face. “I’ll think about it.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together. They kept talking even after the club closed and the money was counted and divvied out by Rosier. Having decided to let Eddie and Steve continue talking. It wasn’t until the cleaners came in that they even realized that the club was close.

Eddie would harass his friend later about letting have the night off, but in that moment he was grateful for the respite.

He walked Steve to his car and waited for him to pull out of the parking lot before cursing up a blue streak. The guy hadn’t even been hired for a full week yet and already he was making cow eyes at him. Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

~

Steve’s impression of Lilith’s gluttony dance was that it was messy and outrageous, but somehow Chrissy made it work.

She wasn’t so much as dressed as she was covered in whip cream, with two cherries strategically placed over her nipples. She would lick and suck on her fingers covered in the stuff. Then she was dowsed in chocolate syrup as she writhed and slithered across the stage.

It was a sticky, gooey nightmare as far as Steve was concerned, but the way she stroked and touched herself as she was fed by the backup dancers. Then just as there wasn’t any way that she could possibly be fed anymore, a large bucket of water dumped it’s entire contents on Lilith as she moaned as if she had just orgasmed.

He was grateful that other Sins didn’t have to perform with her during her hour, because he didn’t think he could stand the thought of that stuff anywhere near his hair.

She did a great job, Steve wasn’t going to deny that. He could see the appeal, but the thought of getting sticky after all that? He shrugged off a shiver of disgust that ran down his back.

Once Robin and he had picked up their tips from the night, they walked out to the car.

“I take it back,” Robin huffed, yanking open the passenger side door, “We can’t work here, Steve. I thought I was going to combust when I saw the two of dancing like angels, but this was pure torture. I wanted to lick her.”

Steve cackled, sliding into the driver’s side and closing it tightly behind him. “Better you than me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Robin said rolling her eyes as she slid into the car. When she was in and the door was close she said, “Gay!”

Steve snorted, “Lesbian.”

“Bitch.”

“Tease.”

“Slut.”

Steve put his hand over his heart and gasped. “How dare you imply I am anything but virtuous! I am the paragon of respectability! I am a tart!”

Robin cackled as Steve pulled into traffic.

“I’ve noticed you’ve looking disrespectfully, don’t think I haven’t.”

Steve shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“Oh come on there’s got to be someone revving those engines of yours,” Robin pressed. “So are we talking Lust, maybe a little Sloth...ooohhhh! I know, it’s Mammon that gets you going. You were there an awfully long time last night.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Look they’re all professionals who are very good at their jobs, and I while I might lust after all or none of them, I’m not going to fuck any of them because we need this job and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

Robin sighed. “I know. You know I was joking about not being able to work there, right?”

Steve nodded, lips pursed together.

“You’re my hero,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I do. Let’s go home. I think we both need ice cream tonight.”

“You’ve got it babe.”

~

Steve hadn’t gotten to see Wrath even though he had been hired last Thursday because they had to do all the boring employment shit first and so his first show had been Lust. So he wasn’t sure what to expect. Wrath made sense as woman. After all the saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” was famous for a reason.

But for some reason, Steve had still pictured a man.

But Lamia was vengeance personified. Dressed in red silks with black painted scales to look like she was part snake. Her dark piercing eyes and long black braided hair with her dusky skin made for an exotic marvel. She was curvy but still athletic, soft but clearly defined strength. Steve had learned from Choronzon that she was a mix of Indian and Egyptian and it gave her an unearthly aura to her.

She danced with a pair of curved swords and she felt dangerous. Her swords whirled and sliced through the air as the female dancers ripped and tore at her clothes until she was completely naked. But unlike Gluttony, who kept her g-string on, nothing remained but her jewelry.

Then her swords were taken and she was bathed in red ‘blood’. She continued her dance bathed in the blood of her enemies, not stopping until the last song end and she dropped to the ground.

The lights went out and the crowd roared. That was the part Steve found unsettling. The way they seemed to cheer her ‘demise’.

He asked Eddie about it afterward.

“It’s something she started actually,” Eddie explained. “She wanted Wrath to be defeated in the end.”

“Even though none of the other Sins are?”

“Yep!” Eddie said. “I think because of all the Sins Wrath’s effects are most widely seen. War. Abuse. Murder.”

Steve nodded. Greed probably killed more people, but it was in a hidden insidious way.

