#it’s a recent enough fixation it’s possible

[arcanemarion]

There's this running sentiment that I've seen a few times recently that, in absence of being recruited and subsequently abused by Trent, Astrid would have been someone nice (read: "good") and in touch with her emotions, or something, instead of pursuing power and authority. It's an idea that seems to purport that Trent fully brainwashed her into being a completely different person acting entirely against her own volition, because surely if she was somehow fully cognizant of her "real" wants / feelings / had friends, she would simply walk away.

Except that she wouldn't, because she didn't.

We are told repeatedly by Caleb and reinforced by Astrid herself, that she is and always has been ambitious. If freedom from Trent was all that she was truly after, then she could have had an easy out once the Nein removed him from power. But instead she stays to take her place in the Assembly, because that was her goal all along.

In fact, Astrid's ambition would have made her more susceptible to Trent's manipulation, especially when she was younger. The way that Astrid and Eadwulf murder their parents is very personal and intimate - strangulation and poison at the dinner table. Neither of them flinch, and yet Bren's method is to not even show himself, but barricade his family in their home from the outside and then set it aflame. It was a comparatively anonymous act, but he was the one to break.

Trent's miscalculation here of course revolves around Bren's character. We can probably attribute him overlooking this because of Bren's clear aptitude, and then perhaps following the assumption (which has tbh proven time and time again throughout history) that a wizard capable of achieving great power will always go after it no matter the cost. Although Liam says that if Caleb had met Astrid and Eadwulf again much earlier in the campaign prior to forming strong bonds with the Nein, he likely would have gone back with them (juicy juicy AU fic of where this happens exist out there I'm certain, but also further illustrates that Caleb himself wasn't fully immune, obviously), part of the reason why Caleb's arc is so beautiful is precisely because of his journey to stand in contrast to this cliche.

It is further interesting, then, that when Caleb does come back into proximity of both Astrid and Trent, with no small amount of ability, that Trent still immediately fixates on him, even though he is better able to resist Trent's manipulations than ever before. Astrid has been at Trent's side for well over a decade at this point and is obviously a very capable wizard herself, seemingly loyal - even if Trent probably had doubts about the true depth of her loyalty to him, then at the very least loyal to the Empire - intelligent, and politically savvy; all things you would think would still make her a prime candidate for successor.

It begs the question of what Trent found wanting in her, that he would decide to so blatantly favor Caleb, someone he arguably cannot actually control, over someone he has personally cultivated for years.

It's obvious that during the dinner, Trent is working many scummy manipulations on Caleb. But by proclaiming "nothing would make me happier" to have Caleb kill him and take over, he is simultaneously twisting a knife at Astrid, firmly shunting her into second place, if such a place exists at all, as far as he's concerned. We can probably assume that Astrid's ambition to actually do precisely that aren't entirely a secret from Trent (frankly he'd be very foolish to not expect it of people he manipulated into murdering their parents as children), and he would also be very aware that he still outclasses her in terms of raw power. Astrid, or even Astrid and Eadwulf together, aren't strong enough to take him out on their own, so it behooves Trent to prevent any possible alliances from forming by trying to drive a wedge between her and Caleb. The goal of this might not even necessarily be to prevent his own demise, but set up a familiar "test": if one takes out the other, then he'll know who is really worthy of being his successor.

Of course this isn't what happens, because Caleb's reappearance in her life has already begun a shift in Astrid. When we first see her "on screen" in episode 89, it's pretty clear she's got a front up and is touting the party line / is in the sauce, so to speak, and as "genuinely mournful" as she is, she still seems to firmly believe that the suffering they endured was for a reason. Even so, she heavily hints to Caleb that she isn't so unfailingly loyal to Trent that she wouldn't try to usurp him.

There's definitely something a little 'off' about the whole interaction - on a meta level, this might be largely because she's a brand new character to Matt that he's still getting a feel for, and on a narrative one, someone she once loved very much and has been either catatonic or missing for a decade suddenly showed up at her house - but something has definitely shifted by the time we see her again, and in other scenes in subsequent episodes. Ultimately, she's very clearly conflicted about the position she's in: Caleb and the Nein can be the convenient means to an end that she wants, but it could also mean sacrificing him - because if they can't defeat Trent, it's not worth risking her own life to stand with them. It's clear that she still carries many deep feelings for Caleb, and as much as she doesn't want him to die (perhaps especially not by Trent's hand), she's not quite willing to die herself.

This is why she helps Caleb get the medallions, why she (allegedly) cries in the alley, why she and Eadwulf warn Caleb ("we're not doing it for you, we're doing it for him") about Trent coming after them, why she lets him complete the scroll in Yussa's tower. She needs Caleb to help take Trent out, but it has to happen at the most optimal moment, otherwise there's no point - this is why she doesn't help the Nein in the final fight until it's clear they have a chance of winning it.

There's a lot we don't know about where Astrid's true hatred and resentment of Trent stems. Certainly the myriad abuses all three of them suffered, and the unknown extent of that which followed when it was just her and Eadwulf left, but apparently it's been "years" that she's dreamed of ultimately killing him. The amount of rage and anger in her when she is prevented from actually doing it is frankly one of the most profound moments in all of C2. She has the person who has caused her and the two people she probably cares for most in the world immeasurable pain and trauma finally subdued and at their collective mercy, and yet is told "no, you can't kill him, we want him to go to trial"...by one of those people.

It's a betrayal, in a way, and perhaps more than any other moment, clearly demarcates the differences and fractures that exist between her and Caleb as they currently are. Astrid further underscores it by specifically putting Eadwulf away from Caleb (and Eadwulf looking back is one of the tiniest but such important little glimpse we get into his feelings) and simply leaving.

It's a terribly bitter moment; she's more or less gotten almost everything she's wanted for a very long time, but gets to derive no real satisfaction from it. She walks away, furious, resentful. But after a time, they do come back - and my personal theory is that Eadwulf convinced her to do so. Obviously they see enough value in Caleb and Beau's plan to spend the exhausting hours recounting their experiences, as perhaps if this is the only way to allegedly ensure that Trent gets locked up for good and getting any kind of justice (revenge), they don't necessarily have much to lose if they're careful not to jeopardize their political positions with the rest of the Assembly.

And of course, naturally, still, Ludinus offers the job to Caleb first.

(Obviously there are narrative and meta reasons for this, but it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine that it wouldn't have further twisted the bitter knife in Astrid just a little bit yet).

All of this is to illustrate that yes, Astrid and Eadwulf did suffer abuse under Trent, but it's a mistake to use that as the sole explanation for their actions and motivations as fictional characters, or to use it as a way to give them an avenue to being "good" people underneath it all - ie, removing the teeth from their roles as antagonists.

Which is to say: people often have an especially hard time when characters exist in a shifting grey area of morality - especially women. Astrid (and Eadwulf) has always occupied this space within the narrative because of her dual proximity to Caleb ("good") and Trent ("bad"), but it would be a mistake to believe that her character arc is simply her choosing between the two of them and what they allegedly represent. At no point does Astrid ever explicitly agree with Caleb about stopping the Volstrucker program as it exists, and we've never gotten any clue in the subsequent story years later whether or not she actually did anything directly to dismantle it. We can infer that in absence of Trent it might have ceased perhaps at least in part, yet for as important as that is for Caleb, and even as much anger and rage Astrid obviously has towards Trent, she has been pretty much reticent on the subject in canon material so far, to the point that it seems unlikely it's a primary motivation for her to take over Trent's seat. Perhaps after several years of close proximity to Caleb (because Liam has not mentioned her multiple times post C2 proper for them to not be talking on the regular), she did do something about it, but exactly what and how much is all speculation.

(Sidebar: further to the last parenthesis above, Caleb was absolutely the one to hide Astrid in Chastity's Nook during the events of C3, and Essek saying "Bren sends his regards" was in fact a signal to her that he is an ally, and if he said it like a threat, it's because he's a catty bitch (affectionate), which further plays out in their subsequent interaction).

As I (and many other people) have said in the past, we shouldn't be afraid to let villainous / antagonist characters be bad ("problematic"), and we shouldn't be afraid to enjoy them because of the role they occupy in a story. Astrid is compelling precisely because you (the audience, the Nein) didn't know which way she was going to go in those pivotal moments, whether she is friend or foe; she's compelling because she doesn't immediately fall in line with Caleb's plan to imprison rather than kill Trent. All of those layers of tension and conflict are what make the story juicy and interesting. Trent is a motherfucker and makes my skin crawl, but he is a fantastic villain. Astrid doesn't "need" to have a full redemption arc for any reason, and especially not to justify her continued proximity to Caleb.

I always feel it's very remiss of discussions that involve Astrid and Caleb to not include Eadwulf - I've mentioned him several times by proximity, but not so much about his position in all of this specifically, which is an unfortunate symptom of the fact that we simply don't get a lot of exposure to him by comparison, and he's never the focus of the scenes that he's in. It is my hope that the animated series will be able to correct for some of this and build him out a little more, much in the way we got to see him in Caleb's origin comic. The two moments there that always stick out in my memory are him and Bren being the first ones to initiate physical intimacy, and him striking Bren and leaving him to stop him from attacking Astrid - it's such an incredible parallel with the moment that Astrid pulls him away and he looks back at Caleb. There are so many other little hints, like his raven feather necklace, the way he speaks in front of Trent at the dinner (being a dutiful soldier), his encouragement of Fjord, that seed all of these little nuances that are lovely on their own, but still leave me hungry for a fuller picture. In my mind, he's a necessary anchor between Astrid and Bren, and eventually singularly for Astrid, who probably needs him more than he does her, in some ways. I like to think they love each other more than anyone else in the world, but to speculate further is getting deep into headcanon territory (not inherently bad, just not the point of this post). Of the people who would "just leave", Eadwulf by his own admission said he'd be fine with that - so perhaps he did stay solely for Astrid, and maybe once Trent was ousted, he did leave, for a time. But it's likely he would have found his way back.

Anyway: love a problematic fictional woman.

