#i finally wrote it...

[kivaember]

Not sure if anyone's asked you this yet but PLEASE drop the walt/mich essay!!!

OKAY i went crazy and did an actual essay. im not joking this fucker is long. i'd open the read more in another tab, just to warn you.

ALSO ALSO! This was just me sitting down and rambling about things. It's a summarisation of my thoughts, and I pared it down since it was hitting 5k (it's about 4.4k words long lmao). If this essay has you thinking of specific questions and the like, feel free to ask and I'll try to answer them!

Now without further ado, my ramblings below:

THE WALTER/MICHIGAN SHIP ESSAY!

INTRO

That's right baby, I'm giving this an intro and everything. Alright, this essay is all about exploring and explaining my version of the Walter/Michigan ship using the characterisation I gave them for the APV verse. First I'm going to drill down into the individual characters, what makes them tick, their backstory, etc, before finally going into detail about how they mesh together as a ship and why they're both good yet terrible for each other.

THE WORLD LORE

To understand Michigan and Walter, we need to understand the type of world they were born into. Furlong Dynamics is a major powerhouse on the Jupiter colonies, owning several shipyards and carving a specific niche for themselves as the weapon-dealer for interstellar craft. They may not be as well-known or successful as Arquebus or Balam in the defence industry in terms of MTs or ACs, but if you're arming an interstellar craft, you sure as shit are going to use Furlong Dynamics weaponry.

Problem is in post-Fires age, that corner of the market is stagnating due to a lack of new interstellar craft being built. Prior to the discovery of Coral as an energy source, humanity had to do long-stasis and slow-walking their way across the galaxy, which meant trade and the like was incredibly limited between extrasolar colonies. With Coral, however, they were able to make tremendous technological shortcuts to create what they called the "C-Wave Drive". It functions a lot like the hypothetical Alcubierre Drive, with Coral producing the insane amounts of energy required and running the equally insane amounts of calculations needed to ensure the craft doesn't crush itself into a singularity (also, Coral has a very strange relationship with spacetime, the scientists found...). An added bonus as well was that these "C-Wave Drives" required no refuelling.

The interstellar craft needed crude fuel for sublight travel and other functionalities on the ship, but as for long-distance travel? There was no need to make pitstops or set aside cargo space for fuel, so many ships got used to just carrying a small amount that would allow them to travel as needed locally, as it would be easy to refuel when arriving at their destination as and when was needed.

Post-Fires changed this landscape drastically. Overnight, the interstellar craft market was rocked by the realisation that the previously thought limitless and abundant miracle substance that made FTL travel easy and convenient was now extremely finite had them all scrambling. The UEG openly seized every single galactic store of Coral from the corporations, citing "galactic security", and all orders for new interstellar craft - amongst other Coral technologies - instantly halted.

By Young Jupiter time (ten years post-Fires), Furlong Dynamics is beginning to feel the strain. They built their empire on focusing predominantly on interstellar craft - their designs, their weaponry, their engines - and their frantic R&D into solving the energy problem the Coral had shortcutted wasn't going very well. All that could be done was continue to maintain the existing ships that existed, as theoretically the C-Wave Drives could run indefinitely until some sort of mechanical failure happened due to wear and tear. As for new ships, the only ones being built were those utilising the old "slow-walker" engines, which meant bigger, bulkier, slower ships, with less room for ammunition fabrication and storage, and more for stasis compartment and fuel storage. Corporations that had specialised mostly in stasis technologies enjoyed an unexpected windfall, while those like Furlong Dynamic began to languish.

But as they say, shit rolls downhill. With the Corporations struggling to adjust to the Coral shortage and the UEG viciously hording the few galactic stores that remained, the working class found their workload increasing - heavily.

Factories that had benefited from the automation of Coral technologies found themselves in the position where they needed heavy reliance of human productive power. Yet they didn't want their productivity to lower thanks to human limitations, and neither did they want their profits to dent by either hiring too many workers, or paying the few higher wages to make up for the harder work. The few worker protections that had been steadily built up over the past few decades were immediately torn down and rescinded, and the working class were forced to work to maintain the corporations' and the UEG's productivity in their factories and fabrication facilities on basically starvation wages.

So, we have a world that has suffered from a fatal blow to the comfortable status quo. Furlong Dynamics is desperate to try and stem the bleed from their profits that the Coral shortage had started, and the boot has never been heavier on the working class's neck. It's an atmosphere that creates considerable tension within the various stratas of society, and the Jupiter colonies especially - known as the industrial powerhouse of the solar system - have become a bubbling pot. Any socialist talk or gatherings are viciously cracked down on by the corporate and government forces, and the workers are becoming increasingly frustrated and antagonised.

So it makes sense why Walter and Michigan initially have a bit of a rocky start, coming from these polar opposites of society. Michigan, the son of a Furlong Dynamic's director, and Walter, a Rubiconian refugee clawing his way out of the slums.

But alright, world context has been laid down, it's time for the character context. First up:

MICHIGAN - THE PRINCE WHO WANTS TO BE A PAUPER

So, Michigan. G1. Hell On Four Legs. Where did he come from, and who is he? To answer that, we need to look at his family... and Furlong Dynamics' leadership.

Every corporation is unique in its structure and the way it handles leadership. For example, Balam is well-known for its unusual meritocratic selection process for its CEO, though that hasn't exactly escaped the nepotism that pervades the upper echeleons of corporate society. Those with advantageous beginnings normally win the meritocratic race: they just have to work a little harder than most. Furlong Dynamics, however, are upfront about their leadership roles being hereditary.

Five families sit on the board for Furlong with one presiding as a CEO, a role that rotates every five years in a set pattern between the five families. This is a system that has worked for almost as long as Furlong Dynamics had existed (almost 300 years by this point), and needless to say that those five families were old money. They're the equivalent of an aristocracy in a hypercapitalistic galaxy.

