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vibelladonna · 5 months ago

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❛ 𝒷𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: A super mysterious artist who kinda blends the lines between being the creator and the creation himself. His piercing eyes and his quirky style pull you into his world of raw creativity and quiet intensity.

When you're invited to his studio to complete a college art project, you’ll be sucked into his art, his silence, and that eerie feeling that he sees way more of you than you expected. The real challenge?

Keep your focus on your brushwork.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, forced proximity, obsessive behavior, non-consensual, unwanted touching, grinding, dubious consent, predatory behavior, penetration, very rough sex, whiny submissive Sol at one point and dominant Sol at another point, same goes to you—reader as well, and somewhat long ass word count—I got carried away, took two days straight to write.

You stood outside the apartment door, the faint hum of the building’s creaky pipes filling the silence. A faint scent of paint and something sweet—floral, maybe—escaped through the crack at the base of the door. Your fist hovered briefly before you knocked, your knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

You'd come here to his apartment for a college project on Expressionism, drawn by his reputation as the quiet genius in your class. The space was a living embodiment of his mind—a sanctuary of creativity and controlled chaos. Canvases leaned against walls, his surfaces erupting with bold strokes and raw emotion. The air hummed faintly, tinged with the smell of oil paint, charcoal, and the faintest trace of something floral—perhaps the namesake of the mysterious Solivan Brugmansia—Sol for short.

There was a pause. The sound of footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried, before the door clicked open.

Sol stood there, framed by his apartment’s warm, ambient light. His black hair, streaked with vibrant green, gleamed faintly, catching the dim overhead light. The half-up, half-down style gave his sharp features an ethereal quality, the long central streak of hair falling between his orange and crimson eyes while two smaller strands framed his face.

Today, he was dressed as part of the canvas he worked on. A black shirt, fitted but comfortable, paired with matching pants, both splattered with faint remnants of past creative frenzies. Over this, he wore a painting apron streaked with the vibrancy of forgotten colors—a kaleidoscope of blues, yellows, and pinks. It looked almost ceremonial, as though he were a priest of Expressionism itself.

“Hey,” Sol said, his voice soft but resonant, as if each word had been weighed and measured before leaving pierced lips. He stepped aside, gesturing you in.

You entered cautiously, suddenly hyperaware of how much space you were occupying. Sol’s apartment was an eclectic mix of chaos and artistry. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with books, jars of brushes, and sketchpads in various stages of use. Canvases leaned haphazardly against one wall, his surfaces alive with strokes of vibrant, chaotic color.

A large easel stood in the corner by a wall, its frame splattered with years of paint, and next to it was a table strewn with tubes of oil paint, jars of water, and what looked like a half-finished sculpture.

The furniture was minimal but intentional. A worn, paint-streaked couch sat across from a low coffee table, which had been overtaken by sketchbooks and coffee mugs. The faint glow of string lights wound around the ceiling added warmth, softening the industrial feel of the concrete floors.

Sol closed the door behind you, the lock clicking faintly. “Shoes off, please,” He said, his gaze flicking briefly to your feet. He was wearing socks, his black shirt, and matching pants, giving them a striking silhouette beneath the paint-streaked apron he wore. “Do you always live like… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the organized chaos.

Sol glanced around as if seeing the space through your eyes for the first time. “It’s functional,” He said simply, before pulling a stool toward the easel and sitting. “I know where everything is.” He reached for a brush, spinning it absently between his fingers. “Did you bring the sketches?” You nodded, pulling a folder from your bag. “Yeah. I mean, they’re rough. I wasn’t sure if they��d fit the theme.” You hesitated before handing them over.

Sol didn't say anything right away. Instead, he put the brush down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he flipped through your work. His gaze was intense, those fiery eyes scanning each page with a focus that made you feel bare.

His eyes were a masterpiece in themselves, an intense study of Central Heterochromia: an inner ring of burning orange encircled by an outer hue of crimson red. When he looked at you, it felt as though he were dissecting your very soul, layer by delicate layer.

“This one,” Sol said finally, tapping one of the sketches. It was an abstract piece—a swirl of jagged lines and harsh shading. “It’s raw. Honest. Use this as your foundation.”

“Really?” You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his accidentally. Sol didn’t pull away. “I wasn’t sure if it was too… messy.”

“That’s the point,” Sol said, his voice quiet but firm. He set the folder aside and stood, moving toward the table where his paints were arranged. “Expressionism isn’t about clean lines. It’s about emotion. About what’s inside.” He picked up a palette, his long fingers deftly squeezing out colors in no particular order. “You brought what’s inside. I’ll help you pull it out.” You couldn’t help but watch as he moved, each action deliberate and fluid.

“So… how do we start?” You asked.

Sol turned to you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. "You start by not overthinking. Paint what you feel. I'll be here if you need guidance." He handed you a brush, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before pulling away. "The colors are ready. Paint whatever you like.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the lights and the soft beat of your heart. Something in his presence was grounding, even as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you down to your essence. You took a deep breath and stepped toward the easel, the weight of Sol's quiet encouragement settling on your shoulders. "All right," you said, gripping the brush a little tighter.

"Let's do this.” You added.

Sol’s eyes followed your every movement, unblinking and intent. The way your hand gripped the brush—a touch too tight, almost desperate—and the soft inhale you took before the bristles kissed the canvas was enough to captivate him.

To Sol, it was as though he was watching the birth of a masterpiece, even if the real art hadn’t yet materialized on the canvas. He was utterly mesmerized, a silent spectator to something far beyond mere paint and pigment.

Then, in a sudden, mischievous shift, you dipped your brush into a light green on the palette and, without hesitation, swiped it across his cheek. The coolness of the paint startled him, his eyes widening as he froze in place. For a beat, Sol said nothing, stunned into stillness. Then, slowly, a small smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, the icy veneer of his composure cracking ever so slightly.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement glimmering in his crimson-and-orange gaze. “Really?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest undercurrent of a chuckle as he wiped at his cheek with his fingers. “Was that necessary?”

As he spoke, his hand casually reached for another brush, dipping it into a bold shade of red.

Your grin widened at his reaction, a playful spark lighting your eyes. “Necessary?” you teased, tilting your head. “Maybe not. But it was definitely worth it. Besides,” you added, twirling your brush between your fingers, “your reaction was priceless.”

Sol’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing as though calculating his next move. He leaned forward slightly, closing the space between you as the red-tipped brush hovered just inches from your skin. “You’re asking for it now,” he said softly, his tone playful but laced with a subtle edge. “Challenging an artist in his territory? Bold move.”

Your heart skipped at the proximity, but you held your ground. Meeting his gaze with equal intensity, you let your smirk turn sly. “Oh, I’m not just asking for it,” you quipped, your voice low and teasing. “I’m daring you to try.”

Sol’s eyes darkened, his playful expression giving way to something more intense, almost… predatory.

The brush in his hand swayed, the paint clinging to the tip as it hovered closer to your face. His voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver through you. “You don’t even know what you’re playing at,” he murmured, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.

Then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, he swiped the red paint across the bridge of your nose. The cool sensation made you blink in surprise, but the shock quickly melted into a laugh. You reached for another brush, dipping it into a rich green. “Rules, you say?” you said with mock defiance, a glint of mischief dancing your eyes. “But isn’t breaking them half fun?”

You drew the brush across the canvas instead of retaliating directly, your strokes bold and deliberate. Sol’s eyes flicked between the emerging shapes and your determined expression, his lips twitching with a mix of admiration and confusion.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, the sound rich and unexpected, sending a pleasant chill down your spine. “You’re not only cheeky,” he said, watching the paint flow in deliberate curves. “You’ve got the right attitude for this. Art isn’t about staying in lines—it’s about breaking through boundaries.”

His words carried a teasing edge, but beneath them was a subtle warmth, an acknowledgment of your courage and creativity. Still, as his gaze lingered on you, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“Careful, though,” he added softly, a smirk creeping back to his lips. “You might end up inspiring me more than the canvas.” The tension hung in the air like a taut string, electric and alive, as the two of you exchanged another glance.

You noticed the way Sol cast fleeting glances, darting his eyes between the canvas and your face. His expression was perfectly schooled, calm, and unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of amusement betrayed him. You knew he was holding back, his true opinion hidden behind that enigmatic smirk. Your eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of determination flaring within you as you paused your brush mid-stroke.

You met his gaze with a sly smile, your voice dripping with playful accusation. “You’re such a liar. Just say it—I’m bad at painting.”

Sol chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that was more amused than menacing this time. The smirk on his lips grew, and he didn’t bother to hide it as he leaned slightly against the edge of the table. “All right,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “The truth? You’re terrible at painting.” Before one could object, he held up a hand, his expression mock-serious.

"Your brushwork technique is messy, your composition is unbalanced, and your color harmony… well, let's just say it's as chaotic as your personality.” He said.

Your jaw dropped, and a flicker of indignation flashed in your eyes. But you composed yourself quickly, raising your chin in defiance. "Oh, is that right?" you retorted coolly, crossing your arms. "Well then, I suppose you think you could do a lot better."

Sol’s crimson-and-orange eyes gleamed with mischief, and he raised an eyebrow as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Of course I could.”

Without waiting for permission, he stepped closer to the canvas, grabbing a clean brush from the palette. He leaned forward, studying your piece intently, his head tilting just slightly as he took in every line and stroke. For a moment, he said nothing, and the quiet stretched between you.

Then, with a smirk, he glanced back at you. “But don’t worry,” he said, dipping his brush into a pale yellow. “I’m not going to paint over your work. That would be cruel.” His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he added, “You’ve got potential. Under the right tutelage, of course.”

You watched as Sol began painting over the blank spaces on the canvas. His brush moved lightly, in long, deliberate strokes. Each movement was precise, controlled, and yet carried an effortless grace. His hand didn’t hesitate, the tip of the brush gliding across the fabric like it was an extension of himself.

Your eyes drifted to his hand, caught by its hypnotic rhythm. It was larger than yours, bony yet strong, the veins along the back prominent as they flexed with the motion. The way his fingers gripped the brush with such confidence… It made you wonder, for a short second, what it might feel like if those same hands brushed against your skin instead of the canvas.

You blinked, startled by the thought, and shook your head slightly. But your gaze returned to his hands almost immediately, as though they had a gravity of their own. Something was captivating about them—the way they moved with purpose and elegance, the way the bristles danced under his direction.

“What?” Sol’s voice broke your trance, and you snapped your eyes up to meet his gaze. His lips curved into a teasing smile as though he’d caught you staring. “Don’t tell me I’ve already inspired awe.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to cover your embarrassment. “Awe? Hardly. I’m just… observing your technique.” You gestured vaguely toward the canvas, trying to sound nonchalant. “Mm-hm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

He leaned back slightly, his free hand resting on the table as he continued to paint. “So, what do you think? Learning something?”

Your lips twitched into a small smile, your earlier indignation melting into something lighter. “Well,” you began, tilting your head, “I can see that you’re good with your hands. I’ll give you that.”

Sol paused, glancing at you sidelong with a raised brow. His smirk deepened, taking on an almost dangerous edge. “Careful with compliments like that,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a playful warning. “You might give me the wrong idea.”

Heat crept into your cheeks, but you held your ground, determined not to give Sol the satisfaction of flustering you. Instead, you stepped closer, the faintest hint of a challenge in your stance. “Oh, I’m sure you’re used to hearing it,” you shot back. “You’re practically begging for praise with the way you show off.”

Sol laughed, low and rich, the sound like velvet brushing against the charged air between you. Straightening, he set his brush down and leaned slightly against the table, his gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make your pulse quicken. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

Your brow lifted, and you tilted your head, feigning disinterest even as you studied him. His piercing gaze, the subtle confidence in his posture, that maddening smirk—it was infuriating how self-assured he was. And yet, there was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away.

You rolled your eyes, breaking the moment with a scoff. “Fine,” you said, lifting your brush again and stepping toward the canvas. “But don’t expect me to call you a genius. Not yet, anyway.”

“Fair enough,” Sol replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He shifted slightly, leaning down, watching you with a quiet intensity. The air between you felt electric and playful but threaded with an undertone of something deeper, something neither of you dared to name.

You focused on the canvas, trying to tune out the way his gaze burned into your back. But as the moments stretched, your thoughts wandered again. Did he feel it too—that spark, that pull? Or was it just your imagination running wild?

“Do you want me to guide you?” Sol’s sudden question cut through your thoughts, startling you. You glanced over your shoulder at him, your brush hesitating mid-stroke. “Guide me?” His expression flickered with faint amusement as he straightened, stepping closer. “Your brushwork on our painting,” he clarified. “Are you sure you’re paying attention?”

The flush on your cheeks deepened. You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts—most of them about him—that you’d completely zoned out. Trying to cover your embarrassment, you huffed, lifting your chin slightly. “Of course, I’m paying attention,” you retorted, though your voice betrayed you with its defensiveness. “I’ve been observing, just like you said.”

The corner of Sol’s mouth quirked, a small, knowing smirk that sent a spark of irritation and something else through you. “Is that so?” he murmured.

Before you could respond, he moved closer, standing just behind you. The air around you shifted, warmer now, charged with his presence. You felt the heat of his body at your back, the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.

“You’re about as good at lying as you are at painting,” Sol said softly, his voice low and teasing. “You haven’t been paying attention to anything but me for the last five minutes.” Your protest died on your lips as his hand—larger, warmer—wrapped gently around yours, guiding your grip on the brush. You froze, your heart pounding as his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the weight and proximity making it hard to breathe.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Just follow me.”

Your hand moved under his guidance, the brush sweeping across the canvas in a smooth, deliberate arc. Together, you created a perfect swirl, the paint gliding like silk beneath the bristles. Your breath hitched, your gaze darting to his face out of the corner of your eye.

Sol’s focus was entirely on the canvas, his eyes following the line of the brush with the same intensity he’d given you earlier. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he added another gentle stroke, the motion fluid and practiced. When his gaze finally flicked to yours, the warmth in his expression sent a jolt through you.

“Pay attention, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady the rush of emotions his proximity stirred. But then his eyes lingered a moment too long, and a small, knowing smirk curled at the edge of his lips again. Finding a burst of courage—or recklessness—you turned your head slightly, your faces just inches apart now. “I thought you said I wasn’t paying attention,” you said, your tone playful, though your voice was softer than you intended.

Sol’s smile deepened, his eyes flickering between yours and the canvas. “You weren’t,” he said, his breath brushing against your skin. “But maybe you’re finally getting the hang of it.” His low chuckle reverberated softly against your back, and the way his fingers guided your wrist—it was impossible not to feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

You swallowed hard, determined to keep your focus on the canvas in front of you, but Sol's presence was utterly overwhelming. "Maybe I just needed the right tutor," you managed to say, your voice wavering just enough to betray how unsteady you felt.

Sol let out a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. "Maybe you did," he replied, his tone carrying a playful edge. His hand adjusted slightly, guiding the brush into a smooth curve. “But you’ll need to focus for it to work.”

Easier said than done. He leaned in closer, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck. Your heartbeat hammered, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he was. His scent—a faint mix of paint, something floral, and the slightest hint of musk—filled your senses, making it almost impossible to concentrate.

The brush wavered slightly in your hand, the line on the canvas faltering. “Careful,” Sol murmured, his lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t move too much. You’ll smudge our work.”

Your grip on the brush tightened as you fought to focus, but it was no use. The combination of his steady breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, and that damn smirk you knew was probably still on his lips—it was too much. Your arm shifted slightly, your elbow bumping against his.

Sol sighed, soft but pointed, his hand slipping away from yours. “All right,” he said, straightening up and stepping back. His tone was still calm, but there was a flicker of something firmer beneath it, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “If you can’t be still, maybe we need to change tactics.”

You blinked, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”

Without a word, Sol reached out, his hands firm but careful as he grasped your waist and guided you backward. Before you could process what was happening, you found yourself seated in his lap, his hands steadying you.

Your heart nearly stopped.

“Wha—Sol!” you sputtered, heat flooding your face as you tried to wriggle away. “Please stop moving,” he said, his voice quickly said, almost in a warming tone. His arms rested lightly on either side of you, effectively caging you in. “You said you needed the right tutor. This is part of the lesson.”

Your protest died in your throat as you felt his breath against your ear again, his warmth surrounding you completely now. Your pulse was racing, your cheeks burning, but there was something about his calm composure—like this was the most natural thing in the world—that left you utterly speechless.

“You’re too restless,” Sol said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re going to ruin our painting if you keep squirming.”

“I—I’m not squirming,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you. “Sure you’re not,” he replied, his smirk practically audible. His hands moved to guide yours again, steady and sure as he returned your focus to the canvas. “Now, relax. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Despite your flustered state, his voice and the firm yet gentle pressure of his hands steadied you, guiding the brush in smooth, deliberate strokes. The rhythm of his movements and the closeness of his presence made it impossible to think about anything else.

As you followed his guidance, your breaths began to sync with his, the tension in your shoulders loosening slightly. His hand stayed over yours, directing the brush with practiced ease.

“There,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “See how much better that feels?”

You swallowed, glancing over your shoulder at him. His gaze was focused on the canvas, but the faintest smirk still played at the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked to meet yours briefly, and the intensity in them sent another wave of warmth rushing through you.

“I think you just like being in control,” you said, trying to sound teasing, though your voice was softer than you intended.

Sol chuckled, his breath brushing against your neck. “And I think you like making things harder than they need to be.”

Your heart raced as his words lingered in the air, the tension between you palpable. But before you could respond, Sol’s hand guided yours in another gentle stroke, pulling your focus back to the canvas. “Now,” he said, his tone a bit more playful, “are you going to let me teach you, or do I need to keep you here until you finally pay attention?”

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks burn even hotter, but you rolled your eyes, gripping the brush tighter. “Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll pay attention.”

“Good,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Because we’re not done yet.” Your pulse raced as Sol’s hands guided yours, the rhythm of the brushstrokes steady under his control. He sat perfectly at ease, holding you on his lap like it was just another part of his creative process.

And you? You were anything but composed.

“When doing this stroke, pay close attention,” Sol murmured again, his voice low and coaxing, his breath brushing against your ear. All you needed to do was Relax. As if you could do that when every inch of you felt like it was vibrating with awareness of him. “No pressure,” he added, his hand over yours, moving the brush in a smooth arc. “Unless you want to mess up and start over.”

You scoffed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, a mischievous spark lighting your eyes. “I think you like having me mess up,” you said, your voice laced with defiance. Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s our project. If we waste more time because of you being difficult, that’s on you.”

Something about the calm way he said it made you bristle. You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his patience as you pressed back just enough to feel the firmness of his chest against your back.

“I’m not being difficult,” you said, your tone saccharine and falsely sweet. You turned your head more, your eyes narrowing as you added, “I just think you’re enjoying this a little too much, Sol.”

His brow arched slightly, the only indication that you’d gotten under his skin. “Am I?” he asked, his voice still maddeningly even. But as you shifted again—this time deliberately moving in a way that pressed closer to him—you felt the way his body tensed beneath you.

The faintest hint of red crept into Sol’s cheeks, and his hand on yours tightened slightly before releasing, his composure faltering just enough to make your lips curve into a triumphant smile.

“See?” you said, turning fully now so you were half-facing him, still perched on his lap. “You do enjoy it.”

His crimson-and-orange gaze flicked over you, lingering for just a moment too long before snapping back to your eyes. Something about him was... off.

Not in an unsettling way, but in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. The piercing gaze from those luminous eyes seemed to see more of you than you intended to show. His silence spoke volumes, each glance and measured movement a language of its own.

The way he painted and the way he carried himself made it hard to distinguish where the artist ended, and the art began. Sol wasn't just quiet. He was quiet. And in that stillness, you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame—a dangerous, beautiful thing you couldn't resist.

You noticed it then—the way his expression shifted, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he took in the way your outfit clung to you, a simple, black shirt with a matching pencil skirt, looking like a dress, more fitted than he’d probably realized earlier.

“You’re pushing your luck,” Sol said softly, his voice carrying a warning edge. He was stiff beneath you, his posture taut, as though holding himself together with sheer willpower.

But you weren’t backing off.

Instead, you tilted your neck and leaned in, your face stopping mere inches from his. “Am I?” you whispered, the deliberate echo of his earlier words carrying a teasing, brash confidence.

His reaction was almost immediate. The flush on his cheeks deepened, painting his pale skin with a rosy hue that crept to the tips of his ears. You shifted back slightly in his lap, letting your back brush against his chest, and the sudden contact made him jerk awkwardly on the stool.