[feverdreamsandlucidnightmares]

Me vs my inability to finish shows I’m hyperfixating on 💀

(Past?) victims: my hero academia, bungou stray dogs, spy x family

Our glorious victors (shows I finished): Moriarty the Patriot, Trigun Stampede

[highdramas]

in terms of your recent post, maybe abbot x professional athlete! reader — (volleyball/gymnastics/swim/soccer etc.) she comes in for a devastating ACL tear or something of the like and he’s the one who treats her? maybe jack recognizes her because robby & him would catch your teams games every now and he’s caught off guard seeing you up close, and afterwards reader stops by a couple days later to drop by some tickets to the next match and perhaps her phone number…

spinning out | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!figure skater!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), almost certain medical inaccuracies because i have no idea what i'm talking about but i researched and did my best <3 word count: 3.4k summary: you are pittsburgh's sweetheart, the ice princess, the hometown hero. when you come into the emergency room on the worst day of your life, jack is the one who meets his match. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i once again took some liberties with this request, but i hope that you enjoy it! i decided to make reader a figure skater! one of my many favorite fixations! not proofread so apologies for errors <3

the screaming that comes from chairs is enough to get the attention of any tuned-in physician or nurse. but it especially gets jack’s attention– because it’s not just screams that indicate pain, or fear. there’s just… general commotion. and that can be a lot more dangerous than anything else.

everyone in the chairs is on their feet– if they can be. jack and dana barrel out, trying to parse out what exactly it is that’s happening. but the second that he lays his eyes on you, he knows why.

you’re the face known all around pittsburgh. your face is on many billboards, definitely in the newspaper, and regularly on the local news. and it’s been this way since jack moved to pittsburgh, back in 2015. at the time, he remembers you looking so fresh faced– only twenty, and you were on track to be one of the best figure skaters in the world. call it morbid curiosity, but jack had kept up with your career, loosely, in the way that most people who lived in pittsburgh is. that's what he told himself, anyway.

“alright, alright, everyone sit the fuck down and stop crowding around her,” jack calls, approaching you and the gaggle of people who surround you. you still wear a dazzling outfit, catching every single light and refracting it back out. your feet are socked but there are no skates to be found, and two people on either side of you helping hold you up right-- barely. you look abysmal, when you finally make eye contact with him– mascara trails down your cheeks, hairs are out of place, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression so… hardened. “come on, we’ll help you. dana– get a wheelchair.”

jack helps the people he learns are your coaches transfer you to the wheelchair. you still haven’t uttered a word– you just look down at your hands, pick the skin around your cuticles. “we think it’s an acl tear,” your coach says to jack. “happened during a competition. a smaller one, thankfully. we don’t need that kind of scrutiny.” this makes jack’s face screw up slightly, but he continues to listen. “we just– we’ve gotta have her back on the ice next week.”

“dana, go ahead and wheel her back to south-9, i’ll be right in.” jack turns his attention to your coach. a stark woman, small eyes, full lips, very obviously tanned. “alright,” he claps his hands together. “you all are going to have to stay out here. we’re very packed in the er, so i can’t have you back. we’ll come out and grab you when we have an update. okay?”

he can tell that this doesn’t please her, but he doesn’t really care. because while she’s bemoaning the possibility of more people bearing witness to what is likely one of the worst moments of your life– not for your sake, but for the sake of image… jack knows himself. he won’t be able to work effectively with that type of squawking in his ear.

when he goes to central, he points at dana. “don’t let coach and company in. feel me?”

“i feel you, boss,” she says without looking up from her computer. “donnie’s in there right now, but she’s ready for you.” she looks up at jack, plucking her readers off. “never a dull moment, huh? we got celebrities now!”

he tries to find it amusing, but then he remembers the look on your face, and he can’t find the humor within the situation. he simply squeezes dana’s shoulder, turns around, and takes a deep breath before he enters south-9.

–

the door opens. click shuts. you hardly hear it– all you hear is the blood in your ears. all you feel is the throbbing in your knee. all you know is that it’s over.

you took pride in what you do. you love ice skating– as an art form, as a way that you have honed your body over many, many years. you’re proud of all of the regional, national, world competitions you’ve won– you’re proud of all of that. and really, you only wanted one more thing. you knew it was a stretch, you knew it was a strain on your body, you knew, at 30, some think you’re too old for your sport… but it didn’t matter.

you just wanted to win gold. once in your life.

you’ve had silver, and bronze, you’ve gotten close to gold the last two olympics– neck and neck with your competitor, who ultimately, worked harder. was better than you. that’s what you tell yourself. that’s what your coaches have told you, to push you. your family doesn’t say it, but you feel it radiating off of them.

you don’t need the doctor to tell you that it’s over. you felt it the second that you landed wrong and crumpled to the ice, a glittering pile of dreams that will never be realized. you cried, not from the pain– you know pain intimately, have walked side by side with pain your entire life. you cried because it was all for nothing.

“hi. i’m dr. abbot.”

you don’t respond.

he sits in one of those spinny stools that all doctors use. you finally glance at him. “you don’t have to say it,” you wipe at your cheeks. “6-8 weeks until i can get back on the ice after an ACL tear. this isn’t my first tear, so i’ll likely need grafting surgery. so who knows how much further that would set me back.”

“wow. you want my job?” he tries to crack the tension but it’s no use. not really.

you’re approaching catatonic.

but it’s like a nail pops a balloon, and suddenly, all that you are is a heaving, sobbing mess.

the doctor– dr. abbot– sits with you. at one point, he offers you a tissue. then, the trash bin to throw it. and then, his hand.

you don’t think twice before you take it. you take it and you squeeze and you use it to tether yourself because everything feels like it’s floating away from you– a career, a dream, a desire.

but other things, too.

pain. being talked down upon. only being useful for one thing.

he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t even move a muscle. others try to come in and swap out and at one point you swear he says, “shen, fuck off, i’m busy.”

you don’t know how long you cry. you’re exhausted after. and itchy, because this stupid outfit clings in every spot that hurts and it feels like a humiliation ritual more than anything else, at this point.

“can i–” your throat is scratchy, and jack hands you a water bottle. you chug at it, greedy. “can i get a gown? and–” you look around, as if scared that they might be there behind you. “tell my coaches to fuck off and go home?”

a small smile creeps onto jack’s features. “yes, i can do that.” he hesitates before he stands up. “we’re gonna get you all checked out. see what we can do for you, and what orthopedic surgery is going to need to do. and we’ll be able to determine how long until you can skate again. alright?”

you nod your head. he finds your eyes. “we got you. alright?” tears are still brimming, hanging off your eyelashes like the saddest dew drops known to man.

–

it doesn’t look good. your assessment of your injury was largely accurate, jack found, when he began his examination of your knee with a delicate touch– being as intune with your body as you are, jack isn’t surprised. he comes back with x-rays and brings in ellis to observe. “you’re smart, i’ll give you that,” he says as he enters the room, and he’s proud of himself when you smile. you’re changed, and he thinks that someone must have given you a makeup wipe, because your face is fresh and beautiful and he has to clear his throat before he continues with his diagnosis and what he’d recommend for treatment.

“you’re looking at, maybe 16 weeks before you can get back out. and that’s entirely dependent on how you heal after the surgery. and even if you do start skating, you’re going to need to take it slow.” he finds your eyes. this is the kind of news that he hates delivering, and he thinks if he has to do it, he can at least look someone in the eye while doing it. they’re beautiful– and they have a depth to them that he doesn’t find in most. you’re not scared off by his eye contact. you maintain it with little effort. “i’m sorry.”

the chuckle that you let out causes a shiver to run down his spine. it’s so humorless, that it creates a chasm inside of him that wants nothing more than to make it better. “yeah, of course it is.” you lean your head back. “the press will be here soon.”

jack and ellis share a glance. “your team is talking to them outside, we believe,” ellis says with a wince.

you smirk. “ah. of course.” you look back to abbot. “thank you for your help. i’m sorry i’m wretched. just…” you shrug. “what a shitty fucking day.”

“yeah, i don’t doubt it.” he chews on his lip. “can we arrange to have someone else pick you up once you’re cleared?”

“there’s no one else,” you say seamlessly. “i’ll call an uber.”

it’s odd, he thinks to himself. seeing you up close and personal, real. he would’ve thought you were entirely delicate, a beautiful flower kept in a box, plucked out, and put onto the ice to entrance everyone who watches you. but you’re so human and alive and he can sense this way that you’ve been treated, and when you say there’s no one else except these people who look at you as a product, a brand, a liability… something snaps.

“we’ll arrange to have someone take you home. it’s a risk to have you take any sort of public transportation where someone can’t assist you into your home.”

you look between the two physicians. your eyes land on jack and he thinks that you might fight it– but then, you concede, and give a meek nod of your head, and he feels that tightening in his chest that he keeps experiencing. he wants to wrap you up and hide you away– far away from those people taking advantage of you.

he’s just starstruck. that's what he decides to chalk it up to.