One of these families is Rivera, which Michigan was born into as Gabriel Rivera. It was expected of him to succeed his father and sit on Furlong Dynamics' board as a director, so from a very young age he was prepped for this eventuality. His father dictated everything in his life, from his hobbies to what he wore and right down to what he ate. He was drilled in everything to do with business, politics and the interstellar industry, as his father was keen for Michigan to be ready and prepped for when he succeeded him, especially as Furlong Dynamics was entering a critical slump for the first time in its long history due to the Coral shortage. He didn't want his son to be the weak link.

Michigan despised this. He hated the people his father forced him to interact with, he hated the two-faced communication and backstabbing schemes he was encouraged to learn and inflict on others, he hated how boring yet stressful this kind of life was. Contrary to his personality later in life, Michigan was reclusive and anti-social when he was young - a direct result of his father's overbearing and relentless micromanaging - and when possible would hole himself up in his room and escape by watching classical films.

Classical films being... war films and action movies.

Though plenty of media had been lost when Earth suffered from ecological devastation, many had been salvaged throughout the centuries. It had begun from Michigan pilfering from his father's collection, something to put on display and boast about possessing rather than watching, and found himself hooked.

Brave soldiers heroically saving their comrades, taking charge of their destinies, denying fate, overcoming the odds, starting from the gutter and rising to the top from their own merits, making fire-forged friends that were genuine and not shallow transactional facades... this type of fantasy entranced Michigan, giving him a craving that he couldn't quite itch with his luxurious yet empty life. He desperately wished he had been born as some poor bastard whose only option was to join one of the corporate militaries, and distinguish himself by commiting acts of heroism, have people awed by him because of his own merits, and not because he is a Rivera and surrounded by brown-nosing sychophants.

It was a delusional dream driven by an intense desire to escape and forge a genuine connection with anyone, and after years of burying himself deeper and deeper in the propaganda belched out by these old action films (the message of 'war is hell' from the more solemn ones flying miles above his head), Michigan decided: he was going to disown himself and become an MT pilot.

Which he managed. To cut a long story short, Gabriel Rivera became just Michigan, the Rivera name used sparingly and only for legal reasons. He left behind the comfortable executive life to start at the very bottom of the pilot ranks, working his way up with grit and determination, denying any advantages or opportunities that came his way due to his blood or name. He wanted to emulate those heroes that he had watched in those films, he wanted to start with nothing and become something, all with his own efforts, and leave behind the Rivera name and reputation for good.

He started acting more like those gunslinger heroes, loud voice, boisterous personality, easy-going nature and possessing a masculine charm. He's always seeking that big, heroic event, that euphoric moment of victory and achieving the impossible against the odds... but he never really found it. Even after abandoning Furlong Dynamics entirely to jump ship to Balam, he realised that it was just more of the same, his battles against downtrodden workers protesting against their inhumane treatment, or furthering corporate interests over some useless moon in the middle of nowhere. There was no glory or higher purpose - just the company's bottom line.

Michigan started his piloting career as a rich kid craving adventure, naive to the true gritty nature of the galaxy. After decades of piloting under his belt and with an intimiate insight on both sides of the corporate ladder - both at the bottom and the top - to say Michigan was jaded by the time he landed on Rubicon would be an understatement.

He learned that there's no such thing as big damn heroes in this shitty galaxy. All the titles and medals he earned were just window dressings to whatever shitty advertisement his corporate master touted to bolster its reputation or sales. He hated his "Hero of Jupiter" title, and he took great pleasure in launching his "medals" off a cliff and into the ocean like they were frisbees. He hated that in the end his father had been right, that becoming a pilot wouldn't let him run away from the corporate lifestyle, it'd just throw him down to the very bottom and get him trampled

In short, Michigan's a man who tried to forge his own destiny by following a childish dream. His naivety resulted in him being trapped in a life that only had one escape - crawling back to his father and retaking the name Gabriel Rivera - and he viewed that worse than being a corporate attack dog with no real freedom. He'd rather die in some shitty hole in a random ditch somewhere over some pointless resource that meant nothing to him. Was it pride by that point, or stubbornness? He really didn't know.

He just knew that he was just another guy suckered in by the corporations' glitzy and false promises.

WALTER - THE AVENGER WHO KNOWS HE'S DIGGING A GRAVE FOR MILLIONS

Walter, meanwhile, was born to a privileged family of a different sort.

A good few decades before the Fires, Rubicon had done the unthinkable in human history: it had broken away from the UEG and declared independence, becoming a self-sustaining colony with a distinct identity - and able to negotiate with the fuming UEG on equal footing due to its sole access to Coral and its development of the C-weapons. The UEG couldn't take Rubicon or its resources by force (though it surely contemplated it from time to time), and so begrudgingly dealt with them as a peer, legitimising Rubicon as an independent colony and allowing it to forge its own desinty on the galactic stage.

While UEG and its many colonies functioned as a hypercapitalist ogligarchy, Rubicon became a technocracy, with the Rubicon Research Institute having considerable sway over the Rubiconian central government - to the point where it was understood that despite the elected 'president', it really was the Institute that was in charge. This gave rise to the 'intellectual elite', the scientists and academics who ran the Institute - the class that Walter belonged to before the Fires.

His parents were both scientists that worked on the Xylem and lived on-site. They were passionate about their work with the Coral and highly respected within their community, but while they clearly loved Walter, he was always second priority to their research and ambitions. Walter was the only child growing up in the labs (at least, the only one that wasn't a test subject of some kind), and only ever interacted with adults - all of whom were scientists or the security staff. He had never left the Xylem either, his concept of the 'outside world' being the small, sanitised courtyard with the lone tree, and the street he could see past the bars of the labratory's secure and gated exit. While he had some freedom of movement within the facility, there were areas he was barred from entering due to sensitive experiments, or to minimise his interaction with detained test subjects.