Sol swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as though he was anchoring himself. “Please stop,” he said, quieter this time, his voice almost a plea. But the way his molten gaze locked onto yours betrayed him—he didn’t mean it. “Aw.. Why?” you asked, tilting your head with mock innocence. “Am I distracting a great artist from his work?”

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as his hands flexed on the stool. The tension radiating from him was palpable, and it only spurred you on. His composure was crumbling, piece by piece, and you were determined to break it completely.

“You’re impossible,” Sol muttered, his voice strained.

The triumph in your smile grew, and you leaned closer, just enough for your breath to tease the sensitive skin of his neck. “You could always make me stop,” you murmured, your voice soft and challenging.

For a moment, Sol didn’t move, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. His breathing grew heavier, each exhales brushing against your cheek. You could almost hear the war raging inside him, every bit of his control battling the undeniable pull between you.

Then, in one swift motion, his hand slid to your waist. The firm but steady grip steadied you as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the side of your neck in a fleeting, feather-light kiss that sent a jolt of electricity racing through you.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you pressed back further into him, daring him to take another step.

Sol’s response was immediate. His teeth grazed your neck, the gentle nibble enough to leave you breathless and your pulse hammering in your ears. His other hand moved to your hip, holding you firmly in place as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one lingering longer, his lips warm and insistent.

“Still think I’m enjoying this too much?” he murmured, his voice rough and ragged against your skin. Your smirk faltered as heat flushed through you, your ability to respond stolen by the heady sensations he was creating.

Sol chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your neck, sending another shiver coursing through you. “What’s the matter?” he teased, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “You’re quiet now.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “I-I’m just giving you a chance to prove your point,” you said, though your defiance was flickering with every second.

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” Sol murmured, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin.

His fingers brushed the hem of your top, skimming the fabric aside to expose more of your collarbone. He continued his trail of kisses, his lips soft but deliberate, his teeth occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin and likely leaving faint red marks.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your mind clouded with the sensation of his mouth, his hands, and the heat of his body enveloping you. When you shifted slightly, testing his patience, Sol growled low in his throat.

He tugged you closer with a sudden movement, turning you slightly on his lap so you faced him. His hands gripped your hips, firm but careful, making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance. His body pressed flush against yours, his thighs anchoring you in place, leaving no space between you.

The sudden awareness of your positions sent a jolt through you, the contrast between his firm frame and your softness making you hyper-aware of every point of contact. His chest brushed yours as he leaned closer, his voice low and dripping with intensity. “Was this an accident?” he asked, his gaze burning into yours. “Or was it on purpose?”

You swallowed thickly, turning your neck behind yourself to allow your eyes to drift to the hollow of his throat. Slowly, you reached out, your index finger tracing a light, teasing path along his collarbone. “Possibly… both,” you murmured.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could trail your touch any lower. His grip was firm but not painful, his expression a mix of frustration and desire as he forced you to meet his gaze.

“How long,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “are you going to keep staring at me?”

Your lips curved into a slow, teasing smile as you tilted your head. “As long as I want to,” you said with a defiant edge. “What’s wrong? Are you going to punish me more?”

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and his other hand pressed against the small of your back, holding you steady as he leaned in closer. “Don’t be cocky,” he warned, his voice dropping to a rough, predatory whisper. “You don’t want to know the kind of things I’m imagining.”

You glanced down at the growing tension between you—at the unmistakable bulge pressing against your thigh. A flicker of boldness sparked in your expression as your fingers teased over his chest. “I think I already know,” you whispered.

Sol’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he tensed beneath you. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a strained mix of frustration and want. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, his tone rough, almost ragged.

Before you could form a reply, Sol leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, demanding, and full of the hunger he’d been holding back. Your eyes widened in shock at first, the boldness of his move catching you completely off guard.

But that shock melted quickly, replaced by an undeniable pull that made you lean into him.

Sol’s hands moved to your hips, gripping firmly as he turned you fully to face him on his lap. The motion was smooth but decisive, his strength evident as he shifted you effortlessly. Your knees now rested on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed flush against one another.

The new position heightened the intensity, your chest brushing his with each labored breath. Sol’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, while his lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands moving to the sides of his face, holding him there as you matched his fervor with your own. The kiss deepened, turning messy and desperate, your mouths moving in sync as though trying to consume each other completely.

Sol broke away for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his eyes burning into yours with a heat that made your skin tingle. “You’re relentless,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his fingers pressing into your lower back.

You smirked, your lips brushing his as you replied, “And you’re loving it.”

Before he could respond, you leaned back in, reclaiming his mouth with a force that left him no room to argue. Your hands moved instinctively, reaching behind him to untie the apron, quickly removing it from him to have a clear view of his chest.

Slowly, your index finger drags itself down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. The urgency of the moment consumed you, and your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling at first, then unfastening them one by one with increasing speed.

Sol groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you and making your pulse race. His hands moved again, one slipping up to cradle the back of your head, the other gripping your waist to keep you anchored against him.

As his shirt fell open, your hands splayed against his bare chest, your fingertips brushing over his warm skin. The contrast between the cool air and his heat sent a shiver through him, his tone muscles tensing under your touch.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your eyes raking over him as you took in the sight of his now-exposed chest. His skin was pale smooth, his collarbone pronounced, and the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the low light made him look utterly irresistible.

Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk at your lingering gaze, though his eyes were heavy with want. “Like what you see?” he teased, though his voice was uneven, betraying his arousal.

Instead of answering, you leaned in again, your lips finding the hollow of his throat. You pressed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as your hands continued their exploration. Sol tilted his head back slightly, giving you better access as a low growl escaped him.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “And you’re complaining?” you shot back, your tone dripping with challenge.

Sol’s hands slid up your sides, his thumbs grazing the edge of your ribs as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours again. “Not a chance,” he murmured against your mouth, before pulling you into another searing kiss.

The kiss deepened, growing more fervent with each passing second. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands silky yet wild, as his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his bare chest against yours, the intoxicating rhythm of his lips moving over yours—it was overwhelming, drowning out every thought but him. Your breaths mingled, uneven and ragged, as you both surrendered to the storm of desire building between you.

With deliberate boldness, your hand began a slow descent, sliding over his toned stomach to the waistband of his pants. While he remained engrossed in the kiss, you let your fingers drift lower, brushing against the hardness beneath his pants. A sharp intake of breath escaped Sol’s lips, his body tensing against yours. His grip faltered briefly, but his response was immediate.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his heterochromatic eyes ablaze with unfiltered desire. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he tried to regain control. “You’re playing with fire,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, both warning and temptation.

Instead of pulling away, his hands found your hips once more, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to anchor himself. He tilted his hips slightly, pressing into your touch as a shudder ran through him. His challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at your feet, daring you to keep going.

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your voice laced with teasing defiance. “Then I’ll just have to handle the heat,” you murmured. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you added, “Didn’t you say I need to work on my brushwork?”

With deliberate intent, you slid your hand along the curve of his waistband, unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. Sol groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest and into yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you impossibly closer as if trying to meld you into him.

“I didn’t mean… this,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed how much he wanted it. His lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin as he fought to keep his control intact. His body trembled beneath your touch, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.

Your hand ventured lower, and as his pants gave way, you were met with the proof of his desire. The sight of his cock—pale like his skin, flushed with need, and curve glistening pink tip—sent a wave of heat through you. You couldn’t help but marvel at him, at how his body responded so wholly to you.

Sol groaned again, his head falling back as he fought the urge to completely unravel. “F-Fuck this shit,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw.

With a sudden burst of need, he grabbed your hand, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as he guided you to his cock, wrapping your hand around it.

His eyes burned into yours, a silent plea and a command wrapped in one. “If you’re going to do this,” he growled, “then do it right. After all, I’m the tutor,”

The juxtaposition of his firm grip and your softer touch sent shivers through him, his body responding instinctively to your every movement. He bit back a curse, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes remained locked on yours, filled with both vulnerability and hunger as he helps you move his cock up and down.

The way his hand enveloped yours, guiding you with deliberate control, sent a jolt of heat through your body. His skin was hot beneath your palm, pulsing with need, the intensity of it making your breath hitch. The sensation of being so intimately connected, of having him at your mercy, was intoxicating. Your lips curved into a sly, knowing smile as you met his gaze with a sultry intensity.

"Then guide me, Sol," you murmured, voice low with a hint of teasing.

His eyes darkened, his breath catching at your words. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lose his composure entirely, but instead, he pressed closer, the heat of his body radiating into yours. His hands tightened over yours, steady and commanding, as he guided your movements with aching precision.

"Guide you?" he rasped, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "Gladly."

His fingers wrapped firmly around yours, leading you in a slow, deliberate rhythm around his cock. Each movement was an exquisite torment, a maddening mix of control and surrender that left you craving more. His voice, low and gravelly, brushed over your skin like a caress. "Like this," he whispered.

The feel of him beneath your touch was overwhelming, a mix of heat and tension that made your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. As his hand fell away, relinquishing control to you, the look in his eyes—half-lidded and burning with need—was almost too much to bear.

Taking charge, you continued the motion, your strokes deliberate and teasing. Sol's breaths grew heavier, his head falling back slightly as he tried to stifle the low groans that escaped his lips. But he couldn’t hold back the quiet whines that followed, each sound unraveling you further.

The weight of you on his lap, the way your hips shifted against him—whether intentional or not—drove him wild. His hands gripped your waist tightly as though grounding himself was the only way to keep himself from losing control—and you from falling.

His face flushed a deep red, his jaw tightening as his breaths came faster, his body trembling beneath you. His arousal was undeniable, glistening with beads of precum that caught the light as they slid down his length. The sight alone was enough to make your stomach tighten with desire, but it was the sounds he made—low, broken groans turning into quiet, breathless whimpers—that truly undid you.

Sol’s tired yet desperate eyes met yours, silently begging for more, even as his body surrendered entirely to your touch. The vulnerability in his gaze was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but feel a wicked thrill at the power you held over him. Every gasp, every shudder, every barely audible plea only pulled you deeper into the moment, the fire between you burning hotter with each passing second.

You begin rudding the slit on his tip, dipping your finger on the pre-cum, smudging it across the tip, “A-ahh…” That alone sent a chilling feeling down his spine. Then you wonder for a second.

Just how far you could take this?

And, as if he could read her mind, Sol’s voice was broken into another gasp at the feel of her finger on his tip. You smirked, leaning in close to his ear. “Does that feel good, Sol?” You smirked, leaning in close to his ear.

Sol let out a strangled, guttural moan, his body shuddering at your touch, his breathing labored and strained. He gripped the edge of the stool as if holding on for dear life, his knuckles turning white. "Y-Yeah," he managed to gasp, his voice trembling the words out.

"Feels... so good." His head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed as you continued your ministrations, his body completely at your mercy.

As he tried his best to muffle the pathetic whimpers that were threatening to escape his lips with his free hand covering his mouth, Sol was coming undone, every touch, every gentle caress pulling him closer and closer to the edge. And he couldn’t get enough of how your delicate fingers all wrapped nicely around his cock.

Hearing his voice, broken and needy, sent a thrill coursing through you, intensifying your desire for him. This side of Sol—a man usually so composed and enigmatic—was uncharted territory, and you were quickly losing yourself in the discovery.

You leaned back slightly, just enough to drink in the sight of him, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Just good?” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “Or does it feel better than that?”

“Pumpkin,” he rasped, his voice deep and trembling with barely contained restraint. It took everything in him to hold back, but the way your sharp, half-lidded eyes bore into him, your smirk only widening as your hand pumped him faster—it was driving him to the edge. “I-I’m close, please… please...” He moaned,

“Oops, sorry~” you cooed, amusement dancing in your tone as if you weren’t purposefully unraveling him by slowing down.

Sol’s body jolted under your touch, another strangled moan escaping his lips as his grip on the stool tightened. He was trembling, the effort to maintain control wearing thin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last. “Come on… Please…” He whines, “Let me cum, I want to cum… Will you let me, pumpkin?” He begged.

His breathing is ragged, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his cheek, some of his hair sticking to his face as you pump his cock—dare you say, he looks hot like this.

You grin again, that same slow, cat-got-the-canary sort of smile from before. Are you enjoying this? Maybe it’s just a teeny bit too much.

“Mmh, I don’t know,” You say, tone light and mocking, considering it while pumping him faster. “Are you sure you’ve been good enough to deserve that, Sol~?”

Sol's face flushed crimson as he groaned under your touch, his body reacting with an involuntary twitch. He could barely hold himself together, the effort nearly breaking him. Your teasing, the way you toyed with him like this. It was enough to drive him insane with need. And yet... he loves it.

“Please,” he panted, his voice choked with need. “Please, pumpkin... don't tease me anymore.”

You grin, your breath catching in your throat for a brief moment at the sound of his pleading. He’s so desperate, and again—it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Before you get to reply, you are stuck watching, listening to him. With one last stroke, he came. You feel a warm, sticky substance splatter against your face, and you gasp in surprise, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When you open it back up, you see your hands are covered in… his cum.

He whines, trembling under your touch. “Fuck…” He grumbles… before chuckling breathlessly, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. He looked at you, his eyes darkened with desire, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're a tease, you know that...?" he murmured, his voice still hoarse. He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers leaving a smudge of his cum on your skin.

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed at the touch of his fingers against your face. You can still taste him on your lips. “I’m aware, and I love it,” You say, your tongue darting out to lick a stray bit of his cum away, “Such a good boy.”

Sol's heart skipped a beat at the sight of your tongue running across your lips. He could hardly contain himself, his body still thrumming with a mix of need and satisfaction.

"You're... you're going to be the death of me, Pumpkin," he said, strained and thick. "I swear... you're going to drive me insane." Before you could respond, his hands shot forward, gripping your wrists roughly, halting your movements. “You know, It takes a true artist to know how to use their hands,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his frustration and desire boiling over.

“Right now, I feel inspired. With your body so close to mine—” his gaze flicked to you, sharp and burning, “—you gonna feel so good once I get through painting you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his grip on your wrists firm and electrifying. Yet, you didn’t back down. Instead, your smirk deepened, and you tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Aww, it’s cute when you get all frustrated like that.” you quipped, resuming your teasing pace despite his attempt to rein you in.

Sol’s jaw clenched, a growl rumbling deep in his chest as his eyes blazed with irritation and helpless desire. “Teasing me like this,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his need, “You deserve to be punished.”

“Sorry? Punished?” You repeated, arching a brow, your smirk faltering for a moment as curiosity mingled with arousal.

His hands released your wrists, moving instead to the hem of your shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding it upward, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.

He lifted your shirt, his movements were unhurried yet firm, tossing it aside without a second thought. The cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Sol’s gaze. His eyes roamed over your body unabashedly, dark with want, his intensity sending your pulse racing.

The way he looked at you—devoured you—was intoxicating. You felt your breath hitch, your skin tingling under his gaze as if he were leaving invisible marks with every flick of his eyes. Sol leaned in slightly, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers cascading down your spine. “Now let’s see if you’re ready for what you started.”

The lace of your black bra barely had a chance to tease him before Sol unclasped it with uncharacteristic haste. His breath caught in his throat as the fabric fell away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool air. The curve of your shoulders, the elegant line of your neck, and the sight of your hardened nipples sent a shiver of desire coursing through him.

You were breathtaking, more so than any image his mind could have conjured. The reality of you—your warmth, your movement, the way you bared yourself so freely—was utterly consuming.

As you slipped off the remaining layers with deliberate ease, Sol found himself captivated, unable to look away. "You're staring," you teased, your voice low and sultry, tinged with amusement. "See something you like?"

He tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat, his mind blank save for the raw need coursing through him. He swallowed hard, his gaze trailing shamelessly over your body, lingering on every curve, every delicate line of skin.

He wanted to touch, to claim, to make you his in every sense. But he hesitated, almost afraid of the depth of his desire. The way you looked, so confident and alluring, made him feel as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and all he wanted was to jump.

Sol's hands moved almost without thought, tracing the length of your legs, the curve of your knee, the delicate arch of your foot. His reverence for you bordered on worship, a devotion so intense it frightened him. He had tried to keep it at bay, but now that he had you like this, so open and vulnerable, he felt the weight of his restraint snapping.

He was a man who could get lost in his own obsession, and with you, it was dangerously easy. Sol didn’t just want you—he craved you, a hunger so profound it threatened to unravel him entirely.

With trembling hands, he slid your pencil skirt down your hips, the fabric pooling on the floor with a careless toss. He left the lace of your black panties on, unable to resist the way they hugged your body so perfectly. His lips found your neck, pressing kisses against the sensitive skin as he let his hands explore.

The only thing separating you now was the thin layer of fabric between you, damp with evidence of your arousal. Sol’s thumb moved instinctively, pressing gently against the damp spot, and the soft gasp you let out was like fuel to the fire burning inside him.

Your reaction sent his heart racing, his body trembling with restrained need. But when you whispered his name, your voice breathless and trembling, it pulled him back from the brink.

“Sol,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “Wait… you’re going a little too fast.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden stillness before a storm. Sol froze, his hands pausing mid-motion on your body. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he pulled back, his intense gaze locking onto yours. A mix of frustration and unspoken yearning flickered in his eyes, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

“Too fast?” he echoed, his voice hoarse and tinged with disbelief. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re the one who started the fire, said you can handle it, and now you’re telling me to slow down?”

He let out a soft, strained laugh, the sound laced with both amusement and restraint, as though he was trying to tether himself to reality. Still, he relented, easing the intensity of his movements.

Slowly, he reached down, unzipping his jeans and pushing them just enough to loosen their grip, his shirt discarded in the process. His gaze softened, though the heat in his eyes remained, a smoldering flame that refused to extinguish.

“This is still your punishment, Pumpkin,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss to your lips.

The kiss was different this time—rough, more forceful. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw and down to your neck, each kiss feeling like a vow unspoken. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of you suspended at this moment. He moved further, his lips exploring your collarbone and sternum with reverence, his warmth leaving a trail of fire across your skin.

His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your chest, his touch reverent but firm, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. His breath hitched as he brushed his thumbs over your nipples, the gentle pressure sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with wonder. “So damn pretty.”

Your mind swirled with the weight of his words, his touch, his presence. The heat between you was overwhelming, your body arching into his hands as he explored with care and devotion. Each kiss, each touch, sent waves of sensation rippling through you, leaving you breathless.

“Sol…” you breathed, your voice trembling with both hesitation and longing. “Please…”

But instead of heeding your plea, he pressed forward, his lips finding the sensitive peak of your chest. He kissed you there with aching tenderness, his tongue tracing slow circles as his hand mirrored his movements. A soft moan escaped your lips, and he hummed in approval, his grip steadying you as you began to unravel under his touch.

He paused only to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with something deeper than desire—an emotion too profound for words.

He quickly shifted you, his hands firm yet careful as he turned you toward the painting you and he both made. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, the contrast heightening your awareness of his every movement.

He moved behind you, his breath warm against your neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing down your skin to the fabric of your panties. He slid them down slowly, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, before throwing them on the floor.

He forced you to lean on your back against his firm chest, the back of your head resting against his shoulder as his hands stayed on your hips.

Soon his hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. His gaze locked onto yours, a tempest of emotions swirling in his red-orange eyes—desire, restraint, and something unspoken yet intense.

“Sorry, Pumpkin,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet whisper, “but I need you.”

He adjusted your position, the shift sending a jolt of sensation through you as his cock settled snugly against your bare heat. A soft, broken sound escaped your lips—a breathy, high-pitched “A-Ah!”—and your half-lidded eyes met his. In his fiery gaze, the pupils seemed to ripple, almost heart-shaped, as though they reflected his overwhelming hunger for you.

Sol began to move, rubbing cock rather fast and rough against your cunt, his hips pressing forward until he found that sweet, electrifying spot. Your voice spilled out again, light and melodic, each sound like a chime caught on the breeze. His movements became more assured, each thrust purposeful as he reveled in the way your body responded to his.

He had you now—completely, utterly his.

Your bodies melded together in perfect rhythm, your breaths and sighs tangling as if they were one. Sol’s senses were flooded with you: the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the faint tension in your spine that dissolved beneath his touch. Each reaction, each sound you made, only drove him deeper into the intoxicating realization that you were exactly where he wanted you—wrapped in his embrace, utterly lost in him.

He has you in his grasp, but he wants to hold onto you tighter.

He focuses on where your lower bodies meet, tongue poked between his lips and furrow in his brow. Drives his hard cock rubbing against your bare cunt, catching the crown into your clit until you’re shaking underneath him. Sol can’t think anymore, lost in the feeling of wonderful pleasure.

If it feels so good like this, being inside you might be too much.

So close in proximity that Sol can hear each of your short pants. Erratic and almost thoughtlessly driven by one single thing: pleasing you. Feeling each other, all wrapped up together.