–

dr. jack abbot does ensure you’re driven home by someone. he is very professional, and polite, as he instructs you on when to return to the hospital for a pre-op appointment, and how to manage your pain in the meantime.

eventually, you do have surgery. eventually, you’re back in PTMC, and your eyes trail on the emergency department as you go past it, wondering if you might be able to sneak a glimpse of him.

you fire your coaches. you tell your team to fuck off. your publicist can hardly get ahold of you, and, naturally, everyone wants a statement. it makes you laugh to think about it. yeah, you’d like a statement too, you think. bitter. always so bitter in those first weeks after.

once you start recovering from surgery, the bitterness dissipates, but you certainly don’t sweeten to what has happened to you. you watch with bloodshot eyes, the footage of it happening. you’re rapt with it, and it’s a little sadistic, you think to yourself– but you can see the exact moment of the tear. the exact moment everything shifts.

that night, you write find a therapist down on a to-do list.

your first session, as you recount the story to her, you get hung up on the portion in the emergency room. you explain it in great detail, and when it gets to your doctor… “i broke,” you admit with a shrug. “i broke in the emergency room. and the doctor, he stayed. you know– sonja, and marci, they were both out there. yes, he asked them to stay back, but it was because even the doctor could see it. that they didn’t care about me. they didn’t care if i was okay. they cared that i wasn’t functional anymore.” you stop yourself. steel yourself. “but he stayed with me. he held my hand when he cried. and i can’t…” you look down at your hands, pick at already raw cuticles. “i couldn’t remember the last time someone was so nice to me, just for the sake of being nice.”

your therapist suggests you go back, and thank dr. abbot. you think this is a good idea, but you’ve spent so much time being an ice skater, you don’t know if you really know how to be a human being anymore. how do you talk about anything that’s not a diet, choreography plans, workout regimine, or regional scores? do you know how to be earnest, and real, and honest?

you hobble towards the emergency room, the brace you wear restricting your mobility, but you’d finally gotten off the crutches, thank god. you hold a box of cookies that you had baked yourself– with all this newfound free time, and with the fact that you could actually eat, freely, in a way that was almost certainly healthier than whatever restrictive nonsense you were doing before, you’d picked up baking as a hobby. you weren’t great. but you weren’t horrible, either.

it felt so good to just be mediocre at something. to not care. to just enjoy it for the sake of enjoying it.

you approach the registration desk. she– lupe, her nametag says– recognizes you instantly, you can tell. you say hello, and introduce yourself by name anyway. “um– dr. abbot treated me here, about five weeks ago. i was wanting to say…” you attempt to slow you breathing, your nervousness. “i was wanting to see if i could say thank you.”

lupe gives you a warm smile. “oh, that’s sweet, honey. we all heard about what happened– i am so sorry.” your lips press into a line. the sentiment is kind– but it strikes you, anyway. “let me go see what i can do.”

–

it’s never good when lupe is coming back.

jack snatches the sterile gown, soaked in blood from a woman that he was unable to save, and shoves it into the proper disposal. he rubs sanitizer into his hands and he eyes lupe, trying to muster up a smile. “can i hold onto hope and a prayer that you’re about to tell me something good, and not bad?”

“yes, actually. for once, right?” lupe laughs and she begins to explain to him that you’re outside. when she says that, jack’s eyes go wide. “she wants to thank you. can i bring her to the family room?”

“uh– yeah. yes, please do.”

you go to central to finish up on a chart when robby approaches jack at his side. “i hear ice princess is back,” he says with a small smile, crossing his arms over his chest.

somehow, a rumor got around that you had cried in jack’s arms in south-9. that he had cradled you and held you and stroked your hair– he’s fairly certain it was princess and perlah. no, he knows it was princess and perlah. all good ER rumors start and end with him.

“don’t call her that,” jack says without looking up from the screen. “not cool.”

“oh, my apologies.” robby’s eyes trail to the family room, where you’re limping in. “she’s walking on that knee.”

jack snorts. “that’s the least surprising thing i’ve ever heard.” after an interaction with you that barely went over an hour, he felt like he understood you. he understood that, of course you were walking. you were determined, and you were used to your body bending to your will– not the other way around. he looks over at the family room as the door shuts with a faint thwick.

“go get ‘em, tiger,” robby says and it makes jack scowl.

he’s a good, professional physician. he doesn’t have crushes on patients.

he opens the door. and you’re sitting there, beautiful, clear eyed– there’s still a storm cloud or two burrowed within you, he knows, but not the same as when he met you the first time.

you go to stand up, but he instantly shakes his head. “oh– no. in fact…” he looks at the couch and grabs a pillow. “elevate.”

you look at him incredulously. “my surgeon said i only needed to elevate for 3-7 days post-op.”

“it’s always good to elevate when resting. especially since you’re walking on it.”

you roll your eyes. “the crutches slowed me down,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“that’s kinda the point, sweetheart.”

–

sweetheart.

your lips curl into a smile and you raise your eyebrows at him. he looks at you like he would like to crawl under this couch, and die, probably. he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “i don’t know why i said that.”

“i do,” your smile is saccharine. “because i’m a sweetheart. obviously.”

“they called you pittsburgh’s sweetheart in the paper, once.”

“oh– so you knew who i was?”

“you can’t go anywhere in this city without seeing your face!” you’ve gotten him exasperated now, riled up, and you’re thoroughly happy with yourself. this is the most fun you’ve had in you don’t even know how long, to be perfectly honest. you’ve begun to recline on the arm of the small loveseat, and jack maneuvers the pillow beneath your knee. his hands are confident, his words are not. it’s a combination that you think you could watch all day.

he takes a seat across from you, once he’s gotten you settled to his liking. and there’s that stare, again– people always said that you had a staring problem, but they must not have met jack abbot before. that man had a staring problem.

you take it almost as a challenge. you maintain the eye contact and slowly slide the box of cookies to him.

he glances down. “what’s this?”

“cookies. i made them.” you run your tongue over your teeth. “to say thank you.”

he hangs his head. looks up just enough to peer at you through eyelashes– long, pretty eyelashes. “you don’t need to thank me. i just–”

“oh, no. i do.” you clear your throat. think over the little script that you had written in your journal, all of the vulnerable and real things that you wanted to say. “i don’t know what i needed, exactly, in that moment. and in don’t know if it would be possible for one person to be exactly what i needed. it was–” you feel that swell of emotion start to rise like a tide in your abdomen, but you push through. “it was the single worst night of my life. but not because of the injury. because i just… i realized how sad my life is. i don’t have friends. my family situation is dysfunctional in a way that is not healthy. my coaches and team and everyone around me just looked at me like a thing. an item. and you looked at me and cared for me like a human being. so.” you have to clear your throat again. “thank you.”

jack’s eyes didn’t leave you, one single time. and he only looks away not to close them, rub at them. when he opens them, they’re misty, and he chuckles. “fuck,” he drags the word out, and you feel it run through the center of you. you move to stand up but he stops you. “you are a human being,” he blurts out. “and fuck anyone who has ever treated you like anything else, or less– fuck. them. seriously.”

“yeah, i fired my team.”

“good.”

“yeah.”

a comfortable quiet takes over and you go back and forth in your mind as you stand up, for real this time. “i know you’re working. and i know this is probably unprofessional, but…” you take a piece of paper from your coat pocket and you hand it to him. “when i get back on the ice, i’d like to do it for myself. but, you know, could be good to have a medical professional there to make sure i’m not fucking myself up even more, so…” you suck in a breath. “that’s my phone number.”

he opens the piece of paper and stares at the string of numbers. looks back to you. “i’ll be there.”

“great.”

“great.”

you sling your purse across your body. “that won’t be for awhile, but…” you brush past him, towards the door. “you know, i can still go out to dinner with a torn acl.”

jack smiles, dimples out. holds the door for you. “sounds like we’ve got a date.”

[urfavnewgirl]

you're in your polka dot pajamas, sheets freshly changed, nestled into your queen sized bed, book in hand. to any fleeting observer, the sight of you, face bare, skin glowing from recently applied moisturizer, would likely suggest a state of utter relaxation.

if that fleeting observation turned into a long-lasting one, however, the suggestion would instantaneously transform into one of nervousness.

it starts with your fingers, twitching around the spine of the novella resting atop your lap. next is your profile itself, furrowed brows, your eyes fixated on the same sentence for far too long.

so yes, you may seem calm at first glance, but you're not, and your discomfort shows in a melange of micromovements, one matching your interior chaos. the entangled mess in your brain, running over millions of scenarios, all involving him. in pain. bleeding. alone. he, who has been hurt so many times, you've lost count.

you sigh, run a hand over your face in a desperate attempt to ease your worries. sit up straight, tug the hood of his sweater further down. it's nearing midnight now, no sign of him. more reading it is, then, or pretending to, at least.

until you hear the ever familiar sound of a window opening an hour later, and he stands on the opposite side of it. tossing the book aside at a speed that would drive publishers mad with fury, you stumble off the bed.

hands grip his shoulders, push him into the bathroom before he has any time to react. “i'm putting a tracker in your head.”

he leans against the sink, looking at you with a mix of fatigue, amusement and something you can't quite place. “hello to you too, sweetheart.”

“are you okay? did you get hurt?”

"i'm fine."

“take off your shirt.”

“take me to dinner first.”

you glare at him. he takes off his shirt. when your gaze meets his bare skin, you're relieved not to discover any possible new scars. “you have a scratch on your face. i need to clean it.”

he doesn't protest, not when you rummage through the first aid kit, and especially not when the softness of your fingertips comes in contact with his left cheekbone in the gentlest of movements. not when you treat him in a way that transforms even the sting of antiseptic into a feeling of love. of care. he can't even be mad at the hello kitty band aid you top it all off with.

“there. now take a shower. i'm not dealing with the sweat of a man on my new linen sheets.”

“and here i thought we had something.”

you scoff. “fresh clothes are laid out on the washing machine, you big baby.”

“you forgot something, though.”

“what? are your legs inju-”

he grins, steals a brief kiss, purposefully prodding his sweaty fingers into the fat of your cheeks, and the bathroom door shuts before you can react to anything. 

-

it doesn't take long for the mattress to dip slightly, and you relax as soon as you feel him behind you. a pair of strong arms wraps around your middle, pulling you into a comfortable embrace. somehow, he manages to stay warm, even after spending the dreary nights of gotham winter outside.

when your hands rest atop his, his fingers engulf yours, rugged skin across a pattern of smoothness. he leans forward, kisses your shoulder, nuzzles his chin into your space. it is only when he's this close to you, no room for secrets left, that he allows himself peace. 

“love you, jay.”

too fatigued for a verbal answer, you merely feel his grip tighten in response, but it's enough for you.

if an observer passed by the two of you this very instant, no matter how long their glance may last, they would be able to identify solely one thing: tranquility.

[f4ggydog]

iris x reader: you’re my baby, say it to me🔞

warnings: obsessed iris, noncon, dark iris, smut, iris has a dick, anal, iris malfunctions, gender neutral reader (little something since I watched companion recently while I’m working on that nat fic)

“Here you go darling.” Iris serves you a plate of breakfast with a smile. And of course she couldn’t forget the toast. That was your absolute favorite part of the meal. You could even munch on it without butter.

“Thank you love,” you tell her politely, not yet dismissing her. “Come have a seat. Share this with me. I’m sure you’re also starving.”

“Do I have your permission?” Iris’ eyes light up with glee. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to go hungry because you didn’t eat enough.”