As a result, Walter became scarily self-sufficient from a young age, and came across as taciturn or emotionally stunted. He spoke like an adult but struggled to navigate social situations in general, unable to sugarcoat his words and coming across as rude or abrasive when speaking to others. While he found himself occasionally curious about interacting with people who weren't harried scientists that barely tolerated his prolonged presence, Walter genuinely found himself unbothered about his isolation. He was lonely, yes, but he occupied himself well enough, and filled the long stretches of time in furthering his education - determined to become a scientist like his parents and continuing on their work, as what was expected of him.

Then his father began the augmentations and everything went terribly wrong.

His mother volunteered to be Gen Zero, the prototype used to present to the Institute to have the augmentation project greenlighted. Initially, things went well. His mother suffered no significant drawbacks, and demonstrated an incredible boost in mental acuity and calculation power that current neural implants couldn't even begin to compare to. Once the Gen Ones were well underway, however, with a significant death rate at that, his mother began to rapidly degrade, physically and mentally. Walter's last memory of his mother was her unable to recognise him and talking to people who weren't there, knowing that it was the Coral's fault somehow.

His father was driven to perfect the augmentations to ensure his wife's sacrifice wasn't in vain. In Walter's words, he began a carnival of horrors within his labs, killing and mutiliating hundreds within his labs in his pursuit of the refining the augmentation process, with the Institute pumping unlimited resources, funding and test subjects into the project. The glimpse of the future Gen Zero showed them had them eager to achieve that perfection, no matter how many bodies they had to stack up.

It disgusted Walter. While he had never been emotionally close with his parents, he had still respected them, and to see his mother reduced to a crazed husk of herself before dying and his father turning into a monster, destroyed the pedastal he'd put them on. Walter found himself fostering a near irrational hatred for the Coral, rationalising that none of this would've happened if Coral had never been discovered - if it had never existed. He wished, vehemently, for it to disappear.

He got his wish with the Fires.

While the augmentations had made Walter view the Coral with a negative lens, seeing the damage it could do in the wrong hands, the Fires cinched it as a traumatic avatar of destruction in Walter's mind. The Coral was too dangerous to exist in their galaxy, not with how greedy humans could be, and blind to the dangers in pursuit of power. But his motivations weren't noble: he absolutely despised the legacy it represented, how he couldn't hear the word 'Coral' without thinking of his father, his mother, and how everything was robbed from him. It seeded in him an obsession, a hateful, vengeful obsession, because focusing on that, on gunning for a tangible entity that you've vowed to destroy, is far easier to stomach than processing the fact that your life was utterly ruined by selfish ambitions and a freak accident.

Overnight Walter went from part of the very prestigious intellectual elite on Rubicon, to a penniless refugee on one of Jupiter's colonies: Ganymede. It was a shock to the system to find himself in a world where food wasn't simply there whenever he desired it, that shelter wasn't a given, and that clinical cleanliness was a privilege, not a right. He fortunately had Carla with him, though, and while the first few years were rocky, they managed to find their footing by creating a scrapping service in the Ganymede slums, Carla using her previous experience in R&D at the Institute, and Walter his education, to repurpose old tech and mechs or salvage somewhat valuable tech to sell on.

From there, they began to plot, to focus their shared hatred and distrust of the Coral to really make sure it was gone for good, that it wouldn't come back. In the filthy slums beneath Ganymede, with a promise made between two emotionally exhausted yet furious Rubiconian refugees, Overseer was born.

But that's its own story.

Walter's endless conga line of misfortune did well to harden him and make him adaptable to unpleasant surprises. He always expects shit to go wrong at the most inconvenient times, he doesn't trust a single person to do the right thing even if he's known them for years (Carla, who all but raised him, he only trusts to a certain extent), and he realised how hypocritical most people could be. Though he was born as one of the intellectual elite, witnessing and experiencing first hand the oppression and indignity the working class suffered in UEG territories genuinely sickened him - and cemented in his mind that this galaxy couldn't be trusted with the Coral at all.

He had to destroy it for good. He had to make sure it could never come back and hurt anyone else. He had to erase every drop of legacy his shit-for-brains father had built and let history bury him forever. Walter, for all of his outwardly cold and emotionless masks, feels deeply and intently, and all of it is bitter rage.

Walter just doesn't know how to process his emotions well - he was never taught, and he missed those vital milestones with his lonely childhood, locked away in an ivory tower filled with nothing but scientists and test subjects. He feels so much over his father, the Fires, the Coral, but has no idea how to sort through it all. So he stuffs it away. He keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon where his mission to destroy the Coral hangs. He tells himself that once he destroys it for good, it'll all go away: these incomprehensible, heavy and painful emotions. The source of them all will be gone.

Imagine that: condeming millions to death because of crippling, unaddressed daddy issues.

THE SHIP ITSELF

Right, with all that context given, onto the part people really care about: so, why does the Walter/Michigan ship pair well? Or at least, why does APV Walter/Michigan pair well.

Michigan's POV:

From Michigan's side, he's fascinated with Walter. Everything about him just doesn't make sense. He's a 'sewer rat', a working class drone that managed to claw their way out of the muck and elevate his social standing through stubborn grit and determination - but his demeanour belies that. Walter demonstrates a level of education and sophistication that the working class just don't have. Michigan has grown up on Ganymede, and despite the high-ranking executives living in their gated communities and busying themselves with the day-to-day running of their businesses, they do keep an eye on what the working class are up to.

The corporations have perfected subjugation and propaganda to an artform. They can only achieve this if they know their target audience. Michigan knows, as any self-respecting Rivera knows, how the working class tick, their current worries and desires, the statistical trends of their few purchases and which style of propaganda they're most receptive to. Walter fits none of the established norms for Ganymede working class - he doesn't even have a recognisable Jupiter colony accent - so he already presents himself as an interesting puzzle for Michigan to break down.