Drawing out those moans as he pinches your nipples at your tits, making you feel how hard he is. How pent-up, needy, and fucking horny he is all for you. Just humping your soft, sweet cunt makes Sol want to risk everything he’s got with you.

The push and pull of too much and not enough at the same time. It’s so fucking euphoric. Your cunt keeps wetter and wetter, and Sol doesn’t know if it’s you or him - his pre-cum dribbling agasint your needy cunt. He can feel your pussy pulse and tremble. Your spine goes stiff, and Sol pulls away to look at you.

You’re so pretty. You’re on edge, in complete bliss, and so fucking pretty only for his eyes to see.

“A-ah, Sol—please, wait,” you gasped, your words trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Sol froze for a moment, his eyes wide and blazing, the sound of your plea cutting through the haze of his need. Frustration flickered across his face, mingling with something softer, something more conflicted.

He didn’t want to wait—couldn’t—not with the way your body moved beneath him, flushed and trembling, your breath hitching with every touch.

Your mind was a haze of heat and sensation, your body barely keeping up with the overwhelming pleasure that had left you spiraling. And when you both reached that peak together—his cum spilling over as yours soaked on tophim in return—it was a moment that burned itself into his memory.

A first—he made you come with him. The sight of you arching against him, your cries echoing in his ears, left him undone, his breath ragged and unsteady as he trembled, listening to your pretty moans.

Sol’s hands remained firm on your hips, anchoring you as his gaze devoured you. Again, the image of you—writhing, broken, and entirely his—was seared into his mind, a memory he wanted to relive over and over again. His heart pounded as he leaned forward, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and adoring, his tongue teasing yours in a way that left you breathless.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I need…” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and raw with emotion. His nose nuzzled against your cheek before he kissed the corner of your mouth, his words pouring out in a slow, deliberate cadence.

“I want to see it again,” he said, his tone steady but trembling with need. “I want you to cum again, Pumpkin.”

The vulnerability in his voice stirred something inside you, but your body was already at its limit. You pulled back slightly, your breath still uneven as your gaze met his. “Sol, I... I don’t think I can,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with exhaustion.

His eyes darkened the fire in them dimming for a moment, replaced by something closer to concern. His hands softened their grip, and he leaned back just enough to study your face, his expression caught between worry and restraint. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gently, his voice quieter now, though the tension in his body remained.

You shook your head quickly, your words coming in a rush. “No, no, you didn’t. I just—”

“Then you can keep going,” he interrupted, his tone almost pleading, his patience unraveling at the edges. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and you felt your resolve waver under the weight of his need.

“Sol,” you tried again, shaking your head as you placed a hand on his chest. “I’m tired. You’ve... you’ve worn me out. And you’ve got to be tired too—don’t you think? What about our project?”

His brows furrowed as he let out a frustrated groan, his body taut with tension. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “It can wait.”

Your breath caught as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips again and pulling you against him yet again. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin. “You look so damn good like this,” he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. “Messy and perfect—covered in our cum.”

A shiver ran through you as his hands explored your body, his touch deliberate and reverent. "How much more should I paint you?" He kissed a trail down your neck and shoulders, his lips soft yet possessive. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your exhaustion.

“Sol, please,” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction.

He didn’t respond, his silence heavy with meaning as his hands moved lower, his touch firm but gentle, as though committing every curve and contour of your body to memory. His fingers brushed over your thighs, then between them, the featherlight touch making you tremble.

When he finally touched you—his fingers tracing over the sensitive folds of your cunt, slick and sticky from your shared cum—a sharp gasp escaped your lips. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he focused on you, his movements both precise and overwhelming.

“Can you feel it?” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with tenderness. “How much I want you, need you? How much I love you?”

The words struck something deep within you, and though you were overwhelmed, you couldn’t deny the magnetic pull of his touch, his voice, his very presence. He didn’t need to say it aloud; every caress, every glance, told you everything he couldn’t put into words.

Sol was an artist, and you were caught in the vision of it—a dangerous one. You’re trembling with anticipation. A sense of contentment washes over Sol as his breath fans over your neck.

Sol can feel how worked up you are. You’re quiet and tense. Some part of him wants to leave you like that, waiting, but the other part of him wants to give you everything you’ve ever asked for. He gives into the latter because that’s what he wants more.

He used his free hand that was grounded you to lap, reaching down to lift his now hard cock agasint your bare cunt with a deep sigh, and a pleased hum.

He loves the way you smell, the scent of sex and arousal mixed with the fancy soaps you keep in your bathroom.

Your pussy is as pretty as you are, a sheen of arousal all along your slit. Your clit peeks through, swelling from need. Sol uses his tip to kiss your opening without thinking. He starts slow. Lays his cock flat against the seam of your cunt before dragging it up and down once, rubbing you again however, this time, it almost slips inside of you.

You lose a little of what little control you had. Your body jerks back against him, and you bite back a moan. Sol felt that—he can’t get enough of you. Neither can you.

He moans in appreciation, repeating the gesture as he pulls your pussy closer. He gazes and looks down at you. You’re so pretty it makes him want to please. He repeats this over and over, grinding on your clit on his hard and needy cock, throbbing against the soft, smooth muscle as he gains a sort of rhythm.

He gauges your reaction when he tries something new, adding pressure until you’re squirming underneath him. When you start growing noisier, Sol knows he’s hit the right pace.

And he stays like that for a bit, your pussy soaking more of his cock. He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing his fingers between your folds. You let out a soft "A-ah" above him, making him want to laugh. He keeps at it, his fingers sliding far enough to tease your entrance. Your hole is squeezing without him having done much at all, his middle finger teasing and prodding.

“Sol stop! Don’t t-tease so much,” You pant. Sol nearly blows again, listening to you talk like that. He didn’t think you could be so cute.

Sol couldn’t help but smirk, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "But I love teasing you," he whispered against your skin, "hearing you pant and moan, wanting more but not quite getting what you need."

His finger kept playing around your entrance, just kind of going in circles on your sensitive bits. "Besides, it's fun to watch you squirm to my touch," he said, sliding his middle finger into you like it was nothing. It's not that hard. You're so wet for him, it's crazy. Your walls feel super soft and inviting, all syrupy when he touches them.

Sol loves the way your cunt feels, taking his time to go in and out slowly enough that the tension just fades away. He really gets in there with his middle finger, and when it looks like you're not tense anymore—he goes and adds another one. He's doing both at the same time—and there's this moment where it's just a whole lot of sensation for you.

Eventually, it stops being just a sensation, and it shifts into pleasure. He presses his fingers into you hard, really massaging that soft spongy spot, he can feel you lean forward, nearly lurching forward.

Your back arches, mouth hanging open, “S-Sol!” You moaned.

Another feeling of pride spreads through his chest, his whole body. He wants you to let go again just like this. While he fingers your weepy cunt—he wants to see how far he can push. How wet you can get before he ever gets inside.

His fingers can feel the way your walls tighten up so hard and the tremors of the aftermath. Your back curves against him as you cum again closing your thighs, hard for him, and he can feel it.

He can feel you cum over his cock once more. He can see you, see the pleasure crash into you like a tidal wave. A second. Sol made you cum twice in a row, this time without him. You practically pry him off as you ride the wave of your high. You sighed deeply as you watched Sol lick his fingers. "You taste so sweet, all because of me~" He breathed out, looking down at you.

“Are you done?” You asked, tiredly wore out.

Sol's eyes darkened at your question, his body still thrumming with a unsatisfied need. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

"Done?" he echoed, his voice rough. "I'm far from done, Pumpkin.” He sits you up on his lap, fixing you to completely lay back naked and beautiful, tugging open your thighs for your cunt to rest on top of his cock once more. “Sol I can’t please.” You quickly reached onto his shaft, stopping him.

Sol's mind went blank when you touched him, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine. His breath hitched, and he looked up at you through hazy eyes, his body quivering with need. He wanted you, desperately, but he also knew he had to stop.

"Pumpkin," he panted, his voice strained. "I... I don’t think I can handle any more of your teasing.” He said with heart eyes, “Just let this happen, please.”

His tone is so needy, so desperate, and it shoots straight through you, making your body shiver. You can feel just how badly he wants you, needs you. Already itching to do it a third.

"I-I wasn't trying to tease you,” You whisper, your voice soft and shaky. “I’m just... I’m just tired, Sol. I am.”

You try to pull back, even just a little, to put some space between them, but he's holding you tight against his back, “We’re almost there. Just one more…” He breathes out, stroking his cock, guiding the tip to your cunt opening, ‘I wanna feel you…” He mumbled, slowly pushing himself inside, “A-Ah, Sol!” You pleaded, trying to close your legs, but he forced them open.

“Don’t fight it.” He warned, pushing himself in. Your cunt squeezes your opening, not letting his cock inside before he goes in frustration while biting your neck to distract you, “Ahhh!” You mown in pain.

His hands gripped you tightly, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. He was completely undone, his desire for you eclipsing everything else, his body responding to the need pulsing through him.

In the haze of his hunger, he vaguely registers the absence of protection, but it barely registers in his mind, overshadowed by the overwhelming need to have you. A fleeting moment of tension flares before it melts into pure, white-hot pleasure, every inch of being inside you sent him aflame.

You feel incredible—like nothing he’s ever known. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer, coaxing you down another inch on his cock. His lips find your neck again, this time with more urgency, his teeth sinking more into your skin as he fights to hold himself back.

The taste of you, the feel of you—it’s almost too much. He wants to make this last. He won’t let it slip away too quickly. Sol’s not ready to lose himself just yet; he wants to savor every second of this.

Sol lowers you steadily until all of him is inside. Your expression is slightly pinched, and your whole body trembles, uncomfortable, almost in pain as you adjust to his size. You arch your back, hands reaching to take root in his hair. “P-Pumpkin!” He moaned. The sensation of tension on his scalp makes his cock twitch inside you.

The pressure is almost too much, making you gasp in the air through your teeth. You hold on tight to his arms, “Oh god,” You moan, your head falling back. “You’re... you’re actually intense. I can feel...” Your voice trails off, replaced by a whimper. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire, overwhelmed.

Before you get a chance to adjust to the feeling, he picks your hips and slams them back down on his cock without breaking a sweat. You nearly scream, your hands immediately reach down, squeezing his wrists, trying to make him slow down. He gives you a wry grin; he almost wants you to plead for your mercy.

“Aw.. want me to go slower?” Sol asked, “You have to beg for it~” Your eyes widen, and another soft gasp slips past your lips, your body tensing against him. The pressure and the fullness are almost too much, overwhelming in the best way possible.

He feels so good, so good...

You nod slightly, your voice coming out as a whimper. “Please,” You whispered, “Just stop, please...” Your body shakes as you speak. “Too much... too much at once...”

Sol's eyes gleam with a feral look, his body trembling with the effort to control himself. He pauses for a moment, his hands stilling on your hips, his breathing ragged.

"Too much for you, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse. "You can't handle it, can you, Pumpkin?"

There's a hint of challenge in his tone, a hint of desire to keep going, to push your limits even further.

Repeating the motion but slower showing his hint of worry. He knows he needs to be careful, rocking you steadily onto his cock. The pace is controlled and smooth, a rhythmic pass of your hips over and over.

Your insides threaten to dissolve him whole, turn him liquid from the inside out as he makes you ride him in reverse, moving his hips up and down while keeping you in place.

He watches as your breasts bounce as he leans forward, his chin coming to rest against your neck just enough for Sol to see the concentration etched upon your face. He watches you as you discover your pleasure in this moment—it makes you look utterly captivating. The feeling of him is nothing short of exquisite.

He shifts his hands to your hips to pull you closer to him, not changing the rhythm he wanted as you hug him tight.

The room resounds with the sound of skin meeting skin: a sticky smack as your body strikes Sol's thighs with enough force. Every nerve in his body is on edge, alive with sensation. His hand glides gently before your body, teasing your clit as he urges you to ride him.

Sol forces as he feels you again, a new surge of excitement drenching him. He's becoming more sensitive to the times when you approach your climax. Your wetness is so invitingly greasy for him because of him. It is so messy that it's running down his length down onto his balls, turning his pants into a wet puddle from underneath you.

He feels you stiffen in expectation—little contractions that bring you to the brink. His breathing comes in quick, shallow bursts as he watches you chase your climax, his hands gripping your hips as if to bring you even closer.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the way you feel, the way you look riding him, your smell—god your pretty moans. It’s all too much. But he pushes down the rising tide, wanting to prolong this moment

His voice came out in a strained whisper, his grip tightening as he spoke. "I'm gonna cum soon. I want you to come right after me, yeah? Can you do that for me, Pumpkin?" He gently lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. His gaze searched your face, watching as your expression blurred with the overwhelming sensations.

Your mind felt hazy like everything was fading into a fog, too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts. The pressure building inside you was almost unbearable—so huge, so intense, hitting you all in the right spots.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible, filled with a desperate need. "Yes, yes, I can do that... please, Sol, please..."

You could feel his desire building with you, like an unstoppable wave crashing over both of you. "Please, please, please..." You whispered it over and over, lost in the need for him, unable to say anything else.

Sol's eyes blaze with a renewed intensity, the plea in your voice driving him over the edge. His hands tighten on your hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Pumpkin..." he pants, the words almost catching in his throat. "Pumpkin, I... I can't hold on much longer."

Your eyes are wild, and your body is trembling, every muscle tight and tense, “S-Sol, ah…” You laugh, breathy. The third time you cum is less intense than you thought. It’s a shorter wave, a softer sort of orgasm that seems to ease you more than it does anything else, more hazely and oversensitive.

But you can feel still his cock inside of you, how close he is, how close he’s been. Even still, you clench around his cock hard—getting so much wetter than you were a minute ago.

"Ah, f-fuck..." Sol growls, the sound catching in his throat. He's right on the brink now, his body straining with the effort of holding back. And then your muscles clench around him, the sensation enough to drive him over the edge.

"Looks like I have to catch up, hold on..." Sol moans, his voice a low, gutt, picking up your thighs, “Sol! Wait—what are—!!” He loses himself completely, slamming himself inside you rather rough and fast, his balls slapping against your cunt.

He wants more of you—all of you—after all, you can take more of his paint, you are his true canvas.

Finally giving into the sensation that’s been drowning him, He feels it in his entire lower body. Every atom of him finally catches up to the high of the release. It’s so intense when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out than heavy breaths. His eyes shoot open, then go back closed.

The coil in his stomach loosens more slowly at first than all at once, like a car crash. When Sol finally cums he sees nothing but white hearts in his vision. He can’t scream, can’t speak—so he holds onto you tight and finishes inside you, cock deeply buried inside of your pussy. So much cum spurts out of him, thick and hot painting your walls, so much in fact that it was leaking out of you, dripping down.

Sol tried his best to keep all of it inside of you, as it'd ruin his version. He didn’t even try to pull out, he rode out his orgasm with heart eyes, still fucking you slowly, wanting to keep all of himself—and cum, tucked deeply inside of you.

The sensation lingered long after the moment had passed. When Sol finally opened his eyes again, he found you collapsed against him—your body wrecked, spent, trembling from the overwhelming intensity.

You felt achingly sensitive, every nerve alive and raw, yet your mind remained a hazy blur, struggling to grasp onto anything, while your body felt heavy, as though you were floating just above the surface of consciousness. Everything was a gentle, blissful silence, a welcome respite from the chaos.

Just how long had it lasted? How many times had he brought you to the edge? The last time he counted, it was three, maybe more after what he pulled. He couldn’t be sure. The last clear memory he had was of you, twitching on top of him, your back pressed firmly against his chest, every part of you quaking from the intensity.

Sol took a slow, steadying breath, his own body still trembling from the exertion. He looked down at you, your limp form lying against him, completely drained. The exhaustion in your body was palpable, and in that moment, a part of him realized he’d pushed you farther than he’d intended.

“Pumpkin...” he whispered, his voice soft and concerned as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer into the warmth of his embrace.

“You did so good for me... You okay?” He waited, but you didn’t answer.

Your mind was still foggy, still trying to make sense of the world. Words felt distant, impossible to grasp and form into something coherent. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—limp, exhausted, utterly spent.

A soft, unintelligible noise escaped your lips, a simple affirmation that you were still with him, still connected. It was enough to make him nuzzled you into his chest, his body instinctively seeking the comfort of his warmth of his wonderful creation.

Sol chuckled quietly, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—how thoroughly he had worn you out—and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet pride.

You were his, finally.

He gently played with your hair, twisting it with his fingers, his touch tender as he held you against him, giving you time to recover, knowing you needed it before you two could complete the art project that’s—he thinks that’s due tomorrow?

Oh well… if you don’t wake up in time he’ll complete it all for you.

“You’re adorable like this,” he murmured softly, his voice low and affectionate heart-shaped eyes, holding you tight against him.

All this... started from a simple brushstroke.

#tkatb sol #the kid at the back #the kid at the back sol #solivan brugmansia #Solivan Brugmansia #sol x reader #the kid at the back x reader #sol brugmansia #the kid at the back vn #tkatb vn #tkatb #tkatb smut

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atlabeth · 5 months ago

Text

unadulterated loathing (pt 1)

masterlist

pairing: fiyero tigelaar x fem reader

summary: you are forced to partner up with fiyero on a history project. things don’t go as you imagine.

a/n: wicked was really good, i love jonathan bailey, and we're coming up on finals season which means im writing about how stressed i am. also halfway through this i realized reader is lowkey paris geller coded lmao. this got away from me so im splitting it into 2 parts, i had a lot of fun writing it so enjoy! also im high posting this so if there's any editing issues im sorry lol!!

wc: 5.5k

warning(s): reader is stressed to the max constantly. she is kinda mean to fiyero but he's into it so it's okay. mostly fluff

Your fingers were beginning to cramp.

You should have been used to this by now with Doctor Dillamond. You’d been in his class for a few months now, and you graded essays for him often. He often had a propensity for verbosity, but this lecture had been an especially hefty one in preparation for your midterm projects.

He would be announcing partners before the end of class—much to your dismay, for you worked far better on your own than with others holding you down—and you figured you would want to have as much of a head start as possible.

Great Oz, how you hoped you would be paired with one of your friends. Coralie and Ezura were your only contenders for top of the class—Elphaba had potential as well, not because of the magic she couldn’t control but because of the brain she very well could—and anyone else would frankly slow you down. Doing a large research paper with someone who didn’t care as much as you did would be a drag you didn’t care to go through.

Midterms were only the most important thing, for they set the track towards finals and affirmed your skill with your assignments, and your first midterm was potentially the most important thing for, when completed successfully, set you on the correct track altogether.

You tried not to think about it too much (though you failed almost immediately), for you were sure Doctor Dillamond would honor all the work you’d done for him by putting you with a suitable partner.

“I see some of you are getting restless, so I will cut class short today.” Your eyes snapped up from your paper to see the professor smiling, and you could hear sighs of relief around the room. “I’m sure you’re all eager to know your partners for the midterm paper.”

The sighs of relief turned to groans, and you had to agree. Assigned partners should have been considered archaic at this point in time.

Doctor Dillamond trotted back to the projector and, with a bit of difficulty, replaced the image with a piece of paper. Everybody in the class was paired off in groups of two—you immediately started searching for your name, squinting slightly to see despite your spot in the front, and the furrow between your brows deepened when you realized you couldn’t find it.

You searched instead for your hopeful options. Coralie was with Mayara, Ezura was with Nicholas, Elphaba was with Galinda—of course. You let out a slight huff of annoyance, not just at your disappointment but at the continued lack of your name.

Perhaps he’d merely forgotten. You didn’t know how Dillamond could have forgotten you, seeing as you were only his best student and literal TA, but things happened. Your anxieties only grew as you heard the beginnings of whispers throughout the room as your classmates saw their pairings, either excited or dismal.

“Class is dismissed,” Doctor Dillamond said. The room began bustling as students gathered their things, already talking with their friends or searching out their project partner—you heard Galinda squeal and saw her grab Elphaba’s hands out of your peripherals. You could only worry your lip between your teeth as you swept everything in your bag, hardly waiting a second before rushing up to Dillamond’s desk.

“You didn’t call my name, professor,” you said, managing a smile as you tried to act like it wasn’t killing you. How could he have not called your name? Was there something wrong? Great Oz— had you been somehow moved out of the class? Was your work not exemplary enough? Your assistance not assisting enough? “I don’t have a partner.”

His mouth opened, but you only found yourself continuing, the words practically tumbling out of you.