He wanted to see Lust again, but since it was his day off, he had things he needed to do. Especially with Robin working. So with much regret he was forced to miss it. Not like it mattered, when Robin got home that night, it was all she could talk about.

“Holy shit,” she said flopping on the sofa. “I thought your opening night was busy, but fuck, Steve. There were more people packed into that room then all the previous nights combined.”

Steve nodded. Robin was still in training and her trainer, Joe didn’t want to throw her to the wolves after just two days on the job, so her first day was on Sunday and Joe spent the whole week apologizing to her because he thought it would be slow for her. But it turned out to be the best thing as she learned faster in the hectic fury of Steve’s first night.

“He’s good,” he said, getting food out of their fridge to reheat for her.

“Look I can’t say I see the appeal,” she agreed, “but yeah. The way he makes it all about him and still make you feel like his attention is all on you.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He brought her a bowl of mac and cheese and a fork.

Robin dived into it with gusto. “So...with the money I made tonight will get us caught up on the rest of our bills.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “That’s good news. I thought we’d be eating mac and cheese for the rest of our lives.”

“Well thanks to you getting a job as a lead dancer,” she said around a bite of food, “we were able to catch up in a week.”

“So when can we get our phones turned back on?” he asked, picking at the skin around his nails.

Robin swatted his hands. “Stop that! It’s bad for your nails.” He sat on his hands and stuck his tongue at her. “Anyway, it should be tomorrow. So we can swing by the shop and get them turned back on.”

“That’s good,” Steve replied. “I can finally get rid of this burner phone we got in the mean time.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered poking at her food. “It’s all my fault.”

He dug into her bowl and tossed a bit of mac and cheese at her.

“Hey!” Robin protested, picking noodles out of her hair and tossing it back at him.

“If I can’t pick at my nails,” Steve huffed, “you can’t say that shit.”

She ducked her head and nodded. “I’m still sorry it happened.”

“That’s acceptable,” Steve said after eyeing her suspiciously for a moment. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He kissed her cheek and turned on the TV. He put on her favorite baking show and settled in for a quiet night in.

~

Part 4

Tag List: SEVEN SLOTS REMAINING

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts @too-much-tma-stuff

[lisenberry]

WIP Wednesday...

Just a tease in case anyone was wondering if I was ever going to get to the smut in this fic...

The Mountain is You

Ch. 3 snippet:

MDNI/18+/NSFW

CW: Dom/Sub dynamics; fem! inspection; spanking.

You sat back on your heels with your hands folded in your lap as he walked in.  His bootsteps seemed to vibrate across the wooden floor beneath your pillow.  A steady gait, with all of the suspense of a drum roll.

As you faced the high-backed chair, you could only make out the top of him until he made his way closer into view.  He was tall enough when you were standing up.  But on the ground at his feet, he eclipsed everything else around him.  There were no windows, no ceiling.  Just his thighs giving way to his waist, his arms and shoulders. 

Your head tipped back as far as it could just to take him all in, and even then, you came up short of meeting his eyes.

“Already off to a good start, I see.  You look lovely, sweetheart.”  He appraised you in a way that was both agonizingly slow and methodically brief, as he took off his jacket and slowly rolled up his sleeves

“Thank you, sir,” you answered, to the spot on his chest where his flannel shirt opened in a V.  It earned you a quick bob of his head in approval. 

He was starting you off easy.  That much was clear.  Like a teacher on the first day of school.  Throwing you softball questions to gauge how much of the summer reading you’d done over break.  How you responded determined how far he’d go, and which side of him you’d get.

Could he see the goosebumps spreading across your skin at the mere sound of his voice?      

“Next time, I want you to look at me when you say it.”  He bent down only slightly, aiding your efforts just enough that you could obey. 

His clear eyes glinted patiently between his dark lashes.  Dark brows, dark beard.  They were like signal fires along an unknown path.  No choice but to give yourself up and follow.

“Yes, sir.”  A slight smile pulled at the corner of your lips as the first flutter of heat worked its way from your cheeks down to the echoing emptiness in the cradle of your hips.

“Good.  I like to begin with an inspection.  To assess your readiness, and to make sure your healed from the previous session.”

“I’m ready,” you quickly admitted when his bare hand grazed against the side of your cheek.  You turned into it, starved for even the slightest touch of his roughened palm.