There's also some genuine respect there too. Michigan acknowledges that Water had to work hard to get where he was, and he appreciates that Walter doesn't mince his words or beat around the bush. He's blunt, direct and isn't in the business of brown-nosing or fawning to ingratiate himself. You always knew where you stood with Walter, or so Michigan felt, and admittedly, Walter reminded him a lot of a certain character achetype in his precious films: the underdog, the guy you ended up rooting for just because he worked so fucking hard for what he wanted.

So, to Michigan, Walter's interesting, he's mysterious, and he's a representation of what Michigan wanted for himself. He wants to be like Walter: a poor as shit refugee making something of himself, with a whole future to distinguish himself and build his own reputation, to forge himself in fire! Michigan is mildly envious, but thinks as well that if he sticks close to him, he'll be able to live vicariously through him, to get a taste of dream he really wanted to achieve...

And because he's so fascinated with Walter, he starts to learn all of his tics and mannerisms too. He begins to understand the minute shifts of Walter's expressions, what he leaves unsaid and knowing when Walter is feeling but just doesn't know how to express or word himself. Michigan is the more emotionally intelligent of the two, and very perceptive despite how he acts. Combined with his easy-going nature and his respect for Walter's hardworking nature and competency, this helped him break through a few of Walter's walls - despite Walter doing his best to rebuild them as fast as possible.

Not to say they don't butt heads: they butt heads a lot. Arguing is their favourite pasttime. They challenge each other, and Michigan knows that he can say whatever and Walter can dish it out right back. Walter doesn't give a shit about any potential ties Michigan may have to the Rivera family - he just gives a shit about Michigan waking him up at 6am and asking him to go running with him. He snaps at him, argues with him, insults him... he treats him as Michigan, and this is what Michigan cares about the most.

Walter's POV:

Meanwhile, Walter's feelings towards Michigan are very complicated. He's irritated by what he sees as Michigan's nosiness towards his private affairs, and he doesn't appreciate him trying to figure him out. Mostly because he doesn't want him figuring out his true identity. Walter wanted to sever any and all ties between him and his father's legacy, and he and Carla took great pains to have no one realise that he was the famous Dr Kohler's son. And the disowned heir of the Rivera family? Definitely in the best position to connect the dots.

But Michigan's also the first person to ever just... treat him normally and roll with his verbal punches. People are usually scared away by Walter's cold attitude and sharp words, but Michigan gave as good as he got, and always shrugged off Walter's meaner comments. It left Walter at a bit of a loss, and after a while he slowly desensitised to Michigan's presence. He rationalised that it's just pointless wasting energy trying to chase off Michigan, but the fact was he... ended up liking his company. He had no idea socialising could be so enjoyable, once you learned to tolerate their more aggravating parts.

There's also a colder and more pragmatic side too: Michigan is useful to him, as a son of an executive, disgraced or not. Walter is aware enough to acknowledge that a small chunk of his tolerance is proportional to Michigan's use for him, but in his mind he sees it as an expected part of their relationship. It's transactional, what they share (or so he tells himself). He offers entertainment to Michigan, who in turns offers the same - and lets Walter take advantage of the few perks being "friends" with an executive's son offers.

He tells himself he can't get attached - he has his mission after all - but by this point Walter's good at ignoring his feelings and burying himself under six feet of concrete denial. He clings to the rationalisation that they're just "friends with benefits" for years, that from the beginning they were only making use of each other - there wasn't really anything there. Even to him that sounded hollow when he finally cut ties and left, to pursue his hopeless and doomed mission. He never really stopped thinking about Michigan, the what-ifs.

He hated it.

...

Also they both share a hatred of their respective fathers, so they Get That. They're part of the Dads Suck club.

CONCLUSION

So basically........ they're gay, your honour.

[k0nstanta]

>MEOW

Play as a robot catgirl named K0tya who is trying to help her Master locate the missing lab rats (ignore the fact that said Master's forgetfulness is the reason they are missing in the first place).

Explore the research facility that you live in and find those missing critters before the morning shift starts, or your Master gets in trouble.

Contains swearing and suggestive language.

Made in RPG Maker 2003.

>>> DOWNLOAD HERE <<<

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

guy who is soooo pleased whenever he notices you checking him out…… eyes trailing across his chest when it’s bare at the beach or when he’s wearing a tight shirt, straining around his pecs or his abdomen, eyeing his lips or staring at his big hands, his pretty, polished nails…… sneaking glances at his exposed neck…….. it drives him crazy when you shamelessly appreciate the effort he puts into looking good for you <333 or just his body in general. ogling him like a piece of meat. he has to pretend like it doesn’t affect him, doesn’t want to come off as smug or egoistical but you can tell he’s pleased just by looking at his smile or the way he seems to stand a little taller, proud to be your arm candy ………..

[hansoeii]

It's about who.

[klauw22]

my beloved terrifying woman!! fem megs print here

[mrghostrat]

you've had too much of the digital love you want everything live, you want things you can touch you want something bizarre, old conceptual cars you want girls dressed in drag, you want boys with guitars you go ask your questions like, "what makes a man?" oh, it's 2020 so it's time to change that so you go make an album and call it dreamland

(au: spending his 50th birthday alone in lockdown forces semi-retired rockstar crowley to face all the thoughts he normally buries with distractions. when he realises all his life regrets are just confusion around his sexuality, songwriting his feelings is the only thing that seems to help, but he doesn't have the understanding to figure it out on his own. even though they haven't spoken since graduation 30 years ago, crowley knows his old school friend aziraphale is the one person who'll be able to figure him out)

[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

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

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her��feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.

[talaok]

At your mercy

Pairing: Joel Miller x Sister-in-law!reader

Summary: You must have put some sort of spell on Joel, because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how wrong he knows it to be, he's never able to say no to you.