“Of course, if you intended for me to be on my own then I am perfectly alright with that!” Your smile widened as your fingertips dangled over his desk. “I— I prefer it, in fact, so if that is it then there is really no issue at all—”

“Mr. Tigelaar!” he interrupted, and your head turned on instinct to see the eponymous boy arm in arm with Galinda (who was arm in arm with Elphaba) just in front of the door. “I hope you are not about to leave.”

Fiyero flashed a look at his companions before offering one of those easy smiles he seemed to always have up his sleeve. “You dismissed the class. I believe I am part of your class, am I not?”

“You are,” he said, “but you were not assigned a partner. Surely you wouldn’t be trying to get out of the project.”

Your free hand clenched as the threads started to connect. Doctor Dillamond wouldn’t do this to you. Would he?

That easy smile remained on his lips as he turned to Galinda and whispered something in her ear. She giggled and pecked him on the cheek before she walked out, pulling Elphaba behind her, and Fiyero sauntered over.

“Of course I’m not trying to get out of it,” he said. “Whyever would you think so?”

“Your attempt at a quick exit before you could be assigned a partner,” the professor said. “But it is no matter, for your partner is right here.”

You blinked. He would do this to you.

Why would he do this to you?

“Well, pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “Fiyero Tigelaar.”

You ignored him, for you couldn’t look away from Doctor Dillamond. Would it be mad for you to strangle a Goat?

“Professor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “why?”

“Mr. Tigelaar’s grades in my class have not been satisfactory, as I’m sure he is aware.” Dillamond moved away from his desk, prodding the chalkboard with his head to move it out of the way. “I care about all my students, even if they seem not to care for my course. I believe a partnership for the two of you would be beneficial.”

Your jaw clenched. “So you’re forcing me to tutor him because he hasn’t got a brain.”

Fiyero chuckled. “Ouch.”

“Not tutoring, just working on your midterm together,” he said. “And if you end up teaching him a few things along the way, then we would all be better off, wouldn’t we?”

“Professor, with all due respect, this is ridiculous!” you exclaimed. “Why should I have to risk my grade, my midterm, my standing altogether at Shiz just to help him?”

“Should you perform the way that is typical of you, there should be no issues.” Doctor Dillamond gave you that professorly look and your teeth grinded against each other. How dare he try to take the moral high ground. “Now, the two of you better hurry off. You haven’t got forever to work on this project.”

“Professor,” you whispered, determined to not let up, “why are you punishing me like this?”

“I’m not punishing you, my dear.”

“Fiyero couldn’t care less about any of this,” you insisted. “I’m going to fail my midterm and it will be all his fault!”

“If you believe he can make you fail, then you haven’t got as much faith in yourself as I believed.” Doctor Dillamond looked at you. “Trust me—and yourself—that this will all work out.”

You stared back—it was rather difficult to have a staring contest with a Goat. “I don’t suppose I can change your mind on this?”

“You’d be correct.”

You huffed and glanced away. “Fine. But expect those test scores to take an extra day.”

He let out a bleaty sort of laugh while you walked away. You considered it a credit to yourself that you held back the childish tantrum you wanted to throw as you moved back over to your desk to gather the rest of your things. You shoved your books into your bag with a bit more anger than necessary, and you heard footsteps behind you. You glanced over to see Fiyero sidled up beside you, leaning against the desk next to yours.

“Surely you won’t be this irritated at me the entirety of our project.” He still had that unbothered smile on his lips, and it made you want to hit him. “It might make this a much more miserable partnership.”

You let out a mirthless laugh as you shouldered your bag. “Don’t act like this pains you. You’re just going to ride my coattails the entire time.”

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Fiyero mused. “But now that you bring it up, I just may have to.”

“For the love of Oz,” you muttered to yourself before mustering the strength to look up at him. “I have a myriad of things I need to do today. Why don’t you go bother your girlfriend for the rest of the day, and then you can meet me at the library first thing tomorrow morning so we can discuss all of this.”

He shrugged. “Sounds alright to me.”

“Good,” you said. “Because I meant every word I said back there. I will not have you ruining all my progress thus far because of your absolute refusal to think.”

“It looks as if you could take a page out of my book,” Fiyero said. “You seem awfully stressed.”

Your lips tightened into a mirthless smile. “I’m stressed because of you, Fiyero, and we have hardly even interacted. I dread to think of my mental state after a week of working together. Now, good day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You swept past him and walked out of Doctor Dillamond’s classroom. You felt his eyes on you until you turned the corner, and you had to resist the urge to look back.

Oh, how you loathed group projects.

The rest of your day was far more demanderating than it should have been, and you blamed Fiyero for it. You swore the clock went by half as quick and your lectures twice as long—it didn’t help that you were so distracted in chemistry that you nearly burned your eyebrows off from a potion gone wrong.

You’d practically thrown yourself onto your bed when you got back to your dorm, and you didn’t get up until your roommate got back and demanded to know what had gotten into you. She didn’t exactly give you the response you wanted.

“The prince is your partner?” Coralie sighed dreamily. “Oh, you are so lucky.”

“Lucky is not the way I’d put it,” you mumbled, words muffled by the sheets. You finally tore yourself up off your bed and picked your nightgown up from atop your dresser. You went behind your folding sheet and began to change. “And I didn’t know you had eyes for Fiyero.”

“I hardly have eyes for him,” she said wryly. “I just have eyes—anyone can see that he’s attractive.”

“It doesn’t matter how attractive he is if he makes me fail this midterm,” you said. You straightened your nightgown then folded your school uniform while you walked back into the open, passing a glance at your roommate as you placed it on your desk. You then settled on your bed with a huff. “I just don’t understand why Doctor Dillamond is punishing me like this. It makes me reconsider all those late nights spent grading papers for him.”

Coralie shrugged. “You’re one of his best students, Fiyero is probably one of his worst. I bet Doctor Dillamond figured you would be happy to take him on, what with how happily you take on everything else he throws at you.”

You grumbled as you laid back against your pillows. “I just don’t know if I can take him on. Fiyero seems to care more about flirting with every student at this school than any actual material.”

She gave you a mischievous smile. “Maybe he’ll turn the full force of his affections on you in return for your studiousness. Oh, how that would be a sight to see.”

“Don’t even put that idea into the air, Cora,” you scoffed. “Besides, he’s clearly involved with Galinda. Even if I was interested, which I’m not—” you emphasized with a pointed look at her— “that isn’t something I want to touch.”

“Well, you can’t deny that he’s dreamy,” she said. “He just showed up at Shiz and people started falling left and right. It’s more impressive that you haven’t.”

“Because I’m here for one reason,” you said. “His whole… thing doesn’t fit into any of it.”

“I know,” Coralie mused as she fell back onto her pillows. “You’ve told me your whole plan ten times over. I just think you should also try to enjoy your life instead of bulldozing your way through it.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I’m enjoying my life just fine, thank you.”

Interestingly enough, Fiyero was going through something similar a myriad of rooms away.

He laid on Galinda’s bed, his head in her lap as she trailed her fingers through his hair. She’d been going on about something for the last couple of minutes, but he hadn’t really been able to focus on any of it.

“Dearest, did you not hear what I said?”

Fiyero blinked at the sound of Galinda’s voice. He hadn’t indeed.

“I’m sorry, beloved.” He absentmindedly reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze once he found it. “I was thinking.”

Elphaba laughed from across the room. She sat on her bed with a book in her lap. “That’s a first for you.”

“It is,” Galinda said, though with much more concern laced in her voice. Her hand moved from his hair to his forehead. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” he assured. “What was it you were saying?”

“Just lamenting on how awful it is that we’ve been separated for this project,” she sighed. “I’m sure I could persuade Doctor Dillamond to put us in a group of three.”

“You can’t even get him to pronounce your name correctly,” Elphaba said wryly. “How could you get him to do this?”

“Well,” Galinda huffed, “maybe you could do it. He appears to like you more than me.”

“I’m sure that really hurts,” she said.

Galinda placed her hand on her chest. “It does!”

“It’s fine,” Fiyero interrupted. “I’m alright with my partner. She’s nice.”

“Nice?” Elphaba scoffed. “I heard her lecturing you the whole time we were out in the hallway.”

“She’s passionate,” he decided. “Besides, I don’t really care. I haven’t thought about it since she left.”

That was a complete lie. In truth, Fiyero hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you left. Very strange for someone who preferred to go through life with less thinking and more doing.

He honestly didn’t know why his mind was so occupied with you.

He’d always been aware of you, obviously—all your professors adored you, your name was always brought up when talking about top of the class, and he was sure you held the record for most time spent in the library at once—but he didn’t know anything about you other than your academic record. And for someone with such strong opinions, especially about him, Fiyero found himself with the strange need to know more.

He would be at the library tomorrow. Maybe not on time, but certainly there.

Fiyero would make this the beginning of a beautiful partnership, one way or another.

True to your word, you were in the library bright and early after a quick stop at the dining hall. You went through the effort of gathering everything you thought you would need—a myriad of textbooks and encyclopedias, your well-weathered notebook and another one for Fiyero because you doubted he had one, and enough writing material for the two of you.

You sighed. You had to do so much just to even the ground between your groups and the others. Coralie was always so prepared whenever you worked together.

Fiyero, to your surprise, was only ten minutes late. You already had your head buried in a book when he said your name and scared you witless.

Your eyes widened as they darted up to look at him, and he chuckled.

“Sorry. You were in the zone.”

“I just wasn’t expecting you,” you said. “You’re late.”

“Hardly.” Fiyero took the seat across from you, his eyes sweeping over everything you had on the table. “You’ve got quite a collection.”

“I doubt you know your way around the library,” you said.

“I know my way around a lot of things.”

You leveled your gaze at him. Leave it to Fiyero to make everything an innuendo. “And is a library one of them?”

“I’m sure I could make it one.”

“If you bothered to think at all.”

“Darling, you know I’d never,” he said with a smile. “Now, what are we doing here?”

“Do you really not know what our midterm is?” you marveled.

“I have more important things to worry about,” he said.

You scoffed and shook your head. Ridiculous— it was ridiculous that you had to put up with this. Maybe Doctor Dillamond really did hate you.

“Our assignment is an extensively researched ten page paper on any great Ozian,” you said. “Anyone who has contributed to our society in a relevant way and made our lives better for it.”

“A ten page paper?” Fiyero frowned. “That seems a bit much.”

“Between the two of us, it’s just five pages each, and we’ve got two weeks to get it done,” you said. “I’ve written five pages in a few hours of inspiration.”

“Your life truly sounds thrilling,” Fiyero said. “We could do the Wizard.”

“Half the class is going to do the wizard,” you scoffed.

“Because he’s a great man,” he said. “There’s no shame in it.”

“There is absolutely shame in copying half the class,” you said as you pushed over a sheet of paper to him. “Now, I’ve already got a list going. Look it over; see if there’s anyone you like or anyone worthwhile you want to add.”

You looked back down at your encyclopedia, opened to your personal favorite choice, and continued scribbling down basic notes. You glanced up a few moments later to see Fiyero’s gaze hadn’t wavered from you.

You frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“You’re awfully prepared,” he said instead.

“I figured you wouldn’t be,” you responded.

Fiyero’s lips quirked in a smile. “Then I believe that means you deserve to choose our subject.”

Your frown deepened. “Really?”

“Are you always this suspicious of everyone?”

“Just you.”

“Then consider this an olive branch,” he said. He slid the paper back over. “Who’s your top choice?”

“…Ilara Mayfair,” you finally said as you pointed at her on the top of your list. “She was a historical linguist, responsible for half of what we know about Ozian languages and how they connect and differ. She’s…” you cleared your throat and shrugged, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, “she’s kind of my hero.”

“Your hero?” Fiyero’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what you want to do?”

“…It’s always been my dream,” you admitted. “I grew up helping around my parents’ bookstore and her mark was on nearly everything. I really admire it. I want to make that sort of difference in the world.”

“How noble,” he remarked. What surprised you was how genuine he sounded. “It’s impressive how much of your life you have planned out already. All Galinda knows is that she’s majoring in sorcery—she hasn’t really got anything else worked out.”

“What are you majoring in?” you asked.

“Undecided,” Fiyero said. “I was kicked out of my last school before I could declare, so I figure there’s not really a point in doing it here.”

“Not really a surprise,” you said.

“Really?”

“On your first day, you snuck off campus with half of Shiz to go dance at Ozdust,” you said. “That’s not exactly a good first impression.”

“I’d argue the opposite,” he said. Fiyero tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he focused on you for a moment. His gaze made you uncomfortably aware of yourself. “I don’t recall seeing you there.”

“That’s because I wasn’t there.” You looked back down at your encyclopedia to avoid his eyes. “I had more important things to do.”

He frowned. “Do you ever take a day off?”

“Of course,” you said. “There isn’t any class on the weekends.”

“I mean with this,” he said, gesturing at all the books around you. “It doesn’t seem like you allow yourself a single moment of respite. When you’re not in class, you’re studying. When you’re not studying, you’re doing work. When you’re not doing any of it, you’re probably dreaming of your future assignments.”

You felt your skin heat. Surely you weren’t that transparent.

“...I don’t dream of them,” you defended. “Not— not always.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous. Do you know that?”

You frowned. “How am I ridiculous? You’re incapable of taking a single thing seriously.”

“And you’re incapable of not taking everything seriously,” Fiyero said. “It can’t be good for your health.”

“I plan to get out of here a year early,” you said, looking back at your books. “I can’t slack off like you do if I want that plan to come to fruition.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten out of every school I’ve been in a year early,” Fiyero said. “Sometimes two or three— Oz, sometimes I don’t even make it through the first semester.”

Your eyes snapped back up to him, widened in instinctual panic. “What?”

He burst out laughing, and it grinded every one of your gears. “Oh, I wish you could see the look on your face! It’s priceless— truly priceless!”

“You’ve been kicked out of every school you’ve been to and you think it’s a joke?”

Still laughing, he shrugged. “It is. Nothing bad has happened, and I’m still having the time of my life wherever I go.”

You just shook your head as you stared at him, eyes still wide. “Are you always like this?”

“Utterly charming?”

“Entirely insufferable.”

You didn’t understand how he laughed. Everything rolled right off him, like oil off a duck’s back, no matter how many times you insulted him.

“You know, there are other things to life than your studies,” he said.

“Not while I’m here, there isn’t,” you said. “It’s the whole point of university.”

“The point of university is to have fun,” he said. “You’ve seen how this place has perked up since I’ve gotten here, haven’t you?”

“Not really, no,” you said. “I’ve been more focused on other things.”

“Like?”

“Like my studies.”

“It’s like I’m talking to a broken record,” he marveled. “Have you ever had fun in your life?” His eyes widened comically. “Do you even know what the concept of fun is?”

“Ha ha,” you said dryly.

He tilted his head. “Do you?”

You frowned. “Of course I do.”

“Okay, then.” Fiyero leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself.”

Your frown deepened. “We aren’t doing a research paper on me.”

“We’re working together on this,” he said. “Is it a crime to want to know my partner?”

A muscle worked in your jaw as you stared at him. He stared back, entirely unaffected.

“If I humor you, will you actually work with me through this?”

Fiyero held up his hand. “Prince’s honor.”

Finally, you broke. You folded your arms with a short sigh then glanced away. “Fine. I’m from a tiny village in Gillikin that you’ve probably never heard of. I’m here on scholarship with the plan to graduate, become a historian, and make a name for myself.” You looked back at him. “Is that good enough for you?”

“It’s excellent,” Fiyero said with a smile. “Dare I say I’ve learned more about you in one short day than I have in the entirety of my time at Shiz?”

You gave him a fake smile as you tapped your book. “Open your textbook. We have a lot to catch up on.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not going to ask about me?”

“I mean this with all due respect—what could there possibly be to know about you?” You raised an eyebrow as you counted off on your fingers. “You’re from the Vinkus, you’re a prince, and you’ve never read a book a day in your life.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” he chastised. “I’ve read at least one—I just choose not to.”

“Well, how about we make that two?” You reached across the table and opened his book for him. “Unless that prince’s honor isn’t worth a thing.”

“Oh, it’s worth everything,” Fiyero said.

You raised your eyebrows expectantly. “Then prove it.”

“Very well,” he nodded. “I believe I can be serious for the next… fifteen minutes.”

“You won’t even get through a chapter,” you said. “Thirty.”

Fiyero frowned. “You set awfully high expectations.”

“Why do you think Doctor Dillamond forced me to help you?” you asked.

“Because you’re oh so nice and charitable?”

That got a genuine laugh out of you. If you’d been looking closer, you would have seen Fiyero’s smile grow, his eyes soften.

“Of course. Now, go to the glossary, find Ilara, and start writing. I know practically everything about her already, so you need to catch up.”

“I don’t have—”

You held out your extra notebook and fountain pen and cocked your head. “Don’t have what?”

Fiyero chuckled as he took them from you. “You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Always,” you said with a satisfied smile. “Now get reading, my prince.”

He pressed his hand to his chest and bowed his head. “At once, my lady.”

You looked at the clock on the wall. Fiyero should have been here by now.

Granted, he was ten minutes late to your first meeting, but that was before he’d changed your expectations ever so slightly. Almost an hour had passed, and there was still no sign.

Of course, it wasn’t as if it hindered your progress. You kind of always expected him to fall short—if he showed at all, that was a credit to him—so you already had half the outline done. But a small part of you that you’d never admit to might have actually been looking forward to his presence.

You enjoyed the bout of verbal sparring he engaged you in. A lot of your classmates thought you were mean, and it never bothered you. Like you told Fiyero, you were here for one reason and one only, and the amount of people that liked you at university didn’t influence that at all. Your professors liked you and your grades were perfect—that was all.

But you couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t… nice. For Fiyero to take everything you said in stride, with a smile and a retort of equal measure.

It was nice. But that was all.

You were jarred out of your thoughts by someone calling your name. You looked up to see Fiyero sauntering over, bearing his usual smile and not much else.

“This is a library,” you said once he got closer. “You aren’t supposed to shout.”

He took the seat across from you. “I’d hardly call that shouting.”

“You aren’t meant to be loud,” you decided. “Why are you so late?”

Fiyero shrugged. “I lost track of time?”

“You know, we are partners,” you emphasized your last word, “so it would be helpful if you could try to put in the same amount of effort as me.”

“That seems impossible.” He gestured at your notebook with his head, your current page already nearly full. “You’ve got me beat on nearly everything.”

“It’s not that difficult,” you intoned. “I mean, just do some research outside of class.”

He stared at you expectantly, and you rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what I expect with you, honestly.”

“Exactly what you see, darling. Now,” Fiyero's gaze drifted over to the window, then looked back at you as he stood up, “what do you say we put a hold on things and enjoy this beautiful day?”

Your brows furrowed. “What, you mean do our research outside?”

“Is your work truly all you think about?” he asked in exasperation. “I mean leave the books and your notes and your stress here, and take a stroll around campus.”

“I’ve had my entire life planned out since I was ten years old,” you said. “Of course it is. I am not going to have some— some—”

“Some what?” Fiyero interrupted. He still looked remarkably unaffected by your outburst, that sideways smile of his infuriatingly charming.

“Some ridiculous, pompous, self-absorbed, lazy Winkie prince ruin it!” you exclaimed.

“Lazy,” he mused. “That’s a new one.”

“Of course you’re lazy! Why would we take a break when we have a project to do?”

Fiyero looked at you like you were crazy— no, like he was worried about you. He shook his head. “You really do have a one track mind.”

“When we’re in midterm season, yes, I d— what are you doing?”

Fiyero had started stacking all of the books you had on the table away from you, then he grabbed your notebook and your pen out of your hand.

“You need a break,” he said.

“I don’t need a break, and give that back—”

You reached for your materials but only just grazed his hand before he pulled them back and set them on top of the pile. “When was the last time you saw the sun?”

You scoffed. “I see the sun all the time.”

“Not from a window in the library or your dorm.”

You bit your tongue. Fiyero smiled and held out his hand.

“You need a break.”

You stared at his hand. He gave you a cloying look.

“It’s not a good sign that you’re this against self-care,” he said wryly.

You sighed and reluctantly placed your hand in his. “Fine.”

Fiyero grinned and he pulled you close. You yelped at the unexpected speed and you tumbled into his chest. Fiyero’s hand dropped to your waist, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, wide eyed.

“Shall we?” he murmured.

You jolted away from him once you came back into yourself, your skin burning where he’d touched you.

“We shall,” you said, a bit too forcefully as you started walking a bit too fast.

Fiyero chuckled. He matched your pace easily, soon coming up beside you. “You’re already that excited?”

“Oh, shut up,” you bit out. “You’ve already gotten what you want. No need for more.”

He feigned naivety. “What would I possibly be doing?”

You shook your head with a huff. “I’m not entertaining that with a response.”