“And I like to take my time exploring what’s mine,” he rumbled, firmly snagging a hold of your chin.  A gesture that simultaneously chastised you for speaking out of turn, and possessively staked his claim. 

You let out a surprised breath, and he took the opening as an invitation to slip his fingers inside your parted mouth.  Two at first, and you instinctively flattened your tongue and closed around their impressive girth. 

“That’s it.”  A short hum of approval followed, as your eyes slipped closed while you sucked them deeper.  “Don’t overexert yourself just yet.  There’s plenty of time to show me how much you can take.”

He let you savor him a bit before he pulled out with a wet pop of skin and spit, and you nearly feel forward at the loss.  You licked at the salty trail his skin left behind on your lips.  

“Turn around and bend over the stool.”  He pushed a plushily upholstered ottoman closer behind you.  It was the perfect height to kneel and bend against as your arms fell over the other side. 

“Open your legs wider, don’t be shy.”  He folded up the hem of your skirt and brazenly pawed at the skin of your ass in wide circles.  You felt it stretch and pull at your exposed holes, and you wondered if his skin alone was abrasive enough to leave scratches behind. 

In the way his voice had already left etchings on your mind.

“Christ, you’re soaked.  Have you been touching yourself?”  It was barely even a question, the inflection missing from his even tone.

“Yes.”  He pulled his hands away at your answer, leaving a chill in its absence, intentionally.  “Sir,” you corrected.

“Good girl.”  A harsh clap to your backside was your reward.  It smarted with a sharpness that took you by surprise.  He wasn’t taking it easy anymore.  “What have you been thinking about when you play with my sweet little cunt?”  His hand returned between your legs, and with it, a probing forefinger glided along the split of your folds.

How long had it been since you'd been touched like this? Ghost had only ever let you use toys on yourself. Those were the rules, for your safety and his. Where were the rules now?

This is what you wanted...

“This, sir.”  Another slap, and you felt your muscles melt into the ottoman and your legs part wider to brace for the next impact. 

But it didn’t come.   Instead, he pulled back and cleaned off his slick smeared fingers along the side of your thigh.

“This, sweetheart, was just a warm-up.”

[kiwiana-writes]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks @getmehighonmagic @whimsymanaged @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @junebugclaremontdiaz @onthewaytosomewhere for the tags. Y'all are getting more than I intended of the Anastasia AU tonight because I couldn't figure out a good place to cut it... at this rate idk what will be left to publish that hasn't been on tumblr but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“Nora.” Alex swallows. “I know this guy.” “You know Prince Henry?” She reaches out, patting him on the cheek. “I think finals have fried your brain. He’s been missing for a decade. That’s kind of the point. Unless you’re telling me he’s a ghost wandering around the White House—that’d be kinda cool.” “He’s not a—wait, you believe in ghosts?” Nora just shrugs, eyebrows raised, and stares at him until he keeps speaking. “Obviously I don’t know Prince Henry, Jesus. If I did I’d be ten million pounds richer, for a start.” Twice a year like clockwork, ex-Queen Mary, now the Duchess of Washington and holed up in one of her cousin’s royal properties along with her daughter and two remaining grandchildren, pops up on social media to remind the American population of the reward on offer for her younger grandson’s safe return. There have been literally dozens of fake Henrys over the years, all hoping to get their hands on the cash, all soon finding themselves on the wrong side of treason charges. He looks at Nora’s computer screen again, fingers drumming restlessly on the desk. “I’m telling you, though, I know that guy. We were in Intro to Psych together freshman year. I would’ve put actual money on that being a picture of him, not some randomly AI-generated image of what a missing prince would look like now. God, can you imagine if the answer to this big mystery was just, like, that asshole from one of my gen eds? What would the chances of that be?” It’s rhetorical, but Nora’s never met a statistic she doesn’t try to calculate. “Infinitesimal. Unless”—she grins, all teasing sarcasm—“your Intro to Psych buddy refuses to tell you anything about his life from before he was twelve. That might get us into a high enough fraction of a percent that Excel won’t display it weird, at least.”

Tagging @affectionatelyrs @anchoredarchangel @anincompletelist @blairwaldcrf @celaestis1 @celeritas2997 @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise @cultofsappho @daisymae-12 @dumbpeachjuice @everwitch-magiks @firenati0n @happiness-of-the-pursuit @heybuddy-drabbles @indestructibleheart @indomitable-love @inexplicablymine @leaves-of-laurelin @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @matherines @myheartalivewrites @ninzied @notspecialbabe @orchidscript @rmd-writes @sherryvalli @ships-to-sail @smc-27 @sparklepocalypse @ssmtskw @stereopticons @three-drink-amy @tintagel-or-cockleshells @welcometololaland and, as always, anyone who wants to play.