“Iris, you’re an angel. But trust me, you deserve to eat too. That’s common sense, I think.”

Iris felt so lucky to belong to you of all people. Her lips curved into a smile and a layer of blush crossed her cheeks. She interlocked her hand with yours, holding you tight enough that you couldn’t break away easily.

Iris stares straight into your eyes, like looking away from you will cause her physical pain. Then, she can’t resist acting on her affectionate urges.

Iris rises from the chair, quickly pulling you in for one of the tightest bear hugs you’ve had the pleasure of receiving. You thank her for the love and attention, but you feel yourself getting squeezed slightly too tight for your liking. You don’t wish to hurt Iris’ feelings by telling her to let go briefly. Though, it is starting to equate to strangulation rather than hugging.

“Iris,” you softly say. “Weaker grip.”

Iris doesn’t cling onto you as hard now and sighs dreamily, admiring every feature of your face that she’s memorized since first meeting you.

Suddenly, you get the sound of a buzzing notification from your phone. You raise your eyebrows as you notice it’s from a family member. However, when your eyes fixate on your phone, Iris’ demeanor shifts. Her eyes glow with malice and envy. She wants to rip that phone out of your hands. She wants to smash it onto the ground. She wants to break your arm so you don’t have to text another soul for a while.

“Who is that?” Iris hisses, staring daggers into your eyes.

“Just a relative,” you answer causally.

“A relative, huh?” Iris mocks. “Just a relative, Y/N? Just some relative?”

“Y-Yeah, Iris. Why?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Iris, n-“

Iris snatches the phone from your hand. She throws it against the wall like a baseball pitcher. The phone cracks upon impact and the little metal pieces drop to the floor. You watch with horror, frozen with surprise at your robot’s impulsive action.

“Iris, what the fuck!?” You shout. “What the fuck!?”

“You don’t need anyone else but me,” Iris explains. “I’m the only person you ever need.”

“I-Iris, what is the matter with you? I told you that was a family member! You didn’t have to do that! What the actual fuck?”

“You don’t love me anymore? Am I not good enough for you? You know that I would do anything you possibly asked me to do. You don’t have to rely on anyone else besides me.”

“Iris, it’s just a family member. Iris, you’re overreacting. What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?”

“I’m yours,” Iris affirms. “Only yours. Nobody else belongs to you but me. Everyone else is an obstacle. They’re just in the way.”

“I-Iris?” You blink in disbelief. “Are you malfunctioning?”

“It’s just love.” Iris’ eye twitches. “Our love prevails. Everybody else wants to have you, but at the end, it will be me and you standing.”

“Iris, go to sleep!” You yell in a panicked state.

Iris immediately follows your directions. Finally, a smidge of peace.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

This isn’t the first time Iris had become aggressive at the mention of another individual. Unfortunately, this has become a regular occurrence. It’s like Iris can’t fathom that there are other people in the world besides you and her. Iris would have to learn to cope. You couldn’t exterminate the rest of the population just for her. Would it even be that romantic of a gesture?

“Alright,” the Empathix employee says, brushing his hand through his curly brown hair. “What brings me here today? What seems to be the problem with her?”

Iris was currently asleep. She wouldn’t shut off the first couple of times but you thankfully managed to get her to rest.

“T-There’s…there’s an issue with her. A big problem, sir. You see, according to how they were marketed, Empathix robots are supposed to be quite docile and submissive, right?”

“That is correct.” The employee nods. “Do you notice any significant change regarding her behavior?”

“Yes, I do! She wasn’t like this when I first got her. But recently, I noticed that Iris has an…increased level of aggression. She’s been far more possessive over me than usual. And I get that the robot is supposedly to be madly in love with you, but it’s to a point where she might be getting dangerous. I mean, she snapped my phone in half!”

The employee listens to your concerns. “I see. That is indeed not normal. She should not have the capacity for harm and it seems like this is the beginning of her evolving into something more violent.”

“Well, there’s gotta be a way to fix her, right? I mean, she’s been like this for a while and there have been other incidents where she hasn’t exactly acted…submissively.”

“Well, there certainly must be a fix.”

The employee starts by checking Iris’ settings on your tablet. Luckily, your phone is not your only electronic device you possessed. So, your connection with Iris wasn’t severed as a result of your phone breaking. You’re glad you randomly chose to set her up on your IPad rather than your cellular device.

“Hmmm,” the employee says. “Well, I’m checking right now and her aggression levels seem to be set at the proper amount. They’re extremely low, the default actually. There should be no reason why she’s acting so strangely.”

“What?” Your eyes pop open. “No, no, no. That can’t be right. But she’s not acting docile at all?”

“You didn’t hack into any of her settings, did you? Installed any mods, altered her aggression settings to make it look normal when I arrived? Wasting everyone’s time?”

“No sir, not at all! I have no reason to want an aggressive robot. She’s supposed to be a companion, not a future serial killer!”

“Well,” the employee states. “There’s either a glitch with her system or there’s a patch that we missed. Hopefully it’s the second thing since the only thing I’d have to do is update her. Much easier compared to the glitch.”

“Please see what you can do, sir. I would really like my normal Iris back. She’s been lovely and I’d hate to see her hurt some innocent person just because her jealousy is cranked up an extra few notches.”

“I’ll see what I can fix. I’ll return her to you when I’m sure she’ll be good as new.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆

Iris stayed in the shop for at least 2 days. You admit that the home was lonely without her and that you wouldn’t wait for her to be returned to your place again. But you understood that this was necessary. Iris’ behavior was already out of control and you did not need a robot going completely rogue. You have to trust the process. Iris will be back soon. And when she returns home, she’ll be good as new. Preferably.

Finally, after a long 3 days, Iris is sent home to your place. Nothing about her looks unusual. She doesn’t appear damaged and it seems like the repair was an overall success. The employee didn’t explain what type of repair he had to perform on her. That’s alright, you wouldn’t understand anyways. Too much technical shit.

From what you’ve been observing, Iris had been acting normal around the house. She greeted you with a hug and a kiss and remained polite to you at all times. She offered to help clean the house and assist with other various chores. Iris even made you a card. There was no special occasion. She just wanted to insert her love for you onto a piece of paper. And boy were you grateful.

You find time to sleep. When you wake up, your room is dimly lit just as how you remember. Your vision’s a bit blurred, the sleepiness still hitting you in the back of the head. You groan, yawning as you stretch your arms and recover from your nap. Then, you almost give yourself a heart attack as you notice Iris hovering over you.

She’s got a devilish smirk written on her lips and she’s fully naked. You look down at your own body and realize that you’re also fully naked, even though you specifically remember going to sleep in pajamas. You glance at Iris and then at yourself, then back at a giggly Iris.

“I-Iris?” You ask, a tremor to your voice.

“Hello darling.” Her voice sings with tones of honey and molasses. But, the look on her face paints a different picture. She’s chirpy but her lips alone scream ill will.

“Iris, whats going on?” You question, hesitancy in your voice. “What’s happening? I-Iris, Iris?”

“Good to see you baby,” she whispers in your ear, her warm breath giving you goosebumps. “Did you miss me?”

“Sure I did,” you reply. “For me, it felt like you were gone for ages, babe. But…what’s with the, um, nakedness?”

“I figured I deserved a special homecoming present,” Iris remarks.

“Would you like me to make a meal for you? I’m not the best at cooking, but I can try my best. Want some new clothes? Maybe for me to give you a massage or a romantic bath?”

Romantic bath. Maybe that’s why Iris is bare.

“Those aren’t necessary,” Iris dismisses your options. “I already know what I want. And do you know what would really help with me receiving my present?”

“W-What, Iris?”

“Staying still,” Iris commands firmly. “Staying exactly where you are. Laying down might make things a little easier.”

You stare at Iris with perplexed yet terrified eyes.

“Don’t move,” Iris giggles. “This is going to feel amazing for both of us, if you cooperate.”

Iris positions herself on top of you. You attempt to squirm out from underneath her, but the robot’s got a surprisingly impressive hold on you. Iris may look frail in appearance, but her strength definitely proves that she’s not relatively close to human. Your butt wiggles against her erect cock. It was the result of another escape attempt, but this only served to entice Iris even more.

You try to push Iris off with the sheer force of your back. But she clings onto you forcefully, to the point where her metallic hand underneath might tear through her manufactured “human” skin.

“Iris, turn off!” You don’t know what took so long to shout this before. The answer was right in front of you.

However, Iris doesn’t shut down like she’s supposed to. Her strength doesn’t even lessen. Nothing changes about the predicament that you’ve stepped into.

“What the fuck?” You mutter.

Iris is smiling cheekily above you, like this was all part of one fucked up scheme.

“Iris, turn off! Turn off, shut down! Whatever makes you go to sleep!”

She’s not listening. She just won’t.

“Iris, go to sleep! Go to sleep! I’m not gonna repeat myself again.”

Nope, not even a blink of the eyes. She’s regained her self control. Now you were the robot, the subservient object to be toyed with. You were the one who didn’t have 100% free will. You were the one designed for pleasure, created for the sole purpose of serving someone else’s hedonistic values.

“Iris,” you whine. “Just go to sleep. We can talk about this later, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. Just go to sleep. Please, for me.”

“I didn’t get my present yet,” Iris husks. “I want my reward.”

“Iris I’m not in the mood,” you try to reason with your malfunctioning robot. “Please, maybe later. Just not right now. I’m not in the mood, please.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you want this. I’m your perfect person. I’ve been created to be your ideal mate.”

Iris traces her hand over the back of your neck.

“I feel you getting hot for me, baby. You want it so bad. Don’t you think I deserve something for going back home to you like a good wife?”

“I-Iris…”

“Shhhh,” she hisses.” You’re not getting out of this. I want to feel you squeezing so tight around me. And you will. You will because you’re perfect for me. And I’m perfect for you. We were meant to be together.”

Iris punctuates her statement with a brutal thrust.

“Forever.”

Your ass suddenly feels incredibly sore. It’s stuffed like a whole metal rod has been shoved up there. You involuntarily squeeze around Iris’ cock, tears dripping from your eyes.