Warnings: infidelity (reader is tommy’s wife), joel is very much miserable, smut: sub!joel, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, a tad of breeding kink, degrading and teasing joel.

a/n: This fic is very much inspired by Ledipa and Paulinus' story (or the first part at least) in the book 'Mistress of Rome' because i am sick and i'm obsessed with them. Also,pleasepleaseplease read that book, it's genuinely perfect.

Joel wanted to die.

He hated himself, he hated every single molecule of his traitorous body, mind, and soul... and yet he couldn't stop.

Every single time he tried to deny himself, he begged his brain not to fall victim yet another time, to find his sanity again- and every single time, it did not.

With just a glance, a curl of your fingers, he was back at your feet.

He remembered the day it all started, the day his downfall began and the gates of hell had opened up to greet him in the afterlife.

He had brought you back home one night, and you had insisted - oh how you'd insisted- that he stayed the night, given it was dark out already, and you didn't want him to drive at this ungodly hour in the pouring rain.

And he, like a fool, had accepted.

His brother wasn't in town—if only he had been, if only he hadn't asked to drive you back home that night, perhaps none of this would have happened.

Perhaps he would still have the strength to look his little brother, your husband, in the eyes.

It was such a small decision, and yet...

He was walking out of the bathroom when he noticed some light leaking through your cracked bedroom door, and like a moth to a flame, like a stupid damned bastard, he walked closer, closer and closer until before he realized it, he was peeking inside the room- seeing something he definitely, absolutely shouldn't have seen.

You were sprawled on the bed, your eyes shut closed and your mouth gaped as little whimpers fled your throat.

The covers were pulled down enough to reveal your breasts, your gorgeous, perfect breasts, and underneath the linen, Joel could see movement, he could make out the shape of your hand as it worked at your core- as you pleasured yourself, looking like a dream straight out of Joel's imagination.

He remained there, frozen, feeling his cock harden beneath the sweats you'd let him borrow from your husband- mesmerized and hypnotized by the image.

It was only when your moans started getting higher, louder, that he hastily looked away, that he took a stumbling step back, and then another, and another, until he turned, and while doing so, his arm caught on a vase- he tried to save it from falling to the ground, but his hands were shaking.

The noise broke through the house, and Joel, like a child, ran. He ran to the couch where he should have already been asleep as your moans stopped for a moment, before resuming all over again.

He didn't sleep that night.

The image of your face twisted in ecstasy and the sound of your moans had tormented his mind for hours on end until he felt on the verge of tears.

He couldn't think of you that way, you weren't his, he couldn't...

And yet the next morning, when you took his hand in his and led him to the bedroom, he followed you.

He felt his insides twist into a knot and red-colored shame took over him every time-

every single time your foot caressed him under the table as he sat beside his brother, every single time you'd call him and had him at your doorstep with a simple "come", every single time he kissed you, he entered you, he fell apart, a part of him died- and yet every single time, like clockwork, he succumbed to you.

To your doe eyes, hidden behind your lashes, to your sweet voice, to your perfect body...

He felt awful, he felt like a zombie walking through life with only shame to fuel him.

Even Tommy had noticed it, so many times he'd worriedly asked:

"what's goin' on with you?"

"You're always late to work, you take long ass lunch breaks and you look like you haven't slept in years"

"Whatever it is, you can tell me, man"

Oh but he couldn't

he couldn't tell him that the reason he was always late was that his own wife called him to the house the moment Tommy left for work- he couldn't tell him that sometimes the mornings weren't enough and he was summoned during lunch too- he couldn't tell him that his own conscience hadn't allowed him to sleep in months, that every time he began to fall asleep he would imagine his brother's face the moment he would find out what he'd been doing behind his back.

But things were only getting worse.

You and your husband were hosting a get-together at your house. A bunch of people Joel didn't know were there, and he didn't bother trying to talk to them, he hadn't bothered talking to practically anyone actually.

He'd started to plan at what time he could have gotten out of this without being rude from the moment you greeted him at the entrance- from the moment your arms wrapped around him and you stood on your tiptoes to murmur a simple, devastating, "Hi Joel" into his ear.

Tommy had appeared seconds after,

and he'd wanted to die.

Just like when he watched you dance with your husband in the garden, your eyes inevitably finding him the moment you and Tommy kissed- a wicked shadow lurking behind your iris.

He was almost at the door when he felt a hand on his arm, and he knew it was yours before he even turned.

"Come with me"

"I-I was goin-"

He didn't even finish the sentence, all you needed to do was give him that look, and he was trailing behind you like a dog.

You pulled him into the laundry room, closing the door behind you.

"get on your knees"

You were leaning against the washing machine, looking almost bored with the situation, with him- oh how many times he prayed you would tire of him, that you'd throw him aside like a discarded toy... he knew it would devastate him, but he also knew it was the only way he could put an end to your spell.

"I-I"

"Joel" you cooed, a tad more sweetly now, your eyes trying to lock in with his wavering gaze.

"T-there's people-- and- and Tommy-"

But you'd grabbed his hand and brought him closer, your soft breath fanning over his skin and leaving shivers in its wake.

"Get on your knees"

He made the mistake of looking down at you, and he felt his knee hit the ground before he even realized what he was doing.

You smiled triumphantly as you propped your leg on his shoulder, hicking up your skirt and moving your panties to the side until your foot on his back finally brought his face right where you wanted it.

You watched the fight die in his eyes with just one blink, and in a second his tongue had found your core, slowly, sweetly licking and tasting all he could reach.

He was always gentle, caring... he was pathetic even when pleasing you- he just couldn't help it.

A series of satisfied hums spilled from your lips as he continued his work, his hand going to your waist to get a better angle, but never daring to tighten his grasp, to keep you in place... as I said: pathetic.

Your foot's heel pushed him even closer, trapping him and basically robbing him of all oxygen as your right hand traveled to his hair, fisting a handful of his locks.

His focus shifted to your clit and you couldn't help but throw your head back, a breathy moan climbing up your throat.