[eilidh-eternal]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @glossysoap 🖤

How are we all feeling about Ghoap x f!reader and westerns??????

Heavy clouds bruise the sky, corpulent; laden with rain and fit to burst upon the dying ember slipping under the horizon. A conflagration undulates about it—paintbrushes, firewheels, tickseed, prairie coneflower—razing great swathes of buffalo grass and bluestem. An iron horse pulls you along, drumming steel and timber into the red earth, hurtling towards that mottled place they call West, and you survey it all from the perch of a stock car, rattling along.

The wind doesn’t howl like it did in Appalachia. Doesn’t call your name in the dead of night. Can’t pin you down, and neither could the Ozark’s nor Ouachita’s. Too wily—Bullheaded, mama says; men ain’t know what to do with a girl like you; you get to grabbin’ ‘em by the horns and they start buckin’, but I reckon you like the ride—and too fickle to stay in one place. Pa says you must have quicksilver in your veins. Mercurial. Don’t know how anyone’ll put a ring on your finger the way you slip through everyone else’s.

He’s right, of course. Most men have enough sense to keep their hands tucked far away from snapping teeth and snarled words—but sense is the first thing men leave behind when they cross that first river, and it’s not long after that they get a taste for taming things.

[yabagofmilfs]

empty the tank????? i have so many ideas in my head as to what that could be.....

wip list

this one i started ages ago and want to get back to so bad but it’s a little world building heavy, so i keep getting stuck on logistics that ultimately don’t really matter that much when it’s all just a set up for grime. i 🩷 procrastination.

in this version of society betas (regular degular humans) are the norm, and dynamics exist in pretty low numbers. in north america especially, while omegas are rare, alphas are almost entirely unheard of due to mass emigration when an omega safety statute was passed in the 1800s that said “intact” alphas were only allowed in public if they were muzzled. this led to a majority of alphas leaving north america for other, less prejudiced countries. russia maybe, just for instance.

now without the presence of alphas and the rare occasion of encountering another omega, there’s nothing to really trigger typical omega behavior. they can get pregnant so they have the usual reproductive cycle, but heats are pretty unheard of. so they function pretty normally in society, but are a bit of a novelty for their ability to carry regardless of gender.

anyway all of that is a set up for geno coming to america to play with the pens. there are a handful of alphas in the league and while they’re not treated all that well and usually relegated to enforcer positions due to their aggressive natures, it’s not really a big deal until now. because the pens also happen to have an omega who’s a superstar.

everyone is really jumpy about geno being around sid. he has to be muzzled off the ice and wear a special helmet on the ice that covers his mouth, both of them are required to wear scent blockers at all times, and everyone watches geno like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t make any sudden moves.

except they should be paying more attention to sid, who is fascinated with geno. alphas are kind of mythical creatures to him, and that combined with his inherent omega interest and geno’s insane talent make sid obsessed. he skates so beautifully. what do his teeth look like. god his shot is so strong. does he really have a knot. etc etc.

geno starts getting in trouble for taking a lot of penalties, and sid notices that after those games he gets pulled into an empty room with the coaches and trainers. he always comes out looking dejected, so sid figures he’s getting yelled at pretty harshly (he’s not….but we’re not gonna get into all that for the purposes of this post). sid feels bad about it—a lot of those penalties are because geno was protecting sid. so sid comes up with a way to help. totally unselfishly, you understand. he pulls geno aside and tells him if he can get through a game with no penalties, he’ll let geno scent him. it’s the perfect incentive because everyone else is a beta and they’ll never know.

and it works. until it doesn’t.

here’s a little snip!

He couldn’t understand what possible danger an alpha could pose to him specifically that any other guy didn’t. Betas had dicks and they had teeth too. This level of overprotection was ridiculous, and kind of insulting. Even his dad, who’d spent Sid’s whole life drumming into him that just because he had the potential to carry didn’t mean he wasn’t a man, had nearly popped a blood vessel when Sid had told him they were getting Malkin.