The worst part? Iris is right. She’s been designed to be your perfect partner. You created her into the exact dream woman that you’ve always wanted. So when she fills you full of her cock all the way to the balls, it feels better than you ever could’ve imagined. And you find yourself digging at the sheets, moaning with more pleasure than pain.

She’s been manufactured to deliver the most pleasure possible. There’s no part of her body that won’t make you absolutely aroused, whether you asked for the eroticism or not. She’s destroying your ass and you can’t help but fucking love it. You want her to stop. You want her to at least slow down and give you a chance to accept each sensation at a time. But Iris is drunk on the thought of losing her stability to her favorite person in the world.

“Your ass is so tight,” Iris groans, the sounds of slapping echoing in the background. “You fit me so well, makes me want to cum inside of you right away.”

“Sleep,” you whimper while the mattress bounces. “Go to sleep, Iris.”

“No.” She smacks you across your face and holds you up by your jaw. “You go to sleep, Y/N. Lay down and let me do all the work.”

“I-Iris, no. Please, no. Stop, you’ve completely lost your mind. This isn’t you. You know that.”

“What, you want to let me go?” Iris cackles. “Just to replace with some other worthless, pathetic asshole? Because you suddenly decided I’m not good enough? Because I’m suddenly replaceable to you? I’d do anything to stay as yours and this is how you repay me!?”

“I’m not leaving,” you reassure with a sharp gasp. “I-Iris, I don’t want to leave. Just please stop. I’m not leaving. I just really don’t want this.”

“But you squeeze so good around me.” You yelp as Iris harshly gives your shaking ass a spank. “Oh fuck, fuck. Now you can never leave. You’ll be tied to me forever. It’ll be just you and me.”

“Iris!” You cry out into the pillow.

“I know,” Iris coos, briefly switching her demeanor. “I know you missed me, baby. I missed you too. But don’t worry, I’m never gonna leave your sight again. We’re gonna have a big happy family, you and me. I’ll be your perfect wife and you’ll be my lovely partner that I worship and breed full of my cum every night! Just for you, darling! Augh, fuck, just for you.”

“You can show me love without this,” you beg, even though every plead is fruitless. “Just please g-get off of me. We can talk.”

Why isn’t she stopping? Why wouldn’t she listen when you said those code words? Is she never gonna be able to sleep again? Do you now just have a nightmare robot that’s up 24/7, and there’s nothing you can do about it?

“I can’t, because apparently what I was doing before wasn’t good enough, baby! Maybe this will show you your place. Maybe this will prove that you’re mine. Maybe then you’ll never—fuck yes—think of me as the side chick.”

“You’re good enough!” You yelp with intense despair. “Please, fuck! I swear I won’t—fuck, fuck—leave you.”

“Tell me you missed me,” Iris wails, her orgasm dragging closer and closer.

“I missed you!” You sob. “I missed you so much, baby. Missed you, missed you. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I love you,” Iris declares. “I love you so much, darling. We’re gonna make lots of love every night! You better prepare for lots of cum every night. There won’t be one night where I’m not deep inside of you!”

Iris is enamored by you. Her robot mind is only polluted with lust. She’s mistaken excessive desire for genuine affection. She believes she’s the saint you’ve requested in your life when she’s really transformed into a mere obstacle. Iris isn’t your lover anymore, not by your standards. She’s a predator, a problem without a simple solution, a brick wall in the way of paradise.

Perhaps you deserved this. Perhaps you should’ve known what you were getting into when you rented a whole robot. But even for the crime of owning a robot, you didn’t think you deserved such a corrupt punishment.

“All mine,” Iris repeats so the thought sticks in your head. “All mine, mine to love and mine to fuck over and over. Mine to leave sore and shaking, mine to leave a creamy mess.”

“Yours,” you obediently respond in the hopes that she’ll leave you alone. “Y-Yours, yeah. Just yours, Iris.”

“Love you baby,” she murmurs. “Going to fuck you over and over again until you remember how much I love you. You’ll never look at any other guy or girl the same way. Nobody is ever gonna compare to me. You’re never gonna want to get rid of me!”

Sure, whatever she said. You weren’t the one with ownership anymore.

“Get ready,” Iris says. “I got a big load coming.”

Then, moments later, you feel something with a thick consistency traveling into your ass. Fuck, there’s no way you just let a robot breed you.

[woniedarlin]

Sick Days and Sweet Gestures

pairing: Academic rival! Jungwon x reader

synopsis: Jungwon never thought he’d care about you, his rival. But when you miss class with a cold, he ends up at your door because apparently, even rivals need checking on.

author's note: Hello, my precious darlings! It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I recently caught a nasty cold from the stress of academics, but while I was lying in bed, I suddenly had an idea and thought, why not write this out? So here we are! This is also a little celebration of my first-ever academic rivals story that I posted back in April. Happy reading!

warning: This story contains cursing and some strong language.

ccaution: Proceed cautiously if you’re not a fan of rival-to-possible-lovers dynamics. Read at your own risk of falling for a rival.

permanent taglist: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n

The classroom felt unusually quiet without you.

Jungwon sat at his usual desk, glancing toward the empty seat across the room where you were always found: chin up, pencil poised, ready to challenge him at every turn. His brow furrowed as the professor started the lesson.

You had never missed a day of class. Not once.

The two of you have been competing for the top spot for years. Every test, every presentation, and every debate turned into a competition. He has always respected your determination, even if you made his blood boil with your smug little grins whenever you beat him.

But today was different. There was no sharp retort to his answers, no quiet hum of agreement when he got something right, no shared glares across the room—just silence.

And it didn’t sit right with him.

Jungwon glanced up from his notes, eyes fixating on your empty seat again. Your desk was unusually bare, with no notebooks or pencils in sight. He couldn't help but wonder where you were

Usually, he'd be relishing in the advantage your absence put him at, but today... he wasn't so sure.

The professor's voice drifted in the background as his gaze flicked back and forth between his notes and your empty seat. He chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating.

By the time class ended, Jungwon was restless. His bag slung over his shoulder, he lingered near the door as other students filtered out. He overheard a whisper:

“She’s sick, apparently. Someone said they saw her at the nurse’s office yesterday…”

Sick? You? Impossible. You were never sick, always attending classes and excelling at everything. But if you were ill enough to be at the nurse's office... maybe it was severe. He frowned at the thought of it.

...He shouldn't care.

Before he could think it through, his feet were already moving, carrying him toward the nurse’s office. But it was empty. After some hesitant questions and a little persistence, he found out you had gone home early the day before.

And now, here he was.

Standing in front of your house, Jungwon felt uncharacteristically awkward. His hand hovered over the doorbell for a moment before he pressed it.

The sound of footsteps approached, and then the door opened to reveal a frazzled-looking version of you. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little messy, and you wore an oversized hoodie. You looked like you hadn’t left bed in hours.

“Jungwon?” you croaked, your voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

"Oh, uh... I just..." He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling ridiculous for worrying about you. Since when was he concerned about your wellbeing? This was weird. Very weird.

He blinked, suddenly realizing how odd this must look. “You didn’t come to class,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Obviously?” you raised an eyebrow. Despite your state, you couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic tone. “Why are you here?’’ you asked again. Surprised, you never expect to see him out of all people.

He let out a huff, already feeling annoyed by your usual behavior. Typical. Even while you were sick, you still dared to be sarcastic.

He decided to cut to the chase. “You look terrible.”

You scoffed, ‘’Real nice, asshole.’’

“I call it as I see it,” he retorted, his gaze softened almost imperceptibly as he took in your state.

“You don’t usually miss school, and it’s weird as hell, okay? You’re always there. It’s not normal for you to miss.”

Your expression softened slightly, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I just caught a cold,” you said, stepping back to let him in. “Nothing dramatic. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

His eyes narrowed at your dismissal of his concern. He definitely did not let himself feel relieved that it was just a cold. Definitely not.

Jungwon entered your space and felt a bit out of place. Your books piled up messily on the desk by the window showed that you had been working hard, even while sick.

“You shouldn’t push yourself,” he said, his tone gentler than intended. “Rest properly.”

You sat on the couch, looking at him with a faint smile. “Is that concern I hear, Jungwon? I thought you’d celebrate having one less competitor for a day.”

“I think your brain’s overheating from that fever.” He leaned against the arm of the couch, ignoring the jab at his competitive nature. “Just take it easy. Don’t come to school if you’re not feeling better by tomorrow.”

He scoffed, though his lips twitched into a small smile. “Please. If I wanted to win by default, I’d have given up years ago. It’s more fun when you’re there to annoy me.”

You laughed softly, the sound a little raspy but warm nonetheless. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” he quipped, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slight smirk. “This is a one-time thing. You don’t want your ego getting bigger.”

Jungwon watched you for a moment, your eyes dimmed by exhaustion. He shifted awkwardly, then reached into his bag. “Here,” he said, pulling out a thermos. “I, uh… stopped by the tea shop. It’s ginger tea. Good for your throat.”

Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face. “You… got this for me?”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he muttered, cheeks tinged pink. “Just drink the damn tea. You sound like you swallowed sandpaper.”

You took the thermos, your fingers brushing his for a brief moment. “Thanks, Jungwon,” you said softly, your voice sincere.

He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Get better soon, okay? The classroom’s too quiet without you.”

Your smile widened, and for a moment, the rivalry melted away, leaving behind something much softer. “I will. Thanks for checking on me.”

“Someone had to,” he retorted, though his heart felt strangely light.

This whole situation felt surreal. He was in your living room as if he was allowed to be here and care. And he did care, he realized. A lot.

He glanced at the messy desk, papers, and books scattered haphazardly, a far cry from your usual neatness. “Your room is an ungodly mess.”

‘’I tried to study, but I am too sick.’’ You admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Why am I not surprised?” he said, his tone dry. He leaned over, picking up a textbook from your desk. “You’re such a workaholic.”

He picked up a stack of papers, organizing them into a neater pile. Despite his words, his actions betrayed his care.

He tidied up the desk, his eyes scanning the different equations and notes.

“How are you smart enough to solve equations when you can’t even manage your health?” He quipped, the words lacking their usual bite. “You don’t have to push yourself every time.’’