Fiyero simply hummed. You glanced over at him, still staying even with you, and then you let out another huff as you stopped. He didn’t miss a beat, pausing at the same time as you, then met your flustered expression with a smile.

“Yes?”

“You’re the one that wanted to do this,” you said, gesturing in front of you with a hand. “So lead the way.”

“Gladly,” he said. “I’m very good at taking the lead.”

Fiyero started walking and, though you had half a mind to take the opportunity and dart back to the library, you found yourself following him.

Cora’s words spun around your head as you and Fiyero walked together, about him turning the full force of his flirting on you in return for you being such a stickler for your midterm.

That was the embarrassing thing; you didn’t even think this was half of it, and he already had you blushing—and for what? It was as if you’d never even talked to a boy before.

You’d had plenty of experience back home. Village boys coming into your parents’ store to flirt at you, leaving notes in your desk in class, offering to walk you home at night—plenty of experience.

It didn’t matter that you denied them all and never went anywhere because you had a one track mind even then, and that Fiyero had done what no one else had and gotten you take a break simply because he asked nicely—

You sucked in a sharp breath as Fiyero’s arm suddenly pressed against your chest, stopping you in place. Your head snapped up to look at him, mouth already open with questions loaded, but he gestured with his head before you could ask any of them.

You’d nearly barreled right down the stairs from being lost in your head, without care nor consideration for actually taking the steps.

“Mind the gap, darling,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you damaging that brain of yours.”

“…Thank you,” you said once you’d regained the ability to speak words again. “One of us ought to have one.”

Fiyero laughed as he took his arm away. “Certainly.” He used it to gesture down the stairs. “Ladies first—unless you’re unsure of your ability to conquer them.”

“I’ll be just fine, Fiyero.” You started the descent, Fiyero right behind you, and you let out another short sigh.

There had to be something wrong with you. That was the only explanation for why you were acting this way.

Maybe you really did need to start getting more sleep.

#fiyero tigelaar x reader #fiyero x reader #wicked x reader #fiyero x you #fiyero tigelaar x you #fiyero movie x reader #wicked movie x reader

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jinwoosungs · 7 months ago

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10/15/24; 07:00pm

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ quickies with them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

sylus had invited you to attend a special gathering in the heart of the n109 zone, with luke and kieran setting up a party at one of the largest clubs that he owned for his birthday.

wishing to celebrate his birthday as well, you told him you would meet him at the club soon before getting ready for the event back in the comfort of your apartment. despite how empty sylus felt without you next to him, he decided to remain polite and cordial while speaking to his guests all while scanning the area for any signs of you.

the clock had finally struck close to 9pm the moment he catches sight of your hair in the distance. while he adjusts his tie, sylus takes quick strides toward your awaiting form-

only to feel his mouth turn dry at the sight of you. as if sensing the way his presence looms over you, you turn to face him, giving sylus a full body view of the dress you were wearing.

but perhaps calling your outfit a dress was a bit too generous, for it appeared more like a giant silk ribbon wrapped around your body, simply covering the most private parts of your figure while still leaving little to the imagination. your innocent smile was filled with a mischievous playfulness, and he knew damn well that your clueless expression was a mere façade.

“happy birthday, sy!”

his eyes flash with annoyance mixed with desire, holding your scantily clad form even closer to his body. with you pressed against his side, sylus struggled to stop his cock from hardening further at the mere sight of you, already causing a notable tent to be seen within the front of his dress pants.

“your dress is too short, just what were you thinking?”

your expression becomes flustered then, your features losing its playfulness as you look down at the ground before admitting to him, “y-you said you’ve always wanted to see me… s-show off my body a bit more and be more confident. a-and i wore this for you alone, so-“

yet all your honesty does was serve to make sylus’s cock grow even harder for you. no longer able to think straight when he holds you tightly against him, sylus basically carries you away from the crowd before going off into one of the private rooms settled all across his club.

the pounding music and loud conversation was enough to mask your moans, with sylus pressing his body against your back while playing with the edges of your panties. taking advantage of the privacy the room provided, sylus grips at your chest before pulling the silk fabric of it down, freeing your breasts as his large hands harshly pull and prod at them.

“luke and kieran will search for me soon to cut that damn cake. keep quiet or else they’ll hear you.” sylus whispers in your ear before biting down on it, freeing his cock from the confines of his pants before swiftly entering you from behind. he groans at the feeling of your walls seeming to grip at his cock even tighter, making the onychinus leader chuckle in response.

“what’s this? does the thought of us getting caught… excite you?”

cue you letting out another breathy moan as your walls were felt clenching around him once more, making sylus’s thrusts become even more rapid in response.

“such a naughty kitten.”

needless to say, even when luke and kieran were ready to cut the cake for their boss, sylus was unable to stop wetting his cock with your cunt, choosing instead to block the door as he fucked you with a desperation.

when zayne invited you, his girlfriend of two years, to a conference as his plus one-

you didn’t expect such an event to be so boring.

sure, the dinner served was nothing short of delicious, with you basking in all the rich and savory flavors, yet when it was time for all the doctors and surgeons to talk about their upcoming projects to help with making healthcare more efficient for their patients-

admittedly, you found yourself dozing off a bit. although you appreciated everyone’s efforts to make their patient’s healthcare better, you weren’t truly paying attention enough to know the full extent of what was going on.

with a huff, you choose instead to focus all of your attention on zayne, admiring how cute he looked as his eyes remained on the screen. while the presenter droned on and on with his presentation, you could feel your boredom mounting by the second.

as you trail your eyes down zayne’s pristine suit, you allow your gaze to land on the front of zayne’s dress pants, a cheshire cat grin spreading across your features when you lean in to whisper in his ear, “zayne, i’m getting bored.”

zayne meets your gaze and gives you a gentle smile, “just a few more hours, okay?”

however, you end up shaking your head, purposely ignoring his reassurance when you trail your hands toward the front of his pants. “no… if i don’t do something soon, this boredom is going to kill me.”

were you being overdramatic? yes.

but did you want to entertain yourself by giving zayne a quick handjob beneath the table? absolutely yes.

zayne lets out a shaky sigh of your name, attempting to remove your hand, but his weakness when it comes to you ultimately takes over the more rational part of his mind. he allows you to unbuckle his belt, pulling down his pants slightly with just enough pressure to reveal his soft cock. you giggle a bit, pulling it out before gently stroking him. you set a steady pace, feeling delighted when his cock hardens within your grip in mere seconds.

playing with his mushroom tip, you spread the beads of precum across his cock, using it to lubricate his shaft while watching zayne. his pants and the way he had to hold back his moans were enough to make you ache for him, allowing the sight of him so close to falling apart for you to push you even further.

you truly wondered just how far you could go.

yet before you could even continue your strokes, zayne harshly removed your hand from his erection. your eyes go wide, wondering if you had made him upset when he pushes his erection back into the confines of his pants with a hiss.

an apology was on the tip of your tongue, but zayne interrupts you by grabbing a hold of your hand, pulling you out of your seat while walking out of the auditorium with you. his breathing was labored when he rushes into the halls, finding a secluded area near the restrooms before slamming you against one of the walls.

he says nothing, the once brilliant quality of his eyes eclipsed by pure darkness as he ran on pure desire for you alone. lifting you up by your waist, he impatiently takes off your panties, allowing them to hang at your ankles before quickly shoving down his pants.

you only caught a brief sight of his erection before zayne impales you with his cock, making you cry out to him. feeling him deeply buried inside of you immediately assuages the painful ache between your legs, with your lover setting a breakneck pace as he pumped his cock in and out of you.

and while you basked in the hedonistic nature of his lovemaking, you were happy to say that you were no longer bored.

when xavier had finally returned home to you after a long mission that lasted 3 weeks, he didn’t wish to leave your side.

so when you told him one of your best friends had invited you over to celebrate her birthday the day after his return, xavier ignores your advice for him to stay home and rest, already deciding to join you as well. he willingly ignores the exhaustion he feels and attends the party with you, still unable to leave your side due to how much he had missed you during his time spent away from you.

he barely pays attention when you were both invited inside your friend’s home, the scent of cupcakes and grilled food permeating at the air as you both mingled with the other partygoers. you set your gift off to the side while making small talk with the others. while you enjoyed yourself, xavier remained glued to your side, seeming to take you in with a newfound appreciation.

from the sweet quality of your voice-

to the way your hair bounced with each step that you take-

xavier found himself yearning for a part of you that he was unable to indulge in the entire three weeks he was gone, leaving him utterly weak for you.

once you were done catching up with your friends. xavier takes a hold of your hand before leading you away from everyone else. he ignores the plethora of questions that comes from your parted lips all while leading you to the bathroom, slamming it shut before locking it. his strange behavior makes you look up at him with concern, with you framing at his face when you ask him what was wrong once more.

xavier shakes his head, basking in your gentle touch by leaning into the palm of your hand. he greedily breathes in your scent before meeting your gaze once more, the once sapphire quality of his eyes now hidden by complete darkness. his gaze serves as the sole evidence of his desire for you.

“i haven’t seen you in three weeks… and…” he takes a hold of your hand while leading it downwards, towards the growing erection felt against the front of his pants. “i need you.”

your expression becomes flustered for a brief moment, with you letting out a few stuttered phrases here and there. however, you take a minute to collect your thoughts, closing your eyes before reopening them. there was a certain determination seen in your gaze when you say his name in a breathy sigh before finally deciding to jump up into xavier’s arms. when he feels your body in his arms, xavier took that as all the confirmation he needed before leading you toward the sink’s counter.

knowing that you couldn’t hide from your best friend for long, you lift up your shirt and quickly unhook your bra, tossing it aside as you allowed your breasts to hang freely, basking in xavier’s hungry gaze. letting out a grunt of your name, xavier frees his erection from the confines of his jeans, swiftly pushing down your own pants and panties, leaving him enough room to thrust into your entrance with a startling accuracy.

xavier couldn’t stop himself from tossing his head back, for the sensation of his cock wrapped so tightly around your slick heat was nothing short of a homecoming to him. desperate to finally bask in you, xavier proceeds to thrust his cock in and out of your core at a faster pace all while leaning down to capture your hardened nipple within his hot mouth.

as the party went on, had your friends had a more keen ear, they would have heard your moans echoing along with xavier’s grunts behind the bathroom door…

when rafayel invites you to the grand opening of a new museum with him, you figured it would be a normal date filled with his cute laughters and awe filled gaze at each piece of artwork.

and admittedly, the first thirty minutes of your museum date was exactly like that. you listen to rafayel’s voice, becoming filled with passion when he speaks to you about each piece. from the colors used to the artist that made such amazing work, you hung on to rafayel’s every word.

as you both explore the other corners of the museum, you were simply basking in rafayel and his excitement for art, remaining by his side when he suddenly stops walking, eyes glued to a closed off section of the area.

you look back at him and ask why he stopped walking, with your boyfriend simply pointing towards the closed off room. you follow where he was pointing and felt your heart begin to race in anticipation at the title of the closed off exhibit-

experience the many forms of passionate love

rafayel takes a hold of your hand, pressing a kiss against the back of it before walking towards the exhibit. with a hand wrapped around the doorknob, he twists it open-

yet nothing could prepare you for what was coming.

surrounding you were indeed art pieces dedicated to passionate love-

but what you weren’t expecting was to see various positions set on display.

from a marble sculpture of a man holding his lover from behind as his cock was seen piercing through the woman’s entrance, like a beautiful flower-

to paintings that depicted various other styles of lovemaking hanging on the walls-

you felt your body heat up while trying to take it all in.

“well, i guess we finally know the reason why this museum was advertised as for adults only.”

you could only manage to let out a weak hum in response, your eyes unable to tear away from the marble sculpture settled at the forefront of the exhibit. you kept looking at it, the lovers position seeming to make you remember a time where rafayel had made love to you in a very similar manner.

as if reading your mind, rafayel steps closer to you, hands already gripping yours in a tight manner when he presses his chest against your backside. when you feel him rub something hard behind you, you felt your mouth turn dry as you look back at him.

“are you thinking what i’m thinking?”

that was when the panic began to set in, “rafe, we can’t!”

“too late.” rafayel tells you in a sultry tone, already leading you to where the bathrooms were as he chose a random stall to walk into. locking the stall, he presses your body against the wall, lifting up your pliant form as he slides off your skirt and panties. you gasp and felt the heat dye against your cheeks, watching as he pockets the flimsy material of your panties before unbuckling his belt.

he pulls down his pants and frees his cock enough for you to see every inch of him, with him gripping at your waist with a hum before rubbing the underside of his cock against your pussy lips. thoughts of hiding your arousal was tossed out the window the moment you felt his velvet cock slide back and forth against your slick heat, and only when rafayel could feel your arousal practically dripping down on him did he finally enter you, piercing your aching walls with his cock as he filled you up.

rafayel’s moans breaks through the silence of the restroom, the sounds of your lovemaking echoing throughout the area as you had to cover rafayel’s lips to prevent anyone from realizing your sinful acts. yet it seemed as though the image of that statue was enough to make you lose your inhibitions, with you wanting nothing more than for rafayel to make love to you, never wishing for him to stop-

just as the exhibit had so proudly displayed.

end notes: this is an unedited mess of a thirst post, but i hope you readers don’t mind since this is just my attempt at writing out my fantasies 🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

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felassan · 3 months ago

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IGN: "Key Dragon Age developers have announced they are leaving BioWare after the developer restructured to focus on the next Mass Effect." Michael Douse, publishing director of Larian Studios: "*laid off I wrote more but then deleted it because I’m not about to ruin a long weekend. Something something $30 billion corporation operating for decades unable to provide the necessary economic foundation from which to support a big RPG. But again, I deleted it. It is possible not to layoff large parts of your development teams between or after projects. Critically, retaining that institutional knowledge is key for the next. It’s often used as an excuse to ‘trim fat’ and to an extent I understand that under financial pressure, but doesn’t that just highlight how needless the aggressive efficiency of giant corporations is? I’d understand it if they were pumping out hit after hit - perhaps you could argue it’s working - but clearly the aggressive streamlining (layoffs) aren’t. It’s *nothing but cost cutting* in the most brutal sense. It’s *always* people lower down the food chain that suffer, when it’s *clearly* strategy higher up the food chain that’s causing the problem. On a pirate ship, they’d toss the captain overboard. Video games companies should be run like pirate ships. The delta between VC and unemployed game developer is fascinating because where one falls upwards the other in parallel velocity tumbles downwards. You can tank an entire multi-billion dollar initiative and head upwards, while an incredibly talented artist, engineer, QA, etc can head into poverty. I don’t have LinkedIn btw 😬 Just in case any of this annoys you, just imagine I meant the exact opposite of it and you’re the best. Have a great weekend ✌️ "[source]

Michael Douse: "To make it absolutely clear, what I hate about the way layoffs are carried out is that they are done *before* decision makers know what do do with a studio, and not as a result of figuring out a direction. This is consistently true. It is a short term cost saving measure at a huge human expense that doesn’t solve a long term problem. (A lack of a viable strategic direction defined at an executive level). You can probably figure it out if you trust your developers instead of firing them. On a positive note, I’m seeing a slight shift in this direction. In the low-stakes arena of remasters and remakes, but they are the foundation of something bigger." [source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #dragon age 5 #bioware #mass effect 5 #mass effect #long post #longpost #video games

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honey-pages · 5 months ago

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Tea and Biscuits - Viktor X Reader (Study Date Part 3)

This is part 3 to Study Date - as requested and crossposted to Ao3.

Description -

You awake in Viktor's bed after the adventurous night before.

1.1k words

F/M. 18+. Fluff. Brief Mention of Sex. Mostly SFW.

You wake up in Viktor’s bed the next morning. It is large and empty, prioritising comfort and space. His room is quite dark, lit only by lamps and small light sources. This was not the kind of sexual encounter where you wake up in an unfamiliar bed in a blur - you remembered exactly what happened the night before.

After the sex in the lab, Viktor held you tightly, not wanting to let you go. His smug cockiness in the library had given you the impression that he was perhaps more confident than he actually was in his acquisition of you. As he began to untangle himself from you, he learnt down and planted a kiss on your forehead.

In the closeness he spoke, “I want you to know (Y/N), that I would not get into this kind of entanglement if I did not intend to keep at least a part of me attached.”

You took a second to read further into what he was trying to say.

“I am not in the science of casual encounters.”

You allowed him to continue, providing no response.

“I have feelings for you.”

You felt almost as frozen as you did in the library. It was not that you did not reciprocate, you did. It was just that this confession came on so suddenly.

“It feels as though I have always had this passion for you, and I can’t hold it back anymore.”

You allow more time before realising that this is not what Viktor needs. Reassurance.

“Viktor, I feel the same.” You reply.

His face softens and his brow relaxes. He returns, “I always thought you were so special. Special enough that I was content to watch you and be around you, even if just from afar. I didn't know if my attention was what you needed.”

“What I needed?”

“You are so full of potential. So much power and emotion. I have seen you work, and I am interested in you far more than for just your brain, I assure you, I have not seen such passion in someone. You really are a rarity.”

You smile. It feels nice being seen. You knew Viktor on a work time basis, and it was nice to know you were not just more work for him. You had always imagined that he struggled to switch off, and he sometimes did, but when there is nothing to switch off and relax for- why not keep working? It was why you visited the library so often. Why you were so focused on your project. Shit. The project. Your mind focuses on the present. Your work is due Wednesday, and you need to defend it before the council panel. You wonder where Viktor is right now.

Looking around the room, you notice your clothes from last night are folded and draped over a chair next to his bed. You had slept naked in the end. You had not initially planned to, though the room was cold enough that when the two of you finally climbed into bed, you shed your clothes to press against each other. You skin to skin contact was electric and you held each other until now.

There’s a rattling sound coming from behind the door.

“Good morning (Y/N)” Viktor calls.

He walks in through the door backwards, propping it open with his back as he tilts down the door handle, juggling his cane and balance in the process. In his other hand precariously balanced is a tea tray.

He places down the tray on the nearest available surface - the end of the bed- and turns towards you.

“I made us some breakfast tea.” He beams.

He looks happy. His hair is fluffed and dishevelled and he wears just a loose pair of pyjama bottoms. He has been waiting in his lounge so as to not wake you, though to be close enough that when you did wake, he could go to the kitchen and make you-

“Breakfast tea! It’s made with tea (obviously), but also sweet milk and (optional) caffeine!” He looks proudly over the tea set he has put together.

You giggle, “Viktor that’s just regular tea”.

“Aha! You have fallen into my trap Miss (Y/N), regular tea is not served with…” He makes an anticipatory gesture with his hands. “Biscuits!”

You don’t correct him that tea is quite often served with biscuits. He looks so incredibly proud of his work. He has neatly arranged the pot, milk and cups and has served them in pristine fashion with accompanying small sweet brown sugar biscuits. You realise that this perhaps is a luxury Viktor does not have time to normally allow himself, you fill with gratitude and warmth. The teacups are mismatched. Living alone, it made sense as to why. He has never had to cater to anyone alongside himself, he only owns one of each set.

“Viktor it’s amazing, this all looks amazing!”

He sits himself in the chair, shifting your clothes onto the pillow behind you for when you need them. You become aware of your nakedness now your clothes are beside you. He stands once more, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. He covers you both back up to the waist with the bed sheets and pulls the tray onto the flat of the both of your legs.

“How do you have it?” He asks.

You describe it to him, he pours it. You nibble at one of the biscuits, being careful to hold your hand underneath so no crumbs get into the bed. After he pours a drink for himself, one that’s very heavily milky, he wraps his arm around you, and you cuddle with your backs to the headboard. The world is warm again.

“Wednesday” Viktor states.

You look up at him, clueless.

“Your project. You need to defend your project to a board on Wednesday.”

“You remembered?”

“I’m on the board.” He grins.

Viktor spends the rest of his day running through techniques regarding presentation. He himself dislikes giving presentations, but he is experienced by proxy through the amount of projects he has seen go through the panel. You are not allowed to disclose the full details of your project to Viktor, now knowing he is on the board; however you allow vague descriptions of the concepts and rough ideas through the filter. He is very much interested and onboard- convinced you will succeed. It is only a few days until the presentation is scheduled and you are growing nervous.

“I have an idea that may ease your nerves. It is untested and it is one of my own creations, but I think it will help you remove some of the nervous associations you have with the boardroom.”

“That sounds like exactly what I need” You chime.

“It is slightly unconventional, but I think you are the perfect subject.”