It was a relief when Gonch finally stuck his head through the conference room door a few moments later. “Ready?”

Mario nodded, and he and Shero got up from their seats to flank Sid. Rex and LeClair moved to stand in front of him, which was annoying. He tried to duck around them, but Mario put a firm hand on Sid’s shoulder to keep him in his seat.

Sid took a deep breath when the door opened and Malkin followed Gonch into the room. He was glad his lungs were full, because the scent that rocketed into him would have made him gasp otherwise.

All the romantic movies about dynamics described scents as something you’d maybe find in the horrible candle aisle he had to give a wide berth at Target. Shit like apple pie and cinnamon, or fresh cut grass, or leather and whiskey–whatever the hell that was supposed to smell like.

This was nothing like that.

It was unlike anything he could name. It was body musk and sweat and something else that stuck in his nostrils and the back of his throat. He could almost see it permeate the air around him; he imagined thin fingers of it curling toward him, slipping between his lips and down his throat, taking up all the space inside him.

His heart was pounding and his palms were slick with sweat, but he slowly let out a breath and met Malkin’s wide eyes above his muzzle. He looked scared and tense, and Sid hoped his own face was communicating the right mix of reassurance and the need for restraint. He didn’t know if his scent was affecting Malkin similarly, but he knew they both needed to keep it together around the betas if this was going to work.

[just-a-sleepy-idiot]

Herbert West Drabble: Being stuck at a Busstation with him while it rains

I watched the movie for the first time and now I already have three Wips for him I‘m working on

Content/Warnings: Gender neutral Reader

You were seated under the roof of an old, wooden Busstation and watched the trees bend and sway to the strong winds that whipped through the empty street. The humid summer air had suddenly been disrupted by a burst of rain that was still relentlessly pouring down on the small shelter that was this bus station. Thankfully you were already close when it started, you only got a little wet.

It would take a while for your bus to arrive, so you just quietly listened onto the drumming and tinkling noise. At some point though, you spotted a man swiftly walking towards the Busstation, sheltering his bag under his suit jacket rather than using it to cover himself. That was why he was already pretty soaked when he made it under the roof.

He had black, short hair, glasses and wore a shirt and tie combo that was now fully sticking to his body. You smiled at him with some sympathy, he nodded at you and took a under the bench as well.

You put your bag on your lap and rustled around to find something, shortly after you handed him a handkerchief. „For your glasses.“ You imagined it was pretty hard to see with rain stained, fogged up glasses. „Ah“ he took it and took his glasses off to clean them, revealing dark, very dark eyes beneath that briefly met yours before polishing his glasses. „Thank you.“ He muttered, frowning down at the specters with a concentrated look in his face.

„You must really like your work if you are trying to protect your bag from the rain instead of yourself.“ You joked lightly, putting your own bag to the side again. Herbert looked up, „Like..?“ he paused, „well, you could say so. But most would rather call it Obsession.“ He huffed and put his glasses back on. He handed you the handkerchief back, the way your fingers closed around the fabric mirrored his own, you were looking at him though. „Is it Obsession or Possession?“

Herbert looked up at that, letting go of the handkerchief and now it was you who didn’t look as you were putting it away. It struck him, the phrasing, yet you just lightly smiled like it was nothing.

„Both, probably.“ He said. He liked to think that he was in control of it all, that he was the constructive agent of a scientific revolution. Exceeding not only research but pre-existing beliefs about death itself in the world. But then again there was failure he hated to acknowledge, like the Death of Dr. Gruber. The state he slipped into when he needed a shot. So both, probably.

„What about you?“ He turned the question back at you. He didn’t really care to hear about other peoples lives, he was more occupied to beat Death than to get to know the living. But the question, that weirdly precise phrase, made him a bit curious about your answer.

„I think I may be too idealistic to enjoy the work I‘m doing now, maybe my expectations are too romanticized. I want to do more than all of what is within reach of me right now. But I don’t really have a choice.“ You laughed.

Strangely enough he understood, in a way. Always feeling like there was more to be done, more to archive only to be halted by the somber limitations of his environment. He responded with a hum.

You shivered, wrapping your arms around your body in an attempt to combat the sneaking cold. A strand of hair fell in front of your eyes, but you kept looking out into the rain. Observing it. And Herbert looked at you, and the way there was something so attentive and imaginative in the way you were watching Nature bend and wrestle with the wind and rain. He looked at things the same way, but with different intentions. Everything had a reason, a purpose, and he was determined to put the pieces of his environment together into something he could make sense of or use.