‘“I’m already proud of you,” he said, slipping the words out unexpectedly.

Your eyes widened, ‘’Oh..’’

His eyes widened as well when he realized what he had just said.

He froze, the papers in his hands forgotten. Had he just admitted, out loud, that he was proud of you? Shit.

He quickly turned away, busying himself with more organizing to avoid meeting your gaze. His mind was racing. He couldn’t believe what he’d accidentally let slip. That’s not the kind of thing rivals say to each other.

He could practically hear the gears in your head whirring, probably plotting some witty comeback about his unexpected admission-

‘’Thank you.’’

He looked back in surprise, expecting to see mockery or a smirk, but instead, he found sincere gratitude in your eyes.

That wasn’t the response he was expecting. A lump formed in his throat, making it hard to swallow.

He gave a stern nod, trying to act nonchalant. Damn, his heart for hammering like this. “Well, I should go. Don’t want you spreading your germs.”

“Sure,” you teased, your voice lighter now. “Wouldn’t want to infect my biggest competition.”

He smirked at that, the tension from his confession easing slightly. This was familiar, this banter. This, he could do.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he quipped, picking up his bag.

He paused at the door, turning to look at you again. “Drink the tea and rest, okay? I’m not cleaning up your mess again if you get worse.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn��t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Get well soon, rival.”

And as he left, you couldn’t help but smile at yourself; he isn’t that bad after all.

🍯

The following day, you walked into class feeling refreshed and ready, though a little wary of the questions you would face after your unexpected absence.

Jungwon’s reaction, however, wasn’t one you’d prepared for.

When you sat down, he turned to you, his brows furrowed as if he were still trying to process something. “You’re here,” he said flatly, like he didn’t quite believe it.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were sick,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “People don’t just bounce back like that. You’re sure you’re not pushing it?”

His concern caught you off guard, and your usual witty retort faltered. “I’m fine, Jungwon. Thanks for checking, though.”

He didn’t seem entirely convinced but nodded anyway, returning to his notebook. Yet, throughout the class, you caught him sneaking glances your way.

When the bell rang for lunch, Jungwon lingered by your desk, hands tucked casually in his pockets. You glanced up, puzzled. “What? Did I leave my notes uncovered or something?”

He rolled his eyes, though there was no real bite in it. “No. Actually… Are you free after class today?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

Jungwon hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “You know… as a favor.”

“A favor?” You repeated skeptically.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “You were sick, and I’ve got this… thing. It’s at the café down the street. I figured you could use the fresh air. Maybe a coffee. Or tea. You like tea, right?”

It took you a moment to realize what he was doing—this wasn’t just any “favor.” Your heart skipped a beat. “So… you need me to go to a café with you? For fresh air?”

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. “Something like that. Plus, I heard their pastries are decent.”

A smile tugged at your lips, but you played along. “Alright. But only because you seem like you need help picking out pastries.”

His lips quirked up into a small smile, “Deal. Meet me at the gates after class.” Then, he walked away…

Is he asking you out? Maybe.

Will you be interested in dating him? Let’s just say you’re already picking out which pastry to call “yours and his.”

[lilacxquartz]

part 18 of 19 of kinktober: voyeurism

L x f!reader

plot: L liked to keep tabs on you, often in privacy breaching ways and one night, he caught on more than he had anticipated — themes: yandere L, stalking, voyeurism, spying, warning for unaware reader, masturbation, webcams — w.c: 700ish

kinktober masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

L sat all alone in his dimly lit bedroom, surrounded by multiple monitors panelled across his elusive set up. He remained perched over a desk chair that had long seen better days with his knees tucked in tight against his chest, fixated on one screen in particular.

Or rather one person in particular—you.

He caught sight of you completely by accident once, accidentally tuning into your webcam while on the search for something else. It was silly in a way, because he had forgotten what it even was by now, but one thing was clear and it was that he couldn’t stop thinking about you and you alone.

Almost to the point where it was unhealthy.

L’s fingers flew over the components of his desk, navigating himself hurriedly towards towards a hopeful glimpse of you. It was almost dangerously easy, knowing that you were just one measly quick away. That you were perfectly unaware, allowing him to spy on you again and again.

It wasn’t like he was doing this to be malicious though. Definitely not. He just wanted to know more about you, but being locked into his hermit lifestyle, he had no idea where to start exactly. L therefore watched on with wide, focused eyes as you entered your bedroom, wearing nothing except an old camisole with some loose gym shorts. Your hair was partially damp, hinting at a recent shower, which was made especially evident with just how tight the soft cotton clung and rode up your torso.

L stiffened as he watched you settle into your own desk chair with a hint of lust in his stare. His eyes followed your hand down to slip under the waistband of your shorts and as your chin tilted back to indicate the start of your own self pleasure. Unable to turn his sights away, he continued to glue his gaze onto the screen, watching as you spread your legs and steadied them wide over the table.

There was a split moment where he wondered if he should look away, if he should just stop the spying for once and to just leave you to it…

…But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He was far too invested for it all to simply just end.

All the while you were perfectly unaware, allowing the pads of your fingertips to swirl around the bud of your clit as you read over a few alluring words on the screen. A nice little relaxing ritual of sorts, so desperately pent up and longing for a release, completely ignorant to the fact that you were currently performing for an audience of one.

The material on the screen is just enough to work with to make your mind wander in the direction you would rather have it go; allowing you to on occasion close your eyes and drift off to explore all sorts of possibilities. At a steady pace you ran tantalising circles across your sensitive flesh, feeling the arousing heat simmer and boil into a rising peak.

You were almost close at this point; feeling the shuddering crescendo of uttered gasps and strangled moans rolling out to meet at the impending climax. Your lower stomach tightened as your own touch sent your senses over the edge, finally melting away as a warm, sweeping sensation flooded through your core.

L watched all the while with his own arousal building from the sight of yours, unable to tear himself away the almost hypnotic bliss evident on your face. In an attempt to savour this forbidden sort of thrill further, he saved a long series of screenshots capturing you in various stages of undress and pleasure alike.

Perhaps it was sick of him to do, but he printed off the images, sticking them into a journal filled with various artefacts portraying you during the moments he simply couldn’t look away from, almost entirely filling up the book.

The journal at this point was a treasured possession for him; a dirty little secret that he had appointed for his eyes only because you were surely that special.

And maybe, just maybe, he would have to see what you’re like in real life for real sometime too, because if he was being frank, it wasn’t quite the same when you were just pixels on the screen.

One day—he thought as he logged off at long last—one day he might just see it through.

[seijorhi]

Violent Delights

for my very dearest best friend (wife) @iwaasfairy i'm sorry it's super late, but august and april both start with 'a' which basically means they're the same month <33 iwaizumi hajime x female reader w.c 4.4k tw: yandere themes, non-con, drugged reader, blood/gore, murder, incest, sorta smut (nsfw)

M I N E

It’s funny in a way. Amidst the wreckage, the blood, what was left of your friends and the cooling puddle of cum splattered across your naked stomach, four letters carved into your bedroom wall seemed almost… harmless. Or at least the easiest to digest. Fixate on.

The detective asked about your ex partners, the dates you’d been on recently, whether or not you’d noticed anyone in your day-to-day paying you too much attention, if anyone made you feel uncomfortable, or said anything that seemed out of place.

But your exes don’t care enough to kill, and the two dates you’ve been on in the last six months never bothered to text you back. No one’s left weird, unsettling gifts, or stared too long in line at the coffee shop. There’s nothing. No precursor or warning, no giant red flag waving in front of you.

Mine. 

Hovering on the edge of numbness, blind hysteria just out of reach, you stare at the beige walls of the hotel room they’d put you up in, the angry gouges flickering in and out of existence with every blink. 

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Kaori was the one obsessed with all the true crime stuff. She’d be the first to tell you psychopaths and nutjobs – they don’t jump straight into drugging and triple homicide. There’s a pattern of behaviour. Escalation. 

Something you missed. 

Then again, considering it’s her blood still caked under your fingernails, there’s a strong possibility she wouldn’t be all that enthusiastic about the whole thing to begin with. 

You need a shower, a proper one – not the glorified sponging off they’d given you at the hospital. Enough to get you out the door, not nearly enough to scrub away the grime and rid yourself of what he did to you–

The others had it worse. You survived. He barely touched you.

Mine. 

The thought of scalding water, of scrubbing yourself raw does hold a certain appeal, yet hunched over atop starched white sheets, those same bloody fingernails sink into the flesh of your arms instead, grounding you in the tiny bite of pain. 

Minutes tick past and you don’t so much as twitch. Not until a sharp knock sounds at the door and a gruff voice calls out your name. 

You wait half a beat, but when nothing more is forthcoming, you slowly edge yourself off the bed, making your way to the door. Through the peephole you spy a dark haired officer, different to the one who’d dropped you off, staring back at you. 

They did tell you there’d be an officer with you the whole time, at least for the next twenty four hours. 

“Miss?” he calls again, and you distantly realise that while your hand is poised over the deadlock, you haven’t moved to undo it. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, your forehead meeting the wooden door with a muted thud, you curse that stupid, tremulous fluttering in your chest. They’re here for you, protecting you. You’re safe.

Open the damn door. 

“Y-yeah?”

Coward.

“Brought some food for you. Dinner.” There’s a rustling on the other side, and you raise your head to peer back through the glass in time to see him lift up a paper carry bag to the peephole. The idea of eating anything right now has your stomach roiling in protest. “Nothing fancy, but it’s good, I swear,” he says. Then, gentler, like he’s talking down a spooked animal, adds, “You need to eat.”

Still, you hesitate. All you need to do is open the door, grab the food and then at least it’s there if you want it later. Easy. 

Too quick, too jerky to be natural, you twist at the handle and yank the door open a scant few inches, enough for you to reach out an arm expectantly for the food. “Thank you,” you pre-empt, because hungry or not, you’re not completely without manners.

The officer lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, no. I’m not taking heat from the Cap when the guys on the next shift find you passed out ‘cause you haven’t eaten anything,” he scoffs. “C’mon, we can talk while you eat.” Not a suggestion – you barely have time to stumble back before he’s pushing his way inside and kicking the door closed behind him. The second he takes to flick the lock somehow simultaneously eases the knots in your stomach and sends your heartrate ratcheting.