#viktor x you #viktor x reader #viktor lol #viktor league of legends #arcane #viktor arcane #viktor fluff #fluff

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utilitycaster · 4 months ago

Text

I wanted to explore the idea of people who dislike C3 not engaging with its themes because I haven't actually seen anyone making the argument give a full rundown of said themes, and this may end up being several posts. I'd like to start with anticolonialism. Perhaps it is a theme; if so, I think it's presented exceptionally badly, in a way that appeals uniquely to white westerners desiring to see themselves as a combination of victim and savior, rather than as a complex issue in a story centering the colonized. It got very long, so it's under a cut.

If this is the theme with which we as the viewers are not engaging, I'd argue neither is the work itself - it's largely projection. As many others have pointed out, the use of Marquet, a setting inspired by Africa and Asia (and presented in a highly stereotyped and Orientalist way in Campaign 1 no less) as nothing more than a casual backdrop with little engagement with the cultures present, and with much of the story elsewhere, undercuts that badly. I'd actually argue this is a recurring issue with Critical Role's works; Ank'Harel appears and is even fleshed out more in Call of the Netherdeep, but the story follows, and mostly takes place, among the Calamity-era ruins being excavated and amid faction squabbles concerning them. The culture and politics of Ank'Harel remain a distant second to the greater mythology of the Calamity, and again, after the society and culture and everyday people of the more European-inspired Wildemount took such a front seat in Campaign 2, it seems like a worrying pattern. Given the increased sensitivity and investment towards the cultures based on those in our own world that (for the most part) did the colonizing, and the "set-dressing", as others have called it, status of Marquet, perhaps this world is not a good one to tell that story. What's also interesting, and telling, is that the African and Asian - especially West, South, and Southeast Asian - was even a defense within the fandom: the reason so few of Bells Hells were from Marquet, we were told, is because the cast is white. In that case, and given how Marquet is so poorly integrated into the story that multiple beats relying on knowledge of the Apex War fall flat, why didn't we set this in Issylra (notably, the continent in which modern, mortal-driven occupation efforts are occurring)? And more importantly why are we trusting a group nearly entirely made of white culturally Christian Americans to tell what is argued to be an exceptionally leftist story on religiously-motivated colonialism if we can't even trust them to play a character from a real-world culture heavily impacted by said colonialism?

Another rather significant wrinkle is the fact that those wishing to release Predathos in the service of destroying the gods were happily working with the Kreviris Imperium, who desired to colonize Exandria. Remember how everyone was just talking about how the poor Ruidians would die if the planet were destroyed and how they're the victims in all this (and honestly, I don't disagree that the commoners of Ruidus, especially those without psychic powers, have a uniquely rough deal) when the planet cracks? Well, let's talk that through. I think the role of the Vanguard's Ruidusborn in this is rather important, ie, if they are throwing off the colonialism of the gods (to be discussed later whether I consider that valid), they are doing so by stepping on the necks of the common people of Ruidus. And if those people will be doomed by the release of Predathos, it is Bells Hells who doomed them.

The people of Ruidus were told of their manifest destiny of the Blue Promise by their governing body (which also served, effectively, as religious leadership, with mind control). I think "Propaganda" is a poor real-world metaphor for "sends dreams of the land promised to you each night, making you both jealous of what they have and very much influenced by their culture, while you have no dreams of your own" but it's the best I have, but that itself occupies an interesting space. It's a great beat for sf, but this actually leads to a rather worrisome metaphor regarding the nature of cultural influence (which was spoken of on a 4-sided Dive and is often cited here, and I think the way it's discussed fails to consider the implications). The idea of cultural hegemony and globalization is a very real one. It can occur within one's country (I, a non-Christian American, am well acquainted with many Christmas songs and traditions and am given Christian holidays off work but must use vacation for my own). It can also occur outside of it, as with globalized beauty standards - white ideas of beauty leading to light skin being prioritized in India, or double-eyelid surgery becoming common in South Korea. The situation on Ruidus therefore has some interesting implications. What does it mean for them to have inherited culture from Exandria - but at the hands of their own government that seeks to colonize Exandria? Is this a good way to explore these topics, when Exandrians are neatly excluded from the spread of their own cultural hegemony (as they had no idea) and are also poised to become the victims in this colonization? This idea, incidentally - that the people of Exandria exist in an impossible in-between space in the colonization metaphors, blameless victim yet free from the ugliest consequences of being a colonized culture - will recur, and I think that is the most damning evidence that this is at best a story of anticolonialism stripped of nuance and complexity.

In a further exploration of the cultural impact of colonialism, what does it mean that, again, I, Jewish from birth and raised in a Jewish home and sent, even, to a Jewish school through middle school (though not a Jewish preschool) have a pretty thorough knowledge of not just Christmas songs, but could probably name a bunch of individual Christian denominations and maybe even the intricacies in how they depict their crosses - while generally having freedom to practice my religion within the dominantly Christian US, if not equality in doing so - but Bells Hells, living under the presumed thumb of the gods, can't reliably tell their symbols or domains? Others have already covered this but if the gods are the dominant force, why have Bells Hells managed to largely avoid any actual consequences for godlessness other than "when I asked for something, I didn't get it?"

Why have all the governments we've seen, save Vasselheim (which, again - we haven't ever spent a ton of time in, so why did we go to Marquet again?) failed to convey religious dominance at the hands of the gods? The Clovis Concord, Tal'Dorei, Whitestone, Niirdal-Poc, Syngorn, and as far as I can tell Ank'Harel, Jrusar, Bassuras, Court of the Lambent Path, and the Stratos Throne (and if the latter isn't then Imogen and Ashton grew up in its borders without any religion forced upon them) are all secular governments that at most have outlawed Betrayer God worship. The Empire (in which Ludinus Da'leth has been a major political force for centuries) has strong restrictions on worship of all but six gods, and if you look at the first Tal'Dorei Campaign setting, it was at the timed conceived of as banning all deity worship. The Dynasty is a theocracy for a non-pantheon entity, engaging in missionary work but largely depicted as (if I may, oddly) devoid of violence. While Uthodurn's King Imathan Talviel is himself a worshiper of the Arch Heart, Uthodurn appears to have no state religion. Indeed, I'd say, as again, someone of a frequently persecuted religious minority, who lives in a country with a dark history of forced conversion of the native colonized people into Christianity [the Native American residential school system] I'd say that for a world in which the gods are objectively real? Exandrian governments are bizarrely lenient and bloodless when it comes to religion. Only the Dynasty even has a state religion of the aforementioned locations, and they don't even outlaw worship of non-Betrayer gods. The Empire, Concord, and Dynasty have, at most, fines or incarceration for worship of illegal deities. Hearthdell lost more people from their own attack and from the people teleported away by the solstice than from the missionary work; you think the might of Vasselheim couldn't have slaughtered the entire town if they went in? The only places we know of as even possibly more brutal are the Betrayer-worshiping Iron Authority, which remains vague and undescribed (weirdly, actually, given that the Crown Keepers might have gone there in the time between EXU Prime and Bells Hells); and Aeor (execution by hanging for deity worship).

I am not saying that any outlawing of religious worship (nor lack thereof) is a good thing, but we live in a world where people have - and still are - killed for gods for which we have, in my opinion, no proof of existence. It is unbelievably telling that the grievances provided (Tuldus, Ludinus, and members of Bells Hells) are all entirely individual experiences rather than anything systemic. It's people mad at their small communities or their parents, and that anger is valid, but it is immensely dangerous to take one's own individual negative experiences and treat it as systemic. This is the underlying motivation of how countless people are radicalized into hate groups (see: MRAs/incels, who are mostly mad at their mothers or at the fact that increased rights for women means women don't have to date or marry men if they don't want to - men are still the dominant class here, but their perceived individual slights and their extrapolation to this as systemic dominance of women is the radicalizing factor). The fact that Exandria has failed to set up a world where this is any sort of religious hegemony - Vasselheim is certainly important, but they aren't even a centralized governing body of worship a la the Catholic church, let alone a force outside of Othanzia, and are seen as an ally by the nonreligious Percy and Keyleth - again lethally undercuts the idea of this as anything but the most softened and childish discussion of colonialism and religion. Even Deanna's question to Pelor regarding Hearthdell reveals it as inaction - a failure to stop - rather than a command to act. It's at the level of how we teach American kindergarteners of the first Thanksgiving, except unless the entire narrative is wholly unreliable this is the actual story of Exandria. One giant pulled punch.

To quickly cover other items highly relevant to any sophisticated discussion of decolonialization/postcolonialism/colonialism in general that are absent from Campaign 3, and indeed Exandria as a whole: as multiple other fans have discussed, there is no concept of people of mixed race if the gods are the colonizers here. There is insufficient discussion of how, for example, many colonized or oppressed cultures have adopted western religions and see them as highly integral to their culture today - Catholicism in Central and South America and parts of Southeast Asia; Islam in other portions of Southeast Asia; Christianity within Africa and among African-Americans descended from slaves. This does not make the original forcing of said religion right or just; but any discussion of decolonization must account for the wants of those colonized, and I find that Campaign 3 fails to do so. The lack of meaningful conversation with common people across Exandria is something many of us have brought up. If we assume the members of the Accord are not necessarily speaking for those they rule, why do we have no concept of how the people at large of Whitestone, Gelvaan, Jrusar, Bassuras, Uthodurn, the Silken Squall, the Empire, the Dynasty, and the Tal'Dorei Republic feel? And if they are speaking for those they rule, well, we know how they feel.

I finally want to discuss that weird and, in my opinion, nonexistent irl space between actual colonizer and the colonized that mortals occupy. I personally reject the idea of the gods as colonizers given what we've seen in Downfall and because the metaphor is rather messy given the mythic scale. However, let's let treat them as such in this moment. Exandria was populated by titans. The lore is (possibly deliberately) vague and at times contradictory here, but either the titans lay dormant for a time after the gods arrived but before mortal society developed; or they lived in harmony with said mortals (who were created by the gods). They assisted, in some tellings, of the sealing of Predathos by the gods. They then, for unknown reasons, either awoke, or turned on the mortals; in the resulting schism they were killed and sealed by the Prime deities and the mortals. The Betrayer gods were those who wished to leave. The Betrayer gods too were sealed. The last known titans, sealed but not dead, were either destroyed or banished by the Ring of Brass during the start of the Calamity in order to prevent complete annihilation. The titans are now dead. Per Ashton's commune with them, there may be something that will rise again should the gods be eliminated; [only] the strong will survive it.

Questions to consider:

Why are a number of fans arguing that this story is one of anticolonialism so eager to place blame on Asmodeus and hope Predathos eats him first, when he is arguably the ringleader of those who most hoped to leave Exandria to the titans while they were still living? Do you hate the leader of the one most willing to decolonize? Or is the issue that this would also mean abandonment of the mortals, in which case, which is worse - destabilization or maintenance of a current situation (ie, the status quo)?

If the gods are colonizers, why isn't Predathos? It is no more a native of Exandria than they are. We know the gods were driven by an existential danger to their lives (which may or may not have been Predathos). Did Predathos lead the gods to Exandria and later corner them there, setting all of this in motion? Or is Predathos no different from them, driven to Exandria out of the need to survive? Given the titans opposed Predathos as well it is difficult to paint it as their savior (and the idea of an external savior of the colonized is, as discussed, one with unfortunate implications)? What is Predathos, and why is it better than the gods, if you believe it to be?

What are mortals here? They are not colonizer, nor are they native. I've discussed the (also very unfortunate) implications of treating sentient beings as ecology metaphors, but given that mortals truly did have, per the story, no agency in arriving on Exandria but were rather created here, are they akin to a non-native species? Such a species can be either invasive or beneficial, which fits with the idea of mortals being unique in their ability to change. Mortals were the ones under threat from the titans despite, again, being neither colonizer nor colonized; mortals participated in their destruction.

Where do the eidolons - seemingly unaffected by all of this - fit in? For a story about how change and newness might bring a better world, why the focus on the long-dead titans instead of the nature spirits that have seemingly taken their place? Why are many of Bells Hells constantly looking back and not forward?

And that last point feels particularly salient. The people of Exandria - a people whose opinion, again, in this campaign, it feels we have failed to explore - exist in an in-between state. They are more the heirs of the colonizers, in this assumption that the gods are colonizers, than the colonized. They cannot undo what the gods did. The gods can at this time only act through them.

What does it mean that we as the audience are intended to see ourselves most in a people who were not themselves those doing the colonizing, who are now under threat from colonization, and who might cooperate with the driving force behind that colonization? What does it say that our mortal viewpoint characters put more effort speaking to and for the dead than to the living? What does it tell us that many of them see themselves as the victims? What does it say that past campaigns had multiple characters subjected to actual systemic oppression (the twins, Jester, Molly, Veth-as-a-goblin, and Fjord all experienced racism) and explored the concept of the other (the Dynasty) and Campaign 3 never did? And when we add that to all of the above - that this world has failed to set up religion as even remotely close to both the meaningful and the oppressive force as it is in our own, despite the gods being real, that the grievances are individual and not systemic, that nearly all actions by the gods are motivated not by greed but by survival - is this an anti-colonialist work? Does it grapple with the problems of decolonialism meaningfully? Or does it let a white American viewer fantasize about a world where they are the oppressed, under threat of colonization, where their personal grievances are all forms of systemic oppression, cleansed of their own complicity in these systems, and where they can never be blamed for their actions because this is all so hard to choose- despite a far softer and gentler world than the one in which we actually live. And does it do so in a work they were going to watch anyway because they've been watching since well before this was introduced, thus permitting them to pretend they are experiencing a sophisticated anticolonialism narrative without having to go through the effort of actually reading that linked pdf of Orientalism they reblogged?

#critical role #long post #cr discourse

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yanderes-galore · 3 months ago

Note

May I request concept/headcanons in which Jasper(SU) is platonic yandere for a human darling? Like, perhaps human darling finds her outside in a gem form and takes her home, not knowing what exactly they are dealing with, but just being fascinated by an oddly shaped gem. Things start to spiral after Jasper returns though.

Oh... She's definitely going to be rough...

Yandere! Platonic! Jasper with Human! Darling

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Violence, Isolation, Kidnapping, Sadism, Toxic behavior, Stalking, Blood, Forced companionship.

Poor you had no idea what you were getting into when you found her.

It was all an accident, of course.

After all... Unless you were looking and aware of Gems, there's no obvious difference between poofed Gems and regular gemstones.

You are someone who was merely exploring Beach City before coming across an orange gem on the ground.

It's a decent size in your hand when you pick it up to observe it.

There's some green discoloration... but for the most part the stone is a pretty orange hue.

Fascinated by the stone you decide to take it home with you.

After all, finding a jasper out in the open is a strange thing...

But... no one's claimed it, right?

To you, it's no different than picking up a cool rock.

Unaware of the horror you're about to unleash in your home.

Things are normal for a week or two.

After all, Gems reform in that time.

You keep the gemstone in a special place, wiping the sand off it and just... well... displaying it?

Your meeting with Jasper is... rough.

It completely takes you off guard and you may even fear for your life.

After all, Jasper is a large gem.

She's a bulky fighter who's ruthless and authoritative.

When she wakes up in your home, it's immediate hostility.

After all, the last thing she remembers was being taken out by the Crystal Gems and succumbing to her wounds...

Now she's in a random human's home?

You're so much smaller than her... such a weak creature...

Yet, a sadistic part of her takes joy in it.

Jasper is someone who wants to be strong.

I would not be surprised if she used her human obsession to achieve that.

When she meets you, she looks down on you.

After all, humans are weak creatures....

It still pisses her off that Steven beat her with the Crystal Gems.

She may also be projecting since you're both from Earth.

Why'd you take her in, huh?

Did you pity her?

Are you trying to make her fall for that whole friendship thing?

You're immediately cornered by the larger Gem, her orange eyes glaring down into you as she interrogates you.

You're forced to lean against the wall as she towers over you... forcing you to speak.

When you tell her that you just found and collected a pretty rock, she laughs at you.

It's a very mocking sound.

Were you really that dumb?

Her obsession would take some time to develop.

She isn't really one for personal connection.

She was created for war, now there's nothing to fight.

Which often leads to her clashing with her human obsession.

Jasper most likely doesn't live with you.

She doesn't thank you for what you did, she just leaves.

She probably is out looking for corrupted gems to fight or hiding in the woods.

You're thankful she left...

Although that's not the last you see of her.

For some reason, Jasper finds herself watching you.

She originally is obsessed because you're easy to push around.

You're easy to intimidate.

Yet... Then that obsession becomes different once she thinks more about how relationships affect a Gem.

You wouldn't be able to fuse, probably for the better...

But she still finds herself watching your every move.

Even after she left her home, she's kept an eye on you.

You shouldn't be so interesting to her...

And yet... part of her is touched you treated her Gem so well.

Most likely to learn why a human plagues her mind, she shows up at your home again.

It's probably better than her camp... It's even amusing that you look so nervous.

It's then Jasper proclaims that she lives with you.

After all, what are you going to do?

Tell the giant space rock woman no?

Yeah... Good luck.

Her obsession grows as you're forced to play roommate with an alien.

It takes some getting used to.

Especially since you feel like a hostage in your own home.

Jasper isn't really interested in learning human etiquette or culture.

She's more fixated on why you confuse her thoughts.

It's not romance or like Fusion... It's different.

It's like a form of companionship... yet she doesn't view you as an equal.

Humans are rather primal creatures in her eyes anyways.

So... at first, you're like a toy or pet in your own home as Jasper claims it for herself.

Her obsession changes slightly the longer she's with you.

There's times she's... softer.

It's all very brief, but she's aware she could easily break you.

She originally uses you for shelter.

Over time it's like she needs you to validate herself.

It's weird yet it's like putting you down makes her feel... better.

Soon even that morphs into something else as she always keeps her eyes locked on you.

You barely leave your home, if you down she finds ways to watch you.

It's odd how... dependent she is on this one human.

She never admits it, but she needs you.

It's hard to tell if she's being protective or... possessive.

She hungers for your attention and reluctantly calls you 'friends'.

Even then the term is unfamiliar to her.

Your connection with Jasper is toxic, of course.

You may not be able to fuse... yet are forced to stay with her through other means.

Your presence makes her feel stronger.

Now she can't let you go.

You soon become a prisoner.

You know the Crystal Gems can probably help, even if you don't know them personally.

Yet Jasper is determined to prevent you from going to them.

You don't need their help....

You two are friends now, right?

That means you live together... You focus on one another...

You aren't getting rid of her.

Imagine Jasper locking you at home, forcing you to pay attention to her like 'friends' should.

She'll put on one of those stupid human shows or a game for you...

But you're under her care in return for validating her.

Hell, she’ll learn the whole human affection thing if she has to.

Plus... Wow, you'd really fit in her arms and lap, huh?

... feels kinda nice, actually... to her, at least.

Jasper has always craved validation.

You may not be her superior... But you'll do.

Unless you want to risk breaking something, you won't be leaving your home.

Now you know not to pick random stones up off the street... Not that you'll ever get that chance again.

Surely the Crystal Gems will find Jasper eventually, right?

You feel they're the only ones capable of help.

Only because you've caught glimpses of the murderous glares Jasper those who pass by your home's windows.

Who knows... You probably have noticed blood on her whenever she comes back from brief training sessions.

Gems don't bleed...

So take that as you will.

She needs to leave at some point... To drop her guard enough to not hunt you down as you leave...

Yet days pass and Jasper never seems to leave your home for long before finding you again...

Let alone your side...

So... will you ever get help before she comes back... or will she catch you if you leave?

#yandere steven universe #yandere steven universe x reader #yandere jasper #yandere jasper x reader #platonic yandere

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f1cflcfic · 4 months ago

Text

The Prophecy (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) Part IV

pairing: lando norris x singer!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: what happens after the break-up that noone saw coming? as Y/N L/N gears up to release her next album, each song reveals a little bit of the past, present and future of her relationship with Lando Norris. Inspired by a curated playlist built around "The Prophecy".

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons.

genre: social media au, angst, exes to lovers, happy ending

[A/N: woops, turns out that it works better to split the final bit of the story over two parts, so this means you've still got one part coming after this one! Also, please note that we spend some time in Las Vegas in this part, so there's vague mention of alcohol and drunk shenanigans]

part i part ii part iii

♥･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♥

November 15th, 2026

November 17th, 2026

November 18th, 2026

[Daily Mail excerpt]

Y/N L/N, Louis Tomlinson and more arrive for Las Vegas GP Opening Ceremony

Alle eyes are on Las Vegas this week, as the city plays host to one of the most exciting Grand Prix circuits this year. Vegas never fails to deliver an adrenalin rush, and this race promises to be one for the history books. Not just for what happens on track, but also outside of it. Tonight, many F1 fans and other entertainment lovers will head to the iconic the Sphere for the Opening Ceremony concert. With names like Kygo, Chappell Roan, and Y/N L/N headlining, it’ll surely be a treat.