And he saw purpose in you, somehow. And he ached to make sense of it, to grasp how something about you resonated with the Drive that led him to do all of these things. You were very different from him, but your perception seemed to overlap with his in some places.

You heard faint rustling, and looked up in surprise when you saw him gently putting his jacket around your shoulders, careful not to come too close. Herbert held your gaze. You sighed without noise, feeling that it slightly helped with the cold.

„Maybe you can do more.“ He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to you, „My name is Herbert West. Would you like to be my Assistant?“

- - -

I hope you liked it even though this was really short! Please comment to let me know <3

[saintvainglorious]

Fics I Enjoyed in February & March

18 fics and ~720k (!!!) total. Includes fics from the following fandoms: Fullmetal Alchemist, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, Hazbin Hotel, Helluva Boss, Kung Fu Panda

Pornstar Martini by blatantblue/@blatantblue and brightened Hazbin Hotel | Angel Dust/Husk | 5k | Mature | Part 1 of Pornstar Martini

Naturally, Husk’s kindness goes straight to Angel’s head. This is why he doesn’t do heroin — you try that shit once, you always want it. You may never take it again, but you’ll carry the gaping-aching hole in your chest until the end of your days. Or the end of eternity. Angel never needed aftercare before; he puts the blame squarely on Husk’s huggable shoulders.

Sour Dove by blatantblue/@blatantblue Hazbin Hotel | Angel Dust/Husk | 6k | Explicit | Part 2 of Pornstar Martini

“What do you need?” Husk asks again, hand in Angel’s hair, always in Angel’s hair. Angel needs to feel something that’s his and only his. He needs to know there’s a part of him, a pathetic inch, when he doesn’t yet end and Valentino doesn’t yet begin. He needs a lie. “Put me on my knees.” Husk doesn’t even flinch. “You know I’m not gonna do that, baby.” Angel and Husk get as close as they can without breaking each other.

Call Your Bluff by RazzAppleMagic/@razzapplemagic Hazbin Hotel | Angel Dust/Husk | 72k (WIP) | Explicit

Val may be a fucking monster, but he’s a monster that Angel knows. He’s a monster that Angel understands. Angel isn’t stupid; he made the choice to sign with Valentino because he was the only overlord that made sense for Angel’s lifestyle — for what Angel wanted out of Hell. But now you’re tellin’ him that his soul is owed to some random fucking jackass who swindled Val in a game of cards? How can that be fair? How can that be something that’s just allowed to happen? (In which, Angel's contract is acquired by a new overlord — Hell's very own Gambling Demon, and they both get more from the relationship than either of them bargained for.)

snipers solve 99% of all problems by silentwalrus/@silentwalrus1 Fullmetal Alchemist | Gen | 260k (WIP) | Mature

Ed had thought, after the whole Promised Day, homunculus, entire country harvested for alchemical batteries thing, the batshit quotient of his life would have settled down some. He really ought to have topped out the meter with that one. But no. The bullshit is just getting started. “Are you fucking kidding me,” Ed demands. “The wizards?”

Call Sign: Morning Star by blatantblue/@blatantblue Hazbin Hotel | Alastor/Lucifer Morningstar | 7k | Explicit

“You,” Alastor says slowly, “came up here to proposition me?” Lucifer shrugs. “And if I did?” Joy and the thrill of friendship are not on Alastor’s frequency, and neither is Lucifer. But it may be their last night in Hell; in the circumstances, Lucifer’s mouth on him is infinitely less of a terrible idea.

You're in MY House, Bitch by brightened Hazbin Hotel | Adam/Lucifer Morningstar | 3k | Explicit

“Is this what you’ve been up to?” Adam asks. “A rubber duck orgy?” Lucifer gasps, reaching for the nearest duck and clutching it to his chest. “How dare you! I’ve never fornicated with any of my ducks. In fact … I haven’t fornicated since Lilith.” Lucifer drops the duck in favor of drumming both hands on his chest. “Well, that’s embarrassing. Why am I saying this to you?” Lucifer propositions Adam. Not in that way! But also, yes in that way.