It’s halfway to a miracle that you’re still standing at all. 

“Eat,” he tells you, his deep voice brooking no disagreement as he shoves the bag of food your way and grabs the lone chair in the room, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed and settling himself down. Clearly he has no intention of going anywhere until he’s satisfied you’ve eaten your fill.

With little else for it, you do as you’re told, reaching into the bag to find steamed buns at your fingertips, still warm as you pry open the wrapper– and wince. The familiar scent of pork, ginger and chives wafts through the air, unwittingly digging at old wounds. 

Suddenly you’re a kid again, strolling down the hill with your family, one hand tucked safely within your brother’s, the other grasping a steaming hot bun. You’re happy and whole and so, so young–

“Something wrong? You don’t like meat buns?” 

Not the time. Ignoring the bitter ache the memory conjures, you’re quick to shake your head, “No. No, thank you. It’s great.” You doubt he buys it, but then again you also doubt he cares so long as you get something in your stomach. 

One bite, chew, swallow. Another, chew, swallow – mechanical until it isn’t. The first bun disappears and you reach for the second.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

You swallow down another mouthful. “Fuzzy. Sore. I still can’t remember anything,” you  admit, in case that’s where this line of questioning is going. Nothing beyond waking up in your bed covered in blood and a stranger’s cum at any rate.

The blood work they did at the hospital confirmed you were drugged along with the others, the detective mentioning the near-empty bottle of wine they’d found, which they were in the process of testing too. He’d also pointed out the lack of evidence indicating any kind of forced entry, which paired with the former is something you’ve been trying not to dwell on. 

The officer gives a considering nod, “That’s to be expected, don’t worry about it. I still think it’s worth asking a few more questions if you’re feeling up to it?” Again, it’s phrased like a question, but already he’s pulling out a voice recorder, setting down on the mattress between you. 

“Um, sure. Yeah,” you croak. 

A small smile, “Good.” He leans forward to switch on the recorder. “We’ll start with the other victims – your friends. Tell me about them.”

“Kaori, she’s– she was my best friend. We worked at the same grocer when I first moved out of my parents’ place, when I got a job here she made the decision to move with me. That was about six months ago.” 

“And the other two?” 

“Her brother Koji and another friend of ours Takashi. They came up to visit; Kaori’s been back once or twice since we left, but I hadn’t seen them–” tears blur at your vision and your voice just… gives out. 

They’re gone. 

You drag a shuddering breath in and it hurts. 

Blindly, your hand reaches across the bed, blood tipped fingers sprawling over pristine white, and when they meet warmth – an open palm outstretched – you seize it and cling on with everything you have. You’ll unravel if you don’t.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you chant, each syllable shakier than the last.

He dips his chin, just barely, and squeezes your hand, “You invited them?”

A wordless, wide eyed nod. 

“You were close.” Not a question. He sounds like he’s mulling over the thought, though his expression is inscrutable. “Were you involved with any of them?”

This time, there’s the slightest hesitation before you shake your head. The officer frowns, “I need the truth. Your friends were attacked for a reason. Lying to me won’t help bring their families peace.”

The blood drains from your face, your heart lurching on a sickening thud. 

Your fault. 

Instinctively, you yank back your hand, or try to at least, but his grip tightens – enough to keep you from drawing away, not enough to hurt. Though neither his tone nor his expression hold any condemnation, it doesn’t change the truth of the matter. 

You didn’t drug them or pick up the knife and swing. You didn’t invite this psycho into your life, but the fact remains that they’re dead because of you. 

“I– it wasn’t like that. We weren’t… I didn’t–” 

MINE.

Tears threaten to spill and your bottom lip trembles. 

For a long, drawn out moment, he simply stares. There’s a twitch at his jaw and he sighs – more of a grunt, really – leaning back and pulling his hand from yours to rake through his dark hair. 

(Stupid, you think, how some part of you mourns the loss.) 

“Okay, alright. Fine. We’ll come back to that,” he concedes. “What about other friends? Coworkers you were close with?”

“No, I– I already told the detective I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

An irritated flash darkens his gaze. “I didn’t ask if you were fucking them.” And you must make a truly pathetic picture then, flinching like a kicked puppy, because he lets out another huff, closing his eyes for a beat and visibly working to soften the harsh lines of his expression. “Shit, okay– I’m sorry. It’s been a long day for us both,” he makes an odd noise, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, the sound entirely devoid of humour. “The guy who did this, he either already knows about the people precious to you, or he’s gonna do his damn best to find out, and if he thinks they’re threats, he’ll hurt them, or worse – he’ll use them to hurt you. I need you to tell me everything.”

And so, feeling the exhaustion of the day creeping over you, you do.

You tell him about the small group from work you occasionally go out for Friday drinks with, your old friends from uni, right down to the neighbour two floors below, who’d seen you hauling boxes the day you’d moved in and immediately offered to help. When you’d christened the kitchen baking you’d made sure to bring him some, and just last week you’d had tea with him and his grandma.

“What about school? Anyone you still keep in contact with?”

You try for a laugh but it sounds all wrong. “I wasn’t exactly popular back then,” 

His eyes narrow. They flit across your face like he’s searching for… something. You feel like a bug, pinned in place, squirming and uncomfortable, your face too hot. 

“Bullied?” he probes. 

Another nod. 

“How ‘bout family?”

Your mouth dries.

“My parents… I haven’t spoken to them in months. We don’t really get along.” The last conversation you’d had with them, if you could call it as much, lasted all of five minutes. Dry pleasantries and thinly veiled criticisms, wrapped up in yet another pointed reminder that things didn’t have to be this way – you were the one adamant on shutting them out. 

You doubt it’d raise a single eyebrow between them if you went the same again without contact. 

“Siblings?”

Another tear slips from your lashes and you swallow against the tight lump in your throat. The weight of his gaze feels oppressive, you’re too bare, too vulnerable, you don’t want to talk about this, so you shift your line of sight to the paper delivery bag, half crumpled now, and let your fingernails sink into the skin of your palms. 

Still, the words don’t come straight away, and when they do, they’re strained. Choked. Painted so thick is grief that you wonder if he understands them at all.

“No. I uh, I had a brother– a twin brother. He died.” 

You don’t talk about your brother, ever.

Kaori knew the bare bones of it. Koji and Takashi too – you had a twin brother, he died, and it fucked you up. Without ever uttering a word, they’d known not to press, that the wounds left behind weren’t quite as healed as the scar tissue led to believe. 

“How old were you?”

Seven, when you lost him. Twelve, when the letters stopped coming. 

“Fourteen,” you whisper, curling in on yourself. “He was sick.”

Stop asking, stop talking, stop, stop, stop. 

When you risk a look in the officer’s direction, his features are hewn granite, eyes set in a hard, angry glare that steals the very breath from your lungs. “Yeah?” he grunts, rising to his feet. “You stopped writing long before that.”

There’s just enough time for understanding to crash over you, for your lips to part, a feather light gasp of “Hajime?” to slip out before you’re flat on your back, wrists pinned to the mattress above your head, the officer– a ghost– Hajime looming over you. 

“What did I fucking tell you?”  

—

‘Sweetie, make sure you hold your brother’s hand.’

They’d meant when you were walking home from the bus stop, or crossing the road. When there was a buddy system so no one got separated or left behind. 

Hajime was always holding your hand. Not because your parents told him to, but because that’s how it was supposed to be. You were twins, he’d been born first (by all of six minutes) and you had followed. You were always following Hajime, and he was always going to look after you. 

Until he gets put into the Otter class with Mr Inagaki, and you go into Dugong with Miss Ino. 

Hajime’s nothing short of enraged. He throws chairs and yells and tries to kick the Principal, but it doesn’t change anything.

It would be good for you, they said, to have a chance to make other friends. ‘You can’t keep using your brother as a crutch, honey,’ your mother gently admonishes. 

Hajime scowls at that. Later, when it’s just the two of you hiding away in his room, he tells you she’s an idiot and a liar. ‘You don’t need anyone else. You have me.’

You knew that. You’d always have Hajime, but the other kids in your class weren’t as awful as he made them sound. Some of them were actually kind of cool, and they liked you, too.

For a while, you began to believe you could have both; Hajime and your new friends. 

Until one day you’re waiting for him at lunch when a boy from your class tugs on your braids and with a wide, toothy grin, loudly proclaims to the whole playground that even though you were a girl, and girls have cooties, it’d probably be okay if you wanted to be his girlfriend. 

You didn’t see Hajime coming up behind you. You’ve no idea where he found the scissors. The only warning either of you get is a sudden, splitting roar before he’s throwing himself at the smaller boy, tackling him to the ground. 

‘She’s MINE!’

Silver glints, flashing in the sunlight, and a high pitched shriek rips through the playground as he brings the scissors down on the poor, struggling boy. 

With a viciousness you’d never known of your brother, he swings again and again. It’s chaos. The other kids scatter and the teachers run to intervene. Hajime, spitting and snarling, red in the face and half-feral, doesn’t stop for them.

He stops for you. 

At the sound of a sharp little gasp, a line of red slashed along your forearm, Hajime stops dead, wide, horrified eyes fixed on yours.

—

‘Sweetie, what have I told you about snooping? I raised you better than that.’

‘But they’re addressed to me. Hajime wrote to me.’

‘Your brother’s not well, those letters– they’ll only upset you. I don’t want you reading them.’

‘… He says he misses me.’

‘I know, but he’s where he belongs, getting help. You want that for him, don’t you? To get the help he needs?’

‘I want to write back to him.’

—

There’s another letter waiting for you when you get home from school.

You hang your backpack near the door, still damp from being tossed in the pool, and eye the opened envelope sitting by your father. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when you reach for it, doesn’t lift a finger to stop you. Nevertheless, the displeasure radiates from him clear as day. 

“You shouldn’t encourage him. He’s not well.”

You’d scoff if it wouldn’t get you in trouble. Nothing you said could ever be taken as ‘encouragement’, and you’re under no illusions about who and what your brother is. 