Of course, many will be paying particular attention to Y/N L/N, who arrived this morning with fellow singer Louis Tomlinson in tow at the stadium. The two have been friends for a long time, and are frequently seen spending time together. However, L/N’s breakup with F1 driver Lando Norris has caused some fans to wonder if there’s perhaps more than meets the eye between the two. The rumours have only been fuelled by reports of the two leaving parties together earlier this month, as they were both said to have attended Travis Kelce’s birthday in October. Representatives for L/N refused to comment.

Her latest album The Prophecy is said to have been inspired largely by the downfall of her relationship with Norris – who has steered clear of commenting so far. Critics have described the decision to have L/N perform at a GP as “aggressive”, and “potentially damaging” for the sport’s credibility. “It casts a huge shadow over what could be a decisive race for points in both the Driver’s and Constructor’s championship,” one F1 fan remarked online. Another refuted such claims, stating that it’s “F1 who invited her there in the first place, and it’s literally just a concert before the actual racing begins – calm down”.

Whether or not the singers are expected to make an appearance in any of the paddocks later this week remains to be seen.

November 19th, 2026

November 20th, 2026

[Excerpt of Y/N's interview on Jimmy Kimmel Live!]

“So your new album has been out for about a week now, and it’s projected to be at #1 – there’s a bunch of people in the audience who have literally been about here for days, trying to get tickets to this taping," Jimmy motions to a couple of fans who immediately stand up and wave at Y/N. She gasps and blows a kiss to them, “days?! Oh my gosh, thank you!" Y/N turns to Jimmy, "is it okay if I ..." she trails off before just jumping out of her seat to hug the two fans.

When she returns, Jimmy motions for her to continue speaking. "I mean it’s absolutely amazing, especially knowing that it was such a personal project and to see that reach so many people is mindblowing. I wish I could spend more time with everyone, but it’s been super hectic as well, promoting this record.”

“How is that for your family – how are they handling all the fame and attention? They must not see you very much,” he asks.

“It can be difficult for sure. They’ve always been really supportive of me chasing my dreams, and whenever it’s possible I try to fly them out or go see them. But yeah, sometimes that’s just not an option, or I’m honestly too tired to be social. I was in the UK last week, flew in to LA yesterday evening from Vegas, New York before that, and then I’m on a red-eye tonight again out of here as well. I think now that I’ve been doing this for so long, I’ve realised that sometimes you just need to let life in and hit pause. You can’t just give and give and give to everything, all at once.”

Jimmy nods emphatically. “That’s very well said – I have a really hard time picturing you not working, to be honest. What does that even look like?”

“Ha, I really love to read. I usually am carrying at least two or three books with me, and then I’ll leave them behind somewhere in a second hand shop, or those little book nooks?”

“So someone somewhere could be holding a book that you’ve read in their hands, and they wouldn’t even know it?”

“Oh 100% that’s the case.”

“If you'd only doodled in them, they'd be worth thousands of dollars, probably." He turns back to the people in the crowd. "Would you buy a book that's been read by Y/N?" They nod, and he grins. "See?"

"Now do you also use those books for inspiration when you write, or is it all just your own experiences?”

“Yeah I’ve surely gotten inspired by other artforms in the past – I think probably subconsciously even for this record. That’s where the idea of a song around a prophecy came from, fantasy novels.”

He feigns contemplation, regarding Y/N carefully. “Have you been able to change it, that prophecy? I just want you to be happy, and you didn’t seem that happy on this record.”

Y/N lets out an awkward smile and shuffles in her seat. “I think that I’ll always have difficulty letting go of this need for control, but I’d say I’m definitely in a much better place than when I wrote it. I’m happy, I’ve got great people around me who love me, so can’t complain.”

November 21st, 2026

[The Independent excerpt]

BREAKING: LANDO NORRIS WINS LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX!

The British driver was pictured celebrating with the McLaren team immediately after the race. Fellow papaya teammate Oscar Piastri had a disastrous start to the race, but managed phenomenal overtakes that eventually handed him P3. The double McLaren podium was completed by Lewis Hamilton, who edged out Max Verstappen with a crucial undercut earlier on in the race.

Speaking on the race, Norris said that he tried to treat it as any other and not think too much about defending his lead. “I’ve got my routines, that I’m trying to stick to as much as possible. Of course there’s some extra pressure, but we’ve got a strong car and I was feeling good about our lap times all week,” he shrugs. “Las Vegas is a great, but challenging track. I’m really pleased that we got the performance up enough to cash in on the pole position this time.”

Norris has now increased his lead in the WDC, which gives him a comfortable position moving into the final races of the season.

Many celebrities were stateside to attend the Grand Prix, but perhaps most contentious was the appearance of Y/N L/N, Norris’ ex-girlfriend. After opening the GP earlier this week on Wednesday, she had seemingly left Las Vegas to promote her album across the world. However, it seems watching her ex take the win was high enough a priority to fly straight back to Vegas on Saturday. The high profile singer used to be a frequent presence in F1, but stopped attending races as their relationship deteriorated.

Norris has been dodging questions about L/N all month, as her latest album is rumoured to have been inspired by their relationship. When asked whether or not it had affected his focus on the race after qualifying, Norris was quick to shut the reporter down. “It’s completely irrelevant to talk about that when I’m sitting in pole. If I decide to meet up with an old friend that happens to be in town, then that’s what I’ll do. Might even turn out to be a good luck charm, if anything.”

It seems to indicate the two have since reconciled, as they were spotted celebrating Norris’ win together with friends.

November 23, 2026

♥･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡｡.:*･ﾟ♥

You can read the previous parts by going here, part V is now available here)

♥ likes, comments, reblogs are always very much appreciated ♥

taglist (open) : @charlesgirl16, @linnygirl09, @hoeforsirius, @motorsportloverf1, @sarx164, @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff, @formulaal, @tvdtw4ever @sadiemack9 @seonghwaexile

bonus: Tension song

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soupthatistohot · 3 months ago

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BSD Stormbringer Manga Ch. 1: Chuuya as a "Dark Gem"

AKA: I got around to reading the first chapter of the Stormbringer manga and I Have Thoughts!

A decent chunk of this first chapter is taken up by the gem trade being explained in-depth, which seems a bit... excessive. Even the translator noted as much in the version I read:

It begs the question of why they spent so much time on this. At least part of the reason is to give the reader an idea of what Chuuya's current role in the Port Mafia entails, providing some necessary context (since timeline-wise the last we saw of him was in 15 and it's now roughly a year later). But I also think it's an extended metaphor for Chuuya as a person (spoilers for the rest of stormbringer ahead).

The part that really jumped out to me was this sequence of panels:

The first two talk about "dark" gems and how they cannot enter the world of light, which is VERY reminiscent of Kouyou's rhetoric when talking about Kyouka (and herself, as she's projecting her trauma onto Kyouka):

The third panel from SB also interests me as it claims that these gems are given a second chance, specifically through how the Port Mafia has reshaped them.

In 15, Mori says that only a diamond can polish another diamond, in reference to soukoku -- so I don't really think it's a large leap to make here that the "dark" gems here are a stand-in for Chuuya himself.

If you consider the connection to Kouyou's rhetoric, that follows because Chuuya is under her tutelage at this point in time, she's the one who oversees his work when he joins the PM and arguably one of the people he's closest to in the organization. There's a decent chance that she's told him similar things that she told Kyouka -- that they belong to the world of darkness and cannot be brought into the light.

This is further supported by the fact that one of the central focuses of Stormbringer is Chuuya's past. He has a "dark" past on multiple levels. The obvious being that he was kidnapped and experimented on to become a vessel for Arahabaki, his past is dark because its horrible. But also he doesn't remember his past at this point, so it's dark because it's literally shrouded in his memory -- his "origins unknown" to him.

And so, Chuuya is a dark gem (a black diamond, perhaps) that has been taken in by the Port Mafia. In doing so, he is no longer the street kid he used to be, scrounging to survive with his ragtag gang. Instead, he's been reshaped -- he wears suits now, he's a 16 y/o in charge of the gem trade -- he's been "given a second chance."

So yeah, basically my interpretation of this is that the allusions to Chuuya's dark past are a kind of foreshadowing for not only what came before, but also what's to come throughout the course of Stormbringer. This story is very focused on the intermingling of past and present, as well as issues of identity and how it is shaped -- is Chuuya a human with free will, or can his existence be chalked up to being lines of code? What bearing does the past have on the present? This is all subtle set-up for these emerging themes.

PS: I don't have any in-depth analysis for this, but the imagery referencing Chuuya's time being experimented on and the clone is QUITE heavy-handed here at the beginning. I'm loving all the intentionality behind the art so far!

#chuuya nakahara #chuuya bsd #bsd chuuya #stormbringer #bsd stormbringer #stormbringer spoilers #stormbringer manga #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #character analysis #soup rants

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mcrdvcks · 2 months ago

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— logan howlett masterlist

☾: series

i love you, in every time* - Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Logan has spent lifetimes haunted by a curse only he understands—meeting the same woman, you, in every era, only to lose you over and over again. Each time, you’re reborn without memories of your past lives, while Logan, who remembers everything, tries in vain to protect you from the tragedies that seem destined to follow.

Project Reverie - 3 Part Series:

Sweet Dreams* - Logan Howlett x Original Female Character (platonic relationship)

Alexandria Sokolova spent 15 years with HYDRA, ever since her parents and brother were killed in front of her when she was 3. She was raised to be a soldier; an assassin. But now, faced with coming to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, she has to come to terms that there are people around her who don't want to hurt her, people who actually care about her. But recognizing that is harder than it seems, especially with a teacher like Logan Howlett, who seems to care more about her than he lets on. Just because she's currently safe from HYDRA's grasp now, doesn't mean she's safe forever.

☾: oneshots

Oblivious, Baby, Oblivious - People would tell you that geniuses don't know everything, but you tell them that defeats the purpose of the word. Until one day you're proven wrong.

Sweet Nothing* - Mornings were Logan's favorite part of the day.

Until I Found You - Living in a small town had it's pluses and minuses. But when an older man and his daughter move in, things start to change, perhaps for the better.

Point of View* - You weren't skinny which led to a large amount of insecurities. But Logan doesn't understand them.

Dumb & Poetic - You like Logan, but he likes Jean. Right?

I Wanna Be Yours - You're a hacker for The Organization, a secret group that is currently working on dismantling a mutant trafficking ring. You've been working with Logan for months but neither of you have met each other in person and he doesn't even know your real name.

Call It What You Want - A single sneeze turns into something more, at least to your husband Logan.

love me do* - Logan likes to mark you.

things i wish you said - You and Logan get into a fight and Laura tries to get the two of you to see the errors in your ways.

what are hands for? - After an offhand comment from your father shakes your confidence, you find yourself spiraling into self-doubt.

fantasize - You have a crush on Logan, but you're not sure he likes you back. Why would he? You're not his type. At least that's what you thought.

please me* - After dating for a while, you want nothing more than for Logan to really please you. Or, you beg Logan to finally fuck you.

dress* - You and Logan take a tropical vacation for the new year.

7 minutes - You own a small bakery in Westchester. One day, Logan comes in for an order for the X-Mansion. After that he becomes a regular—something he persistently denies.

needy* - You're Scott's younger sister and for months you've been secretly dating Logan. How much longer can you and him keep the secret?

tum hi ho (you are the one) - You take Logan to a family wedding, where he also gets to experience part of your culture.

how you get the girl - After an argument with Logan, you both stop talking to each other.

☾: connected oneshots

Shut Up - You and Logan are sent on a mission: go to the gala and find out information about a mutant trafficking ring. Nasty* - You and Logan deal with the aftermath of your mission.

Deck The Halls - You and Logan decorate for Christmas with your kids. i just need this love spiral - Logan just wants one night alone with you.

☾: drabbles

possessive!reader x Logan (X-Men)

possessive!reader pt. 2 x Logan (X-Men)

Old Man Logan (D&P) x reader

drunk!fem!reader x Logan (X-Men)

Patch/Logan (D&P) x reader

☾: headcannons

logan and thick thighs*

#logan howlett masterlist #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

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Hazel Chandler was at home taking care of her son when she began flipping through a document that detailed how burning fossil fuels would soon jeopardize the planet.

She can’t quite remember who gave her the report — this was in 1969 — but the moment stands out to her vividly: After reading a list of extreme climate events that would materialize in the coming decades, she looked down at the baby she was nursing, filled with dread.

“‘Oh my God, I’ve got to do something,’” she remembered thinking...

It was one of several such moments throughout Chandler’s life that propelled her into activist spaces — against the Vietnam War, for civil rights and women’s rights, and in support of environmental causes.

She participated in letter-writing campaigns and helped gather others to write to legislators about vital pieces of environmental legislation including the Clean Air Act and the Clean Water Act, passed in 1970 and 1972, respectively. At the child care center she worked at, she helped plan celebrations around the first Earth Day in 1970.

Now at 78, after working in child care and health care for most of her life, she’s more engaged than ever. In 2015, she began volunteering with Elder Climate Action, which focuses on activating older people to fight for the environment. She then took a job as a consultant for the Union for Concerned Scientists, a nonprofit science advocacy organization.

More recently, her activism has revolved around her role as the Arizona field coordinator of Moms Clean Air Force, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group. Chandler helps rally volunteers to take action on climate and environmental justice issues, recruiting residents to testify and meet with lawmakers.

Pictured: Hazel Chandler tables at Environment Day at Wesley Bolin Plaza in front of the Arizona State Capitol in Phoenix, Arizona, in January 2024.

Her motivation now is the same as it was decades ago.

“When I look my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren, my children, in the eye, I have to be able to say, ‘I did everything I could to protect you,’” Chandler said. “I have to be able to tell them that I’ve done everything possible within my ability to help move us forward.”

Chandler is part of a largely unrecognized contingent of the climate movement in the United States: the climate grannies.

The most prominent example perhaps, is the actor Jane Fonda. The octogenarian grandmother has been arrested during climate protests a number of times and has her own PAC that funds the campaigns of “climate champions” in local and state elections.

Climate grannies come equipped with decades of activism experience and aim to pressure the government and corporations to curb fossil fuel emissions. As a result they, alongside women of every age group, are turning out in bigger numbers, both at protests and the polls. All of the climate grandmothers The 19th interviewed for this piece noted one unifying theme: concern for their grandchildren’s futures.

According to research conducted by Dana R. Fisher, director for the Center of Environment, Community and Equity at American University, while the mainstream environmental movement has typically been dominated by men, women make up 61 percent of climate activists today. The average age of climate activists was 52 with 24 percent being 69 and older...

A similar trend holds true at the ballot box, according to data collected by the Environmental Voter Project, a nonpartisan organization focused on turning out climate voters in elections.

A report released by the Environmental Voter Project in December that looked at the patterns of registered voters in 18 different states found that after the Gen Z vote, people 65 and older represent the next largest climate voter group, with older women far exceeding older men in their propensity to list climate as their No. 1 reason for voting. The organization defines climate voters as those who are most likely to list climate change, the environment, or clean air and water as their top political priority.

“Grandmothers are now at the vanguard of today’s climate movement,” said Nathaniel Stinnett, founder of the Environmental Voter Project.

“Older people are three times as likely to list climate as a top priority than middle-aged people. On top of that, women in all age groups are more likely to care about climate than men,” he said. “So you put those two things together … and you can safely say that grandma is much more likely to be a climate voter than your middle-aged man.”

In Arizona, where Chandler lives, older climate voters make up 231,000 registered voters in the state. The presidential election in the crucial swing state was decided by just 11,000 votes, Stinnett noted.

“Older climate voters can really throw their weight around in Arizona if they organize and if they make sure that everybody goes to the polls,” he said.

Pictured: Hazel Chandler’s recent activism revolves around her role as the Arizona field coordinator of Moms Clean Air Force, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group.

In some cases, their identities as grandmothers have become an organizing force.

In California, 1000 Grandmothers for Future Generations formed in 2016, after older women from the Bay Area traveled to be in solidarity with Indigenous grandmothers protesting the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline at the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.

“When they came back, they decided to form an organization that would continue to mobilize women on behalf of the climate justice movement,” said Nancy Hollander, a member of the group.

1000 Grandmothers — in this case, the term encompasses all older women, not just the literal grandmothers — is rooted at the intersection of social justice and the climate crisis, supporting people of color and Indigenous-led causes in the Bay Area. The organization is divided into various working groups, each with a different focus: elections, bank divestments from fossil fuels, legislative work, nonviolent direct actions, among others...

“There are women in the nonviolent direct action part of the organization who really do feel that elder women — it’s their time to stand up and be counted and to get arrested,” Hollander said. “They consider it a historical responsibility and put themselves out there to protect the more vulnerable.”

But 1000 Grandmothers credits another grandmother activist, Pennie Opal Plant, for helping train their members in nonviolent direct action and for inspiring them to take the lead of Indigenous women in the fight.

Plant, 66 — an enrolled member of the Yaqui of Southern California tribe, and of undocumented Choctaw and Cherokee ancestry — has started various organizations over the years, including Idle No More SF Bay, which she co-founded with a group of Indigenous grandmothers in 2013, first in solidarity with a group formed by First Nations women in Canada to defend treaty rights and to protect the environment from exploitation.

Pictured: Pennie Opal Plant has started various organizations over the years, including Idle No More SF Bay, which she founded in 2013 alongside Indigenous grandmothers.

In 2016, Plant gathered with others in front of Wells Fargo Corporate offices in San Francisco, blocking the road in protest of the Dakota Access Pipeline, when she realized the advantages she had as an older woman in the fight.

As a police liaison — or a person who aims to defuse tension with law enforcement — she went to speak to an officer who was trying to interrupt the action. When she saw him maneuvering his car over a sidewalk, she stood in front of it, her gray hair flowing. “I opened my arms really wide and was like, are you going to run over a grandmother?”

A new idea was born: The Society of Fearless Grandmothers. Once an in-person training — it now mostly exists online as a Facebook page — it helped teach other grandmothers how to protect the youth at protests.

For Plant, the role of grandmothers in the fight to protect the planet is about a simple Indigenous principle: ensuring the future for the next seven generations.

“What we’re seeing is a shift starting with Indigenous women, that is lifting up the good things that mothers have to share, the good things that women that love children can share, that will help bring back balance in the world,” Plant said...

[Kathleen] Sullivan is one of approximately 70,000 people over the age of 60 who’ve joined Third Act, a group specifically formed to engage people 60 and older to mobilize for climate action across the country.

“This is an act of moral responsibility. It’s an act of care. And It’s an act of reciprocity to the way in which we are cared for by the planet,” Sullivan said. “It’s an act of interconnection to your peers, because there can be great joy and great sense of solidarity with other people around this.”

-via The 19th, January 31, 2024

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mrderofcr0ws · 2 months ago

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HEADLOCK

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

that was the name written on a gravestone in brooklyn with no body below it since the sergeant had been pronounced dead in 1945.

the body that once belonged to that name was now hydra’s most prized possession— but the winter soldier was not the only danger locked away down in the remote siberian facility. you were there, too. a monster made from horrors most refused to believe could be real.

two trained killing machines.

one bound to commands and trigger words.

the other bound to instinct and bloodlust.

it had been a long time since either of you had seen the sun. you could get out with his help in the brief, painful moments of clarity he had. when he answered to that long forgotten name, you could escape together.

but bucky was often buried under that brooklyn headstone— and the winter soldier who slept in the bunk below you nearly every night was a danger to even you.

this is a fic that explores bucky’s time in hydra. the content warnings are as follows: torture, manipulation, angst, pain, psychological horror, graphic descriptions and language, poetic comparisons to cannibalism, hurt with minimal comfort at times, stockholm syndrome, smut, degrading, power imbalance, canon divergence. 18+ fic.

bucky x fem!reader (you have a given name in this fic for the sake of making writing easier, but it will be used sparingly)

word count: idk i write on tumblr. (roughly edited)

PART ONE —

— HALF DEAD

it was easy to remember the first time you saw him.

it was hard to tell which one of you had been made first. you took turns asleep. most memories you had these days were all black. large gaps in time that felt like nothing at all. it was hard to wake up every time they thawed you from the ice cold sleep that could’ve been death itself. you often wished it was. it would be easier if it was.

he was young.

you were young, too, and you knew that— but you hadn’t looked at yourself in a long time. many turns in the black sleep had robbed you of youth regardless of if it showed in your face or not. you would be nearing a hundred soon — so was he — even though you both still looked like you were in your late twenties.

they were putting you down as they were waking him up. that was the first time you saw him. the chains around your hands, ankles, and throat jingled as you walked. the iron slab around your mouth they used to muzzle a danger like you kept you from say anything— but you never said a word to anyone. not unless asked. not unless told. you were well behaved.

but not one of hydra’s weapons were as well behaved as him.

the winter soldier.

he was a whisper in the halls when you were awake— and you saw him with your own eyes as they laid you down in the chamber you’d spend at least fifteen years frozen in.

he looked at you.

as guards pulled him from his own cryochamber, he stared at you from across the dark, cold lab. his breath fogged as his chest rose and fell in slow, pitiful motions. the frost began to melt off his long, flat brown hair. it dripped in time with the clang of your chains. even as guards and scientists began to poke and prod at the two of you — readying you both for separate things — you stared only at each other.