Dusk Till Dawn by Novaeris Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 13k | Mature

When Blitzø gets drugged and kidnapped by an imp gang, he has to fight tooth and nail to make it out with his life. When his injuries prove to be a bit too much for him to handle, he sucks up his pride and goes to ask Stolas for help. Normally, not a big deal. Except this time, he hasn’t spoken to the guy since their shitty first date at Ozzie’s. And when one of his wounds gives Blitzø a nasty fever, he finds himself revealing a lot more than he intended. A post ep 7 fic with a lot of Blitzø whump and Stolas finally learning where the lines of communication had broken down between them.

Far From Heaven by Novaeris Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 45k | Explicit

After their disastrous first date, Blitzo and Stolas struggle to pick themselves back up again in the aftermath. It takes many small steps before they can finally be honest, with themselves and with each other. Blitzo learns to tell the truth. And Stolas learns that, sometimes, things aren’t as hopeless as they appear. A study of Blitzo and a study of Stolas as they fall apart and then come back together after ep 7.

Palaces and Souvenirs by CloudySonder/@cloudysonder Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 14k (WIP) | Mature

So Stolas is objectively. Objectively. Attractive. Kinda soft-looking, sometimes. Pretty. Whatever. Fuckin’ whatever. That’s always been a thing. Blitzo knew that, Stolas definitely knew that-- whatever. This is not, Blitzo thinks, sounding a little bit desperate even to himself, some sort of revelation. the lack of Slow-Burn Friends-With-Benefits to Lovers with Octavia & Blitzo Bonding as a Sideplot content in the stolitz community is Appalling, so i am merely fulfilling a demand in the market

"Red." by QUINADEN Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 10k | Explicit

Another full moon, another sexual rendevous. But when Stolas suggests that he return the favor for once, Blitz has to confront the fact that giving over even more control of the situation might be the scariest compromise he’s ever had to make.

At Your Service by QUINADEN Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 14k (WIP) | Mature

When Blitz was 10, his family sold him to the Ars Goetia family, believing that he’d have a far better life than he ever would in the circus business given his lack of general talent and skill. With his soul forever bound by contract, he has one job and one job only: to serve Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia. Part of that duty eventually became having a nearly two-decades-long affair with the prince. But when their secret is discovered by Andrelphus, who threatens to expose them both to the Goetia family, just how far will Blitzø be willing to go in order to protect Stolas, and, by extension, his own life?

The Devil Is My Shepherd by QUINADEN Helluva Boss | Blitzø/Stolas | 28k (WIP) | Mature

No longer able to live in the comfort of the home and property he owned for decades, Blitzo has now moved in (at least temporarily) with Stolas while he recovers from his injuries sustained at the hands of the local Catholic congregation. No one said adjusting to an entirely new life in Hell would be easy, but between Stolas' daughter going through the motions of her parents separating, his new friends planning their wedding, a manager who is both younger and far braver than he is, and Stolas himself, it's been difficult, to say the least. Grappling with a brand new lifestyle and world without the comfort of the deity his parents raised him to embrace, things are certainly going to be rough. He's already been dragged down into the depth of Hell, though: how much worse could it get?

Traces of Spring by nehezt/@nehezt Kung Fu Panda | Gen | Mature

While investigating a strange phenomenon, Po inadvertently brings Tai Lung back from the Spirit Realm. Forced to live again, Tai Lung must grapple with his place in the world and the feelings that led to his attack on the Valley of Peace.

Competition by astolat/@astolat Game of Thrones | Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth | 11k | Mature

Almost the instant Brienne was out of earshot, Bronn turned to Podrick, jerked his head towards Jaime and asked, “Has he fucked her yet?”

Words by astolat/@astolat Game of Thrones | Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth | 10k | Explicit

“So we’ll look for you in the North," Robb Stark said, "coming to pay your debt."

Let The River Run by astolat/@astolat Game of Thrones | Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth/Robb Stark | 61k | Explicit

The deep satisfaction of having made the right choice; of having found a clear-flowing wellspring of true honor to protect.

Royal Flush by astolat/@astolat Game of Thrones | Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth/Margaery Tyrell | 85k | Explicit

Robb Stark had swept his entire hand of cards off the table, and Tyrion couldn’t see how to make a single play at all.

Winter's Crown by astolat/@astolat Game of Thrones | Jaime Lannister/Robb Stark | 76k | Explicit

“When the Night’s King rides,” the giant said, each word slow as cold honey pouring, “the King in the North must answer. The King in the North…whose name is Stark.”