"just like that- fuck" you grinned into the air, your eyes shutting as ecstasy took over your body "You're so much better than your brother- so responsive- such a quick learner"

He'd asked you times and times again not to do that, not to talk of his brother, and yet you kept on- it was like you enjoyed seeing how miserable it made him- watching how even when you were breaking all the rules, all the morals, he still couldn't bring himself to stop.

He closed his own eyes as he tried to shut your words out, but his tongue didn't dare stop, he didn't dare stop sucking your clit... especially when he knew you were so very close.

Your hips started moving on their own accord until you were practically riding his face, unabashedly using him for your own pleasure until you felt that sweet sweet bliss build inside your belly.

"oh fuck" you moaned, your back arching "so good-"

And just like that, pleasure took over your body. You writhed above him as he lapped between your folds like a starved man, stretching your orgasm until you literally had to pull him away from your core.

He seemed dazed as he looked up at you, like a lost kid or a kicked puppy- and you couldn't help but smile before unhooking your leg from him and simply curling two of your fingers to beckon him closer.

He obeyed without question, standing up as you eyed him with only pure lust in your eyes.

"Do you wanna fuck me Joel?" you asked, your voice low and sultry and Joel's worst nightmare.

You watched the hurt, the pain in his eyes as they fell to the ground.

Oh how you loved this game

Two of your fingers pulled his chin up, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

"tell me" you purred, your fingers slowly trailing down his body until you were torturously drawing patterns on the bulge in his jeans.

A strained groan rumbled from his chest.

Your lips pulled to a smirk as you started undoing his zipper, watching his breath get caught in his throat the moment your hand fully grabbed his manhood.

"'s this what you want?" you taunted, your hand now finding its way underneath his boxers and oh so softly giving his dick a stroke.

Joel felt on the verge of a heart attack.

You freed him from the confines of his underwear, his dick red and already leaking precum.

You gave it another stroke and he couldn't help but moan.

Again, you smirked, hopping onto the washing machine behind you and making quick work of getting rid of your panties.

He watched your every move like he was hypnotized, and you only needed to look at him that he was getting closer- right between your spread thighs.

He was already breathing heavily as he positioned himself at your entrance, and just when he started finding his way inside you, a grin pulled at your lips as you breathed "You want to fuck your brother's wife?"

Joel could only shake his head, his eyes closing- and yet he kept filling you up more and more

"Your own sister-in-law?" you laughed, as Joel - Oh poor Joel- his face contorted in shame, pain, whatever it was as his head fell to the crook of your neck.

"please" he begged, his hips retracting and thrusting in deeper, his cock fully seated inside you now making you gasp and hum in pleasure.

"please what?"

He'd started his usual pace, slow and deep and so fucking good.

"please-s-stop"

You simply smiled, your hands going to the back of his head as your fingers dove into his curls, your mouth finding his ear to murmur:

"You're bigger than him, y'know?"

The groan he let out was one of absolute despair... and yet his thrusts only got deeper, better, stronger.

He always knew how to hit it just right-

You threw your head back and he used the opportunity to kiss your neck, every single inch that he could reach, as your legs wrapped around him and forced him as deep as he could physically go.

He was lowly moaning with every thrust while you were biting your lips to silence your own cries.

"What if he walked in right now?" you purred, making him hide his face again- but oh you didn't leave it at that, your lips found his ear again "What if he came through that door and saw you balls deep in his wife?"

Joel of course didn't know that was an actual possibility... you hadn't bothered to lock the door.

"what do you think he'd say?" you chuckled "I bet he wouldn't even be able to look you in the eyes... his own big brother"

His dick kept hitting your sweet spot over and over as Joel's soul called for mercy.

"y/n-- please"

But you grinned as you said:

"I bet he'd never forgive you"

A much too loud groan left his mouth as he kept pleasing you oh so well.

"Careful there" you smiled, biting your lip as your hips started meeting his thrusts.

You knew this was wrong... which is why it was so fun. You also knew that if it ever was to go sideways, if say, Tommy actually caught you two, it would be Joel who got the worst of it.

You knew perfectly well that Tommy would forgive you in a heartbeat... you'd just look at him all sweet, bat your eyes and everything would go back to the way it was- your husband loved you to death... and he had never been very smart.

Joel on the other hand... you were certain that Tommy could never forgive him- his own flesh and blood- and so what if it was cruel... you were just having a little fun.

"Oh fuck" you cried as he hit a particularly good spot, your left hand going to the back of his neck, your nails leaving new scratches right where the old ones had started to fade.

"That's good- keep doing that-"

Joel was back at leaving hot wet kisses on your neck, your collarbones, your face, until his mouth had found yours.

You were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted- your mouth was the most addictive poison to ever exist.

"You're gonna make me come Joel" you breathed onto his lips "He never makes me feel as good as you"

And just like that, with a smile on your lips, your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you crashed your lips with his, feeding him all your moans and cries as pure bliss blinded your vision.

He watched every second of it- of you falling apart

He looked barely there when you opened your eyes again- his thrusts were sloppy, his eyes droopy and you couldn't help but grin.

"You're gonna come?" you purred "You're gonna fill me up?"

He nodded, his breathing a ragged mess.

"yeah? you're gonna knock me up? fuck a baby in me?" you cooed, watching the plead behind his eyes as he kept going, relentless "What are we gonna tell him when the baby has your eyes instead of his?" you smirked, and without warning, without even wanting to, Joel reached his peak, rope after rope of his come filling you up as your name spilled from his lips.

You kissed his forehead, chuckling softly, before getting out of his hold and off the washing machine, not even bothering to put your panties back on.

"Joel?"

He looked like the saddest zombie ever as he turned to face you.

"stay the night," you said, and once again, Joel wanted to die.

[shepscapades]

[Part 1] [PART 2] [Part 3]

The unexpected return of a face Xisuma never thought he'd see again.