‘hello, soldier,’ your eyes seemed to say.

the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘hello, monster.’

the likelihood of ever seeing him again was slim. you knew that. hydra was far too careful having made such dangers like the two of you. he would remain a whisper you’d overhear about in passing. perhaps for him, you’d remain the facility’s rumor of unimaginable horror. a nightmare that the guards were relived from once they put you to sleep with no intent of waking you for years.

if the guards were really lucky, hydra would keep the two of you underneath the floor boards until they got to retire.

you and the winter soldier were separate projects.

two separate missions.

two separate files.

two separate entities.

until you weren’t.

the first time you had been paired together, it nearly ended in catastrophe for hydra. as two stone-cold killers who lived to do nothing else, you did your jobs.

and you did them well.

in the dead of night, you were like whispers in the wind. you slipped into the soviet outpost together like creeping fog. your mission was covert. you were sent to seek and destroy— and you were nothing but shadows on the walls. soundless footprints on the floor.

you killed who you were sent to strike down in the warmth of their beds.

you found what secrets hydra sent you digging for and buried what was left in ash and rubble.

the overseer had predicted you two to do well—but he had overlooked your… appetite.

james buchanan barnes had been made into a super soldier. he was a dog that followed orders and submit to the will of whoever held that notebook with the star on it. all it took was a few hand-picked words to break him into shape.

but you…

you were something else entirely.

you submitted to nothing but the cold embrace of black, icy sleep.

you hungered for warmth. ice was so often the only thing that you were met with that you hungered for the warmth of skin. the warmth of blood— and that is what you sank your teeth into his neck to find.

red stained the snow outside the outpost as the winter soldier grappled with you.

the vampire.

while bucky had been made to counter the star spangled hero known as captain america— you had been made for the simple fact that they wanted to try. using a serum similar to the one that made the winter soldier so strong and an invasive set of surgeries that reconstructed your jaw, teeth, and tongue, hydra had made their very own vampire.

though they severely underestimated the strength of you when they let you run free on your first field test.

you had done your job. you had been trained to follow orders and you had— but once those orders were fulfilled….

you gave into the bloodlust that made a monster like you what you were.

it was only thanks to his metal arm that you were subdued that night. the cold kiss of his fist made you bleed instead— and you suckled on your bottom lip the whole plane ride back to camp c3 bound in chains from head to toe.

he sat across from you.

he stared at nothing but you as he clutched a sterile clump of gauze to the puncture wounds in his neck.

a monster indeed.

it comforted him to know that he was not the worst thing they cooked up in that lab.

but oh, how he wished to be you.

and you pitied the poor bastard for it.

they kept you awake together since that night. if you were put under, you were put under together. you awoke together. they trained you together. there was no mission done that was not done alongside the winter soldier. there was not a waking moment for you that didn’t revolve around him.

which meant you heard the terror in his screams as they broke his mind each and every time it tried to piece itself back together.

you were lucky.

you were a solid wall. nothing within you got out and nothing they could subject you to got in. they had taught you hard lessons, sure, but there was nothing they could strip you of the way they could strip him of things.

they had taught you not to hunger for your own blood. they had taught you to resist the urge to bite at your companion— but there was nothing they could do to you that could crack at your mind they way they cracked at his. you couldn’t remember your life before hydra. nothing of importance, anyways.

if it was important — though so few things were to you — you did well to never let it slip through the gaps of your teeth.

bucky had a harder time with that.

he would cry in his sleep for his mother.

he would mumble to himself about a friend he once had named steve.

it got him in trouble.

and they made you watch.

you weren’t sure as you stood there each and every time they would strap him down and fry his head with electricity and recite specific words from a notebook if they wanted you there so that it would deter you from making the same mistakes he did.

don’t ever be anything more than that we made you.

you weren’t sure, too, if they were hoping that by keeping you in his line of sight as they tortured him that the mere presence of you would keep james buchanan barnes from trying to dig himself free from his grave.

you were a monster— but they mistook your sharp teeth and affinity for blood as evil.

you weren’t evil.

you weren’t exactly good but you weren’t evil.

if they wanted bucky to be scared of you, they shouldn’t have locked you in the same room as him every night.

you did not scare bucky.

but the winter soldier scared you.

— ☆ —

you were fast.

you could outrun cars you were so fast.

but you were never fast enough to wake before he could get his hands on you.

a muffled scream escaped you as he dragged you down off the top bunk. his metal hand was firm, sharp, and cold against your lips as he twisted you below him. the mattress that belong to him sank under the weight of you both. the metal springs below hissed in protest. for a long time, the overseer had the guards keep you muzzled out of fear that you would leech off your roommate in the night.

the winter soldier ripped your muzzle off himself each and every time they put it on.

how else would he kiss you?

you huffed against his mouth as he pressed his lips onto yours. warm. his mouth was so warm. his metal hand slid down the column of your throat, grasping the soft skin firm enough to keep you in place underneath him. he always had to be the one in charge. he needed control.

winter was harsh.

and it was he who nipped at the apple of your cheek.

bucky was dead in brooklyn as of right now.

“i was sleeping, asshole.” you whispered against his lips. you didn’t care. this was better than sleeping— you just liked to push his buttons.

he grunted into your mouth, “sleep after.”

every kiss you shared set your nerves on fire. sweat began to pool on your back and bead at your hairline. it didn’t matter how cold the room was around you. together —tangled up and grinding on one and another — you could’ve started a fire in the sheets. you never got used to how it felt to kiss him even though you did not particularly like him.

“off,” you winced. you squirmed below him, struggling to free your hands from where they were crushed between your chests. you clutched the collar of his shirt and tugged at it. “off. take it off.”

he sat back on his knees as best he could despite the bunk bed above offering little room and pulled his red long sleeve shirt over his head. it was the start of the pile that would soon be your discarded clothes. he tossed it aside and your hands were quick to map every inch of that warm flesh you desired so deeply. you slid your hands up the length of his back as he settle down between your legs.

he shuddered as your fingers grazed the place by his shoulder blade where metal met flesh.

he closed his eyes as your lips scraped across the stubble roughening his jaw. your tongue flicked across the shell of his ear. you wrapped your lips around his lobe and sucked. he squeezed your throat, choking on a moan stuck in his own. you could feel the weight of his erection poking at you through your pants. kissing and licking his ears were the fastest way to make him hard.

him grasping you by the roots of your hair and shoving your face into the crook of his neck made the space between your legs weep.

he always let you have a taste.

you were convinced he liked it more than you did.

it was as fast as clicking a pen. you sank your teeth into the crook of his neck just deep enough to draw a small amount of blood and pulled them right back out. your clit cried for any kind of friction as the savory, hot, metallic blood spread across your lips. you sucked it into your mouth, tangling your fingers into the roots of his hair to lock him in place. he rested his forehead down onto your shoulder and gave you control.

it was the only time he ever did.

you swallowed all of him that you could before the tiny cuts your teeth had made in his skin began to heal themselves. you could’ve kept going. it was an easy fix. suck harder. bite deeper. prod and lick at the teeth marks to keep the blood flowing— but you were well trained to resist the way his blood in particular tasted.

you could’ve kept going.

a small part of you wanted to— but a bigger part of you wanted to suck on a different part of him.

you turned your head away, huffing as you fought to catch your breath. it was no easy feat to deny yourself blood. it put you into a frenzy that could’ve so easily become bloodlust if you were below anyone else— but you weren’t with anyone else.

you were with him and you had it beat into your bones that you were not to desire the blood that came from the veins of the winter soldier.

he was simply kind enough to let you have a taste because he held a twisted, prickly, unnatural sense of fondness for you in his chest.

it was the same unnerving, unkind, unwanted fondness you felt in your chest for him.

it wasn’t right to say heart. neither of you had hearts even though they thumped within the cages of your ribs right now. more so than any other time, your hearts were beating wildly.

but that didn’t make a difference.

you both were half-dead.

“up,” he commanded.

you raised yourself off the mattress on queue. he was quick to strip you of your shirt. he tossed it atop his own on the floor. when you slept, you didn’t bother to wear a bra. your nipples hardened in the cold and a shudder ran through you. a rare and fleeting grin curled across his lips at the sight. you found yourself smiling, too, as your eyes met. he cocked an eyebrow at you. you rolled your eyes.

you didn’t like him.

but you didn’t hate him, either.

he was the only tangible thing you had when you were awake besides your clothes and your pillow. nearly every decade you had been woken up together and locked in this room at night. you fought beside each other. you killed together. you planted seeds to destroy governments from within. you buried secrets that the world would never be able to find out. you ate together. showered together. trained together. bled together.

sometimes, it felt as though you would forget how to breathe if he was not near.

the two of you were incapable of love— but you came close to making it in his bed.

the rattle of the metal frame was the loudest sound in the cold, dark room you shared. he was soundless. you were soundless— but you couldn’t make a peep even if you wanted to. his cold metal hand clasped over your mouth each and every time he fucked himself into you. the only noise capable of escaping you were quiet breaths out of your nose.

his eyes bore into you as he thrusted the whole of himself in and out. he was rough — always rough — but he never rushed. his hips would snap forward with enough force to make your tits bounce but he would linger within you and pull out slow. over and over again each thrust was deliberate and intent as he stared down into your eyes.

he kissed you through the metal of his hand.

he could feel your jaw moving in his grasp. he could almost hear your teeth clenching together. soft huffs escaped your nose and you squeezed him from within.

he knew it felt good.

when it felt good, you couldn’t fight the urge to bite.

that’s why that damn metal hand stayed clamped over your lips.

he’d learned the hard way.

you wanted to kiss him. you wanted to feel his lips against yours. you wanted to suck on his tongue and taste him. the lingering metallic twang of blood on the roof of your mouth only made you all the more desperate for it. you framed his face in your hands and craned your neck, but his cold metal palm held you captive.

he kissed you through the metal and you kissed him back as though he’d be able to feel it.

you both liked to believe that he could.

a soft cry of ecstasy escaped you as your eyes rolled back. he smiled to himself as he sank all seven thick inches of his cock into you to the hilt. he savored the way your walls clenched around him. it felt as though you never wanted to let him go.

he was almost glad of it.

“that’s a good girl,” he breathed into your ear. he licked a warm, slow stripe up the side of your neck and nipped at your ear. “do you want to cum?”

“mm,” you tried to nod. you dug your fingers into his biceps— one was far more forgiving to your nails than the other.

“speak,” he demanded, creating a small enough space in the curve of his hand for you to move your mouth freely.

“yes,” you panted. the metal was hot with your breath. you nodded over and over again as you squirmed. “bucky, please.”

his metal hand clasped around your throat and you choked out a breath as he squeezed.

hard.

too hard.

you grabbed ahold of his wrists and coughed out nothing. no air. not a sound. blood rang in your ears. the expression on his face was volatile. his cock stilled inside of you as he grunted, watching your eyelids flutter. your lips went blue.

a loud, helpless heave escaped you as he let go of your throat. you choked on air, gasping for breath after breath. he watched the color flush to your cheeks now that the blood could flow freely. your lips pinked in an instant.

“don’t call me that.” he whispered. he met your eyes and shook his head once. “ever.”

“it slipped…”

“ever.”

“i’m sorry,” you breathed. you reached up and ran the backs of your fingers across his jaw. “forgive me.”

he stared at you for a long, quiet moment.

winter pulled out of you and nudged your waist. you rolled onto your left side. your nose nearly kissed the cold stone wall as he settled in behind you. you still hadn’t quite caught your breath back and it trembled in your throat as he guided you to slid your leg up. you fisted the old, stale sheets as he pressed the tip of his cock into you.

he hoarded you against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you. he rested the side of his face against yours and pressed soft kisses to your cheek. he was giving you a chance to shove him off.

you did no such thing.

his hands cupped your breasts as he rutted into you from behind. breathless moans escaped you as he toyed with your nipples. you had a favorite hand— the warm, calloused, real one. and he knew that. he used that one to dip between your thighs as rub circles against your clit.

the springs below the mattress squeaked as you two moved together. grinding yourself on his hand, it only made it easier for him to thrust. he could go deep when you pressed down onto him. he could feel the weight of himself press into you against his wrist. slow and deliberate, every move he made was a kind of torture you were desperate to be the subject of.

“yes,” you gasped, throwing your head back. you squeezed your eyes shut as you felt pressure boiling over in the depths of your belly. the space between your legs was a wet mess that he slipped in and out of. you grabbed his metal arm as he captured your face between his fingers, squishing your cheeks between the cold, hard fingers. “more, more, more.”

he thrusted himself hard into you. at this angle, you could feel every vein in his cock. if you didn’t cum soon, he would— but once he kissed you, it was all over. you unraveled like a spool of yarn.

you came hard.

you always did.

a violent, toe-curling orgasm rippled through every muscle in your stomach so hard it was nearly agonizing. you moaned helplessly into his mouth and he ate each sound as he kissed you.

subdued by pleasure that left you brain dead, he kissed you without fear that you’d sink those sharp teeth into him.

you turned as he pulled out of you. he was such a large man it was almost funny how much he struggled to be on his knees in his cramped bunk below yours. his head bumped against the metal springs above but he cared not. you wiggled your way beside him and opened your mouth.

he was smarter than to shove his cock in your mouth after letting you get a taste of his blood— but he let you have a taste of something else.

where else was he supposed to cum, anyways?

you sighed as warm, thick ribbons of cum shot out of the tip of his dick. you swallowed the mouthful. it wasn’t great but you’d learned to love it. a piece of him you could enjoy freely. no one had ever told you couldn’t taste him that way.

a soft lick to the tip of his cock to clean the slit showed him that your dangerous mouth meant no harm— and it made his legs tremble.

the two of you redressed in silence. the floor was cold on your feet even through the socks. you could feel him watching you as you pulled your shirt back on. he was the only thing that could watch you in your shared cell of a room. hydra refused to replace the camera that should’ve been in the corner of your room any more.

he kept ripping it out.

when you glanced at him, you couldn’t tell what the expression on his unhelpfully pretty face meant.

he flicked his head towards your bunk.

as cold as ever, it seemed.

you froze as he took a hold of your waist before you could climb up into your bed. he lifted you up into it himself. you settled into your bed and he watched with those void, lifeless blue eyes. everything about him was winter and ice— and yet he placed the warmest kiss to the space between your brows as you laid your head down.

“go to sleep.” it was a command more than anything.

his kindest way to say goodnight.

you closed your eyes in reply and you curled up into your sheets. you only opened your eyes once you heard him get into his own bed. the metal frame trembled as he settled in, jostling you the smallest bit.

you hid underneath your covers and touched your throat. a small, shaky breath escaped you and you pinched your eyes shut. anger could’ve boiled in your veins but you were too tired to care. too defeated after all these years to want to feel any sort of hate for him.

the winter soldier had done worse than choke you.

he’d been forced to time and time again.

hydra has made sure the reason you did not seek to sink your teeth into him was him— and they made him break you down until the smell of his blood had you retching.

you shouldn’t have called him bucky.

a stupid mistake you would both sleep off.

— ☆ —

when the lights came on, you wanted to shrink away into the dark but they never let you. the guards threw open the door to your room and shouted at the two of you to get up, guns drawn and laser sights set on each of your foreheads. they threw fresh clothes for the two of you on the floor. towels, too.

he tossed you yours and left the room first.

guards lined the halls all the way down to the showers. such a welcoming was procedure for the two of you— but you were not the only things awake down in the cold siberian labs right now. you could hear them wailing in their rooms. you could hear them tearing apart their mattresses and punching at the walls.

the other super soldiers were awake.

the spray of lukewarm water was better than nothing. you let it pour down over the top of your head and tried to imagine it was rain. the harsh spray was nothing like it. if anything, it felt like hundreds and hundreds of pellets.

not even a shower here could be kind.

you rinsed the soap from your hair, tipping your head back and ringing out the strands with your hands. across from you, he was doing the same. to most who may not seem him, his metal arm was impressive. you preferred the real one. watching the way the hard, firm muscle moved was delightful. you enjoyed his body. out of all the sights you could see down here, he and his figure were the easiest on the eyes.

as you turned away to clean yourself off, you could feel him watching you.

he was always watching you.

sometimes, you thought he didn’t know any better. you spent so much time together that it was near habit to keep each other in your lines of sight.

most times, you thought of him as just another guard.

though the winter soldier was hydra’s hound that they could whistle up and bring to heel, he sure held your leash more than you held his.

you dressed quickly. once away from the water, it got cold fast. you pulled on the leather gear you wore to train and made sure to keep your hair back. it was harder to fight with your hair in your face. gel was one normal thing they gifted you. that, a toothbrush, and pads for when you bled.

before you could leave the wash room and step into the hallway lined with guards, he grabbed a hold of your chin.

you stared up into his eyes as he stopped you in your tracks. his expression was unreadable. always was. his eyes ate you up whole— but they lingered on the bruises on your throat. his brows twitched. a deep line creased between them.

you saw the ice in those eyes of his begin to crack away— and you did the only thing you could think of to keep him from that chair.

you rammed your knee up into his crotch.

the winter soldier doubled over and fell down onto his knees with a low, pitiful gasp.

you walked out of the bathroom without looking back.

‘sorry bucky,’ you would’ve whispered if you could. ‘you can’t come out to play right now.’

if anyone but you noticed the look in his eye, they would’ve strapped him down and broken him into millions of more pieces than there already were. it would do you no good. if bucky were surfacing once more, he could only do so in the safety of your room at night.

you wouldn’t snitch.

but the winter soldier would— and his absence alone was more than telling to those who wanted james barnes dead and gone for good.

you could hear his footsteps behind you. you could tell from heavy step alone that whatever sheen of clarity had graced him was gone.

maybe you did hold the leash around his throat more than you thought you did.

you hated it.

you hated that the two of you knew how to break each other down before they could break you first.

that isn’t what you wanted.

deep down, you knew he didn’t want it either.

that’s why he regretted those bruises on your neck.

the mess hall was a pitiful attempt at civility. the overhanging lights whirred and flickered. the tables around the room were stained. no one bothered to clean them. and only one was ever usually in use. the one you both sat at.

they served slop and stale bread. it turned your stomach. they created you to be a blood-sucking demon and yet they never let you get a taste unless you were on the field.

he pitied you for it.

that’s why he let you have a taste of him every now and again even though his blood had little appeal.

it was better than nothing.

and it was him.

a damning comfort.

he slid you his cup of orange juice.

you glanced at him but he did not bother to meet your gaze.

a peace offering.

sorry for choking you. we’re even.

you took the small cup of juice but you were not even. no where close to it. you’d saved him from the chair. whether or not he knew that in the scrambled mess that was the inside of his head, you settled for the juice because what else was there to gain?

nothing.

but there was always everything to lose even when you had nothing left to give.

hydra would find a way.

they always did.

and a pit festered in your stomach all the worse as the doors to the mess hall opened and in marched the group of five.

winter was not the only super soldier hydra possessed and he was no where near the strongest. his metal arm and ability to be a clean slate for commanding made him the favorite— but he was in danger when the others were awake.

what if they decided to replace him with another…

that was the only reason you were afraid.

you could eat them all for lunch if you wanted to.

“what is this?” you asked under your breath. it was a stupid question. neither of you ever knew what went on down here even when they told you. there were always other plans. other motives. other projects.

you took a sip of the orange juice he’d given you and swallowed hard. so many new smells in the room had you bouncing your leg under the table. you had seen them all before. once or twice. they were not strangers— but they were forever unaccustomed to your senses. the smell of them made your mouth water.

the winter soldier did not bother to look up from his plate and he toyed with the gruel. “who cares.”

you scowled at him and he bumped his knee against yours under the table to keep you in check. you huffed under your breath. he downplayed it because it would do no good to worry— but even he knew that if the others were awake, something terrible was on the rise.

terrible enough that he brushed his soft, human hand against yours and locked your pinkies together for a fleeting, fraction of a second.

you looked up at him, your eyes wide.

bucky.