[nikkento-writes]

It was bound to happen eventually. You just didn’t think you’d get caught literally with your pants off, staring at your roommate Toji like a deer in fucking headlights and a vibrator between your legs. 

The silence between you is staggering, except for the buzz of the toy still active in your hand. You’re in such utter shock that it takes you a few seconds to finally turn it off, blood pounding in your ears, completely mortified of getting caught in the act. 

You’re not close to your roommate; in fact, you actively try to avoid him. Part of this is because the two of you come from totally different worlds. He’s nearly a decade older than you, a divorced dad who barely sees his son. His current means of income are betting on horse races and more nefarious tasks he typically performs at night, though you can’t confirm exactly what those nefarious tasks are. Meanwhile, you’re a struggling grad student, forced to share a small apartment with a potential hitman, pimp, and/or yakuza member. Like you said, you’re still not sure, but based on his looks and demeanor, those are your best guesses. 

But it’s not as if you’re complaining. 

While you are a tad bit scared of him, he’s definitely easy on the eyes. Tall, statuesque with those chiseled muscles, that alluring scar across his lips. He leaves you alone just as much as you do for him, so no matter how sketchy he comes across, you have no reason to be wary of him. 

Though, tonight might change that. 

You just finished writing a paper that you’ve been working on for weeks now. Toji is out, as usual, and you need some major stress relief. So, you shut your door closed, not bothering to lock it, strip off your bottoms, and plop yourself onto the bed, reaching for your vibrator inside your drawer. You browse through your spicy audio app and select one of your favorites, knowing it will certainly get you off. Again, you’re negligent when it comes to discretion because you play it out loud, no headphones and at the highest volume. Maybe the tiniest part of you wants to get caught with how careless you’re being. 

That’s proven the second he walks in on you, eyes wide at the lewd sight before him, black t-shirt clinging deliciously to his body, erection growing in his grey sweats. You’ve been at it for a few minutes by now, already one orgasm in, and you’re well aware how wet you are, how shiny and enticing it looks with your legs spread wide, on full display for him. 

The silence is broken when he walks towards you, long strides to get to you quickly. He grabs hold of your knees, spreading you even wider, and you don’t resist. You yield to him, like putty in his hands, ready for whatever he’s willing to give you. He licks his lips, tongue grazing over that fucking scar you like so much. “Finally,” he mutters, bowing down to spread his tongue on your clit, slobbering all over you as if he’s been waiting for this moment, as if you’ve been teasing him all this time. 

Yeah, you definitely wanted to get caught tonight. 

[thewhimsyjaxcenteral]

Hearing Vincent Benitez say “I am what God made me” felt like what hearing Born This Way by Lady Gaga for the first time should’ve felt like

[stellewriites]

sweet kisses in my embrace

cw: noncon, non-penetrative sex, alcohol, messyyyy

it was only the third time you’d been out with johnny after meeting him online and you were pretty drunk.

you hadn’t meant to drink so much, but he’d brought so many cans of sweet tasting gin & tonic you’d not realised just exactly how much you’d had to drink while sat in the back of his truck, star gazing in the middle of nowhere, away from the city.

not your brightest move.

“anyone ever tell you how gorgeous y’are, hen?”

you covered your mouth with a clumsy hand as you giggled, flushed happily and tipsy as you turned to look at him laid beside you in the bed of the truck.

“so stunning,” he continued and leant up on one elbow to hover over you. he cupped your neck and jaw in his large palm and urged you to tilt up slightly to meet his hungry kiss.

he was oppressive from the start, coaxing your mouth open wide enough to fit his tongue in beside yours, moaning and panting even as you tried to shift in his hold to catch your breath at the heavy and sudden onslaught. and though he didn’t gentle you into a romantic kiss like you’d imagined after your first date, and instead bullied his way between your thighs as he bit and sucked at your lips, his actions weren’t mean; just rabid and yearning.

“christ on the cross, yer gon’ kill me,” he huffed, finally giving you a moment to catch your breath. he pressed your foreheads together as he settled his hips close to yours.

swallowing thickly, you pushed uncertainly against his shoulders. “uhm, johnny, can we— could we slow down a little?” he hitched up the bottom of your dress before you’d even finished the hesitant question and you squealed as your legs were bared to the cold evening air, flashing the ravenous man above you up to your hips. “johnny!”

you could feel the thick sewn seam of his jeans press against your vulva beneath the thin cotton of your panties as he rested his hips heavily against yours. you wiggled, pushing clumsily at him with alcohol-weak hands as an uncomfortable heat mixed with the gin in your stomach when he ducked down to kiss you again.

“promise i won’t touch ye,” he whispered into your mouth hoarsely. “won’t go no further yet. ‘s no’ proper, ah know.”

his hips shifted against yours; a jerky, unsubtle grind, and he whimpered when you tried to buck him off, your feet skittering for traction on the blanketed truck bed.

"still in mah jeans 'n' you’ve already got me close," he confessed under his breath with a bashful giggle, sucking on your neck when you turned your face away from his sloppy tongue.

“johnny,” you panted. “stop—”

“keep sayin’ mah name, hen, c’mon,” he huffed and leant into you further, his heavy shoulder pinning you in place as he used his hands to unbutton his jeans and shift them to just below his arse.

the outline of his hard cock was unmistakable now and you cringed at the hot press of it against your centre. with the way he had you pressed flat, his face hovering close, you couldn’t look down to see the growing wet patch on his boxers where the tip of his cock was leaking profusely.

“johnn— uhngg!”

you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the moan he’d forced from you, his thrusts heavy and pointed.

he grinned and muscled what few centimetres he could get closer between your thighs, hitching one of your legs higher over his hip before letting his hand drift up to your tits. he squeezed meanly, his fingers pinching the perked nipple underneath the thin material while he watched for your body’s reaction dazedly. the way your skin prickled, the hitch in your breaths that pushed your breast further into his clever fingers… the sharp insistent pain took away from the buzzing pleasure of his cock nudging against your clit, but only slightly.

johnny’s forehead pressed to the sweaty skin of your shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped so he could gaze down at your chest and between your legs while keeping you in place.

you slapped his hand away from your breast with a wince and he dropped it down to his cock and slipped it out of the fly. when you yanked at his hair viciously to try and move him, thinking you’d gained ground, he gave a pleasured hiss and rested up on his elbow, just enough for you to have space to look down and unexpectedly catch sight of his cock weeping over your panties.

your grip grew weak and he rested a broad hand over your lower abdomen to pin you still as he sat up to get a better angle to rub his cock against the admittedly dampening gusset of your underwear.

when you only jerked in his hold, your arms growing laxer by the minute as they pushed against his chest and slipping down to hold his biceps, he moved the hand lower. it rested over your pubic mound and he hooked his thumb over his cock to keep it lined up perfectly as he thrust his hips forward into yours, guiding it to slip over your pussy and nudge at your clit until you started moaning again.

he dropped down to kiss you, holding your mouth open as he soaked up your bitten back noises greedily and swapped them for his own brazen groans.

“want to cum? hm?” he asked with hazy eyes. “want me tae make ye cum, hen?”

he didn’t give you time to answer before his hand was cupping your heat and he chuckled breathlessly at the sticky wetness that had began to soak through the thin cotton barrier.

one finger pushed at your opening, stopped only by the taut stretch of your knickers and he hissed, his hips jerking against the crease of your thigh and groin. encouraged by your evident arousal, he slipped his hand beneath your panties and rubbed his thumb a touch too hard and too fast against your bundle of nerves.

you gasped and your hips jumped up against his hand as you felt your core tighten and your legs shake beside his hips in anticipation.

“johnny,” you whined, and gripped tight onto his shirt. your hips rolled against the thick pad of his thumb and you clenched your eyes closed as your orgasm rolled through you.

johnny’s fingers twitched against your labia, barely holding on to his earlier promise as he felt the flood of wet warmth soak from your opening against his fingertips. he pushed his forehead roughly against yours as you sighed and pulled his hand out of your underwear to grip his cock tight. he ignored your whimpers from the loss of his hand to lazily hump against, no longer able to ride the waves of your distancing orgasm.

he tugged on his cock roughly, angrily, as he panted and moaned against your cheek, the skin becoming warm and wet.

he came quickly with a rabid groan. a half growl that had you shivering beneath him and he aimed his spend to land on top of your drenched panties, to soak with your own pleasure.

he slapped his sensitive cockhead against your clit before dragging it down to push against the soppen gusset and your clenching hole hidden behind the translucent material.

he coaxed out the last of his cum with a firm hand and groaned lewdly at the sight of you beneath him, flushed sweetly, sweaty in the pits, and rumpled beyond measure. he knew his own cheeks were ruddy with exertion.

he slipped his cock back into the confines of his boxers and pulled his jeans back up without closing them. he patted your hip, two solid smacks of his palm, and left your dress hiked up.

“fucking hell, hen,” he huffed as he slumped to the side of you. “so glad we came out here tonight.”

you stared up at the stars without blinking and shivered at the breeze of cold air.

[lycanlovebites]

✧ bloodlust ✧

I'm starving, darling//Let me put my lips to something//Let me wrap my teeth around the world

[edit: thanks to all the love on this piece (which was just the WIP until now) I finally got the motivation to finish this after two months! Thank you to anyone who enjoys this for giving me the strength to finish this]

[ashinaisshin]

Tracks with motifs from One-Winged Angel in FINAL FANTASY VII REMAKE (2020), dev. Square Enix

[silverbriseis]

Harry: In order to date me, you have to beat the seven evil horcruxes after me, yes they're also my exes, yes all of them. Yes, they're also Voldemort's horcruxes. Yes I dated his horcruxes, why do you ask?

Cedric/ or literally anyone: you dated WHAT?

[orchidsarchives]

Jason is fond of the rain.

He adores the sweet earthy smell and the soft, rhythmic pitter patter against his living room window, but above all, he loves spending time with you during the heavy monsoon season.

You walk out of the neighborhood cafe, hand in hand, into the gloomy streets of Gotham. The skyline is grey and somber. It’s quiet, peaceful, a juxtaposition to the city’s usual loud and robust atmosphere.

You scan Jason’s face and he looks content, despite the heavy drizzle that’s soaking him through his sweater. It’s poetic really, a man scattered with scars, a man who bears a heavy past, finds peace in the rain. How truly melancholic.

Loud thunder rumbles through the sky as if a large battle was being fought in the distance. You clutch on to Jason’s hand a little bit tighter, while your eyes still admire his calm demeanour.

“I think we should kiss right now,” he says, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“You’re so cliche, you know that right,” you say and he sucks his teeth while rolling his eyes.

His eyes look dark, the usual green colour is almost impossible to see. He stops walking and pulls you into him, his fingers tangling themselves into your wet hair. His lips move in close to yours, but they don’t quite touch.

“I know but can you blame me,” he whispers softly. You try to suppress the small grin on your lips.

“Been reading too much Nicholas Sparks lately,” you inquire, looking up at him through your lashes. Jason lets out a small laugh and the sound touches your heart.

He stares at you in admiration. He often finds himself getting lost in your eyes.

The moment is intimate, it brought his troubled mind to ease. Jason takes the opportunity to close the gap and kisses your lips. The rain dances on your skin. There’s a soft breeze and you pull Jason closer.

He tastes like the cigarette he smoked earlier and the strawberry cheesecake you split at the cafe. You want to savour this moment forever.

He smiles against your lips and you pull back only to cover his face in small pecks.

“I…” kiss, “love…” kiss, kiss, “you…” kiss.

Jason adores the rain, the smell, the sounds, but most importantly he loves kissing you in it.