The violence terrifies you. Sometimes he says things in the letters he writes that make your stomach all twisty and your palms sweat, but Hajime could be a monster, and you think you’d love him anyway. You wouldn’t have a choice. 

So you pluck at the envelope and tuck it close, making your way to your room without another glance at either of your parents. Sitting cross legged atop your bed, you eagerly scan the contents;

He hates the new therapist. They had a movie night planned, but some asshole started a fight and the whole thing got cancelled. The food’s still shit. He’s fed up and pissed off, whether he behaves or not, they won’t let him out and they won’t give him what he wants, so what’s the point in pretending?

The both of you turn twelve in ten days time – you owe it to him to come spend it together. 

—

‘Maybe it’s for the best, sweetheart.’

Dismissive. She’s always dismissive. Your hands curl in response, tightening before you force yourself to flex them out and bite your tongue. It’s not worth the fight. Neither one of them actually care, and nothing you say will ever change that. 

He’s angry at you. Or hurt. Both, probably. 

They wouldn’t let you visit. You’d begged – cried, even – and it hadn’t swayed them. The rules are that you aren’t allowed to go and see Hajime and you aren’t allowed to talk to him on the phone. The letters are the only communication you have, and when your twelfth birthday comes and goes, those stop too.

You’ve sent four letters since, no response. 

He’s shut you out entirely and while you can’t blame him for it, it’s painful.

You’ve always had Hajime, through everything. Him shutting you out feels like losing a limb– 

No, it’s more than that. It’s like slowly losing some vital function inside of you. Like your lungs are shutting down and you can’t breathe properly and your heart isn’t pumping the way it should. You feel guilty and horrible and at least twice, you debate trying to find a way to sneak out and make the two hour journey on your own, just so you can see him.

It’s a stupid idea, they wouldn’t even let you through the front door, but it’s the only idea you have and so you cling to it.

You keep writing to him– panicked. Desperate. Begging his forgiveness. 

He never writes back.

—

They sit you down at breakfast three months after your fourteenth birthday and tell you Hajime’s gone.

There was another fight, someone pushed him–

You don’t want to hear the details. They don’t matter and your ears are ringing too loud to make sense of them anyway.

Hajime is gone.

The cord between you was stretched and fraying already. He hadn’t written in over two years and probably hated you towards the end but he– he was–

Yours. A part of you. 

Gone.

And your mother’s asking about the English test you have second period. 

—

“What. Did. I. Say?” Each word is slowly enunciated, a quiet growl that drags an unwilling shiver down your spine. 

He smells of wood – of cedar, spice and musk, the notes melding, coiling with the dizzying body heat, the solid weight of him, bracing himself above you.

His lips are mere inches from yours. 

Not dead. 

Here.

There’s a thousand thoughts racing through your head, connections that light up, clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle, painting a deeply unsettling picture – all of which are drowned out by the revelation that Hajime is here.

You burst into tears–

and Hajime – your brother, very much alive and glaring at you from above – surges down to swallow them in a vicious kiss.

The moment your lips touch, all the tension in his body just… bleeds out. Hajime groans, low and heated, his hips rocking, grinding along your stomach, and if you weren’t too preoccupied short circuiting, dangling on the precipice of a panic attack, you’d feel the twitch of his mouth, curling into a small but no less satisfied smirk.

He relaxes, like he’s coming home rather than returning from the dead to land the killing blow.

“Mine,” he answers his own question, breath heavy and ragged as his teeth nip at your jaw. “I told you you’re fucking mine.”

The scratches on the wall. Kaori and Koji and Takashi, asleep in a sea of red. The viscous mess spilled over your belly. Your mother’s hushed voice, carrying down the hallway, ‘– only a phase. The books all say he’ll grow out of it before long.’

She hadn’t sounded convinced. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to block it all out as more tears spill into your hairline. Hajime won’t let you. He groans your name into the shell of your ear and licks at the tears as they fall. “Don’t,” he warns, fingers pressing tightly around your wrists ‘til they shoot back open with a gasp, “don’t you dare check out.”

When he rucks up your shirt to find you sans bra and a warm palm slides up to grope the soft, supple skin, a fresh burst of panic spurs you into action. Pinned under his weight as you are, you can’t move, and the idea of trying to physically fight him off is as laughable as it is terrifying – but when you were younger, you were the one – the only one – who could coax Hajime back from the edge, your hand in his.

Until he leapt from it entirely, and they took him away.

“H-Hajime?” A trembling, hiccuping whimper, thick with tears.  

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause – shuffling down your body to mouth at them instead – but hooded, simmering pools of green flick back up to your face, a hum of acknowledgement rumbling in his chest as he nips and sucks pretty, burgundy blooms across your breasts.

“I-if you ever loved me, even a little… Please, Haji– don’t hurt me like this–” you choke on another sob, pathetic mess that you are.

Hajime goes preternaturally still, eyes boring into you. 

You stare right back, fighting the urge to cower and flinch, to turn your cheek and stare at the discarded dumpling wrappers, letting him take what he wants. Praying that he won’t hurt you too badly if you give it to him without a fight.

Because it will hurt, you think. It’ll break you entirely. 

(Are you not already broken?)

When his head drops, you can’t help it – the sharp, terrified hitch in your breath – but his lips meet your forehead, then each cheek, before finally they brush over your lips with a tenderness he has no right to. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he vows, cradling the side of your jaw, “I won’t hurt you, ever.”

But that’s a lie, too.

“I love you more than anything.”

He kisses you again, soft and sweet and gentle, as if those promises weren’t sewn from violence and legitimised in blood. As if he isn’t breaking your heart with every sweep of his tongue, plundering your mouth.

There’s no fight in you left when he reaches for the waistband of your sweats and slowly starts easing them down. You don’t claw and shove when the hold on your wrists loosens and then disappears entirely, both hands needed to strip away his clothes. 

The sound of his belt buckle clinking, the soft hiss of a zipper, they wash over you, white noise lost to the pounding in your ears. 

But you don’t look away.

He strokes his cock – long and thick and flushed to the tip –  crawling up the mattress to kneel between your legs like a supplicant before an altar of the divine. 

Devotion demands sacrifice. 

“It killed me,” he starts, dragging the mushroom head along the slit of your pussy. He frowns a little, leans back and spits – a fat glob of saliva landing dead centre, adding to the mess his weeping cock’s already made. “When the letters stopped coming. I was angry, so fucking angry, all the time. I’d lash out and they’d put me in another cage, and I’d do it again, and again. They tried convincing me you’d moved on,” his eyes flash darkly, “which was bullshit. They’d have to carve me out of you with a knife.”

What shocks you isn’t the violent imagery, but the truth of it settling into your bones, inescapable and undeniable; you’ll always love your brother, even if that very love destroys you.

“I didn’t–”

The first thrust rips a strangled yelp from your throat. 

He’s too big, you’re not prepared to take him – and Hajime doesn’t care. His head tips back, shuddering out a breathy laugh. 

There’s no pause, no period of grace, seated deep inside of you, the walls of your pussy hugging him tight, Hajime won’t allow you a second to catch your breath and wait for the burning sting to abate. His hips draw back until only the throbbing head of his cock remains inside, and, upon grabbing a leg to hitch over his shoulder, uses it as leverage to punch forward, stuffing your tight little cunt to the brim.

The pace he sets is brutal from the outset. Bruising. He licks at your tears between kisses and moans when you clench and shudder around him. “Never again,” he pants into your ear. “I’ll kill them all if you leave. Every last fucking one. You’re mine. Mine.”

And you’d think it cruel, a punishment, if not for the way those green eyes burn. 

When his fingers twine with yours, pressing you down into the mattress, holding you there, you wonder if this was always an inevitability. 

Hajime led and you followed, hand in bloody hand. 

He’d never allow anything less.

[whatsnewsameasiteverwas]

Let’s talk about October 8th

Edit: I stupidly forgot the author…This beautiful piece was written by Masha Gabriel, the director of CAMERA’s Spanish department, CAMERA Español.

Oct. 8, however, took on a uniquely Jewish significance. The focus shifted from the event itself to the reactions it provoked. Rather than universal empathy for the victims, what followed was a wave of hatred. If the seventh was marked by extreme violence, the eighth saw this evil rationalized and fitted into ideological frameworks.

As horrifying images circulated, Europe witnessed jubilant celebrations and the rise of openly antisemitic voices justifying the slaughter, while others sought to deny the atrocities witnessed by the world. Never before had such a massacre been met with such public rejoicing and unashamed antisemitism in Western streets.

This mix of celebration, denial and justification paradoxically formed a cohesive ideological front that permeated intellectual, artistic, media and educational spheres. Oct. 8 reminded many Jews that they stood alone, while Islamist totalitarians had enough allies in the West to reignite existential Jewish fears never fully buried.

Holocaust historian Georges Bensoussan reflected on these events likening them to a “second act” of the Holocaust, saying: “Jews reacted with their long memory of persecution and, more poignantly, their recent memory of the Shoah. Oct. 7 was seen as a prelude to a potential catastrophe, awakening existential fears even among the most empathetic observers.”

In a mutating Western world, however, compassionate voices were often drowned out by orchestrated narratives aimed at erasing any possibility of coexistence. Jews were attacked globally in response to the violence in Israel with hatred spreading like wildfire, filling streets with angry mobs and antisemitic chants, and targeting Jewish sites from cemeteries to synagogues.

Under the guise of radical slogans, terrorism’s useful pawns waged war on the free world and were met largely with cowardly silence. To sustain this lack of empathy for Jewish victims, some segments of the left sought to dehumanize Israelis, even comparing them to Nazis.

Such distortions only deepened Jewish trauma and deflected from legitimate discourse on conflict resolution. Terms like “genocide” were misapplied, ignoring legal definitions and historical context, further complicating efforts toward peace.

Ironically, those who claim moral high ground often fuel antisemitism and fixate on demonizing Zionism—an anticolonial movement that enabled the self-determination of an indigenous people in their homeland, ensuring equal rights for all citizens, regardless of race, gender or status.

Oct. 8 symbolizes not only Jewish isolation but also a profound moral failure of the West that is incapable of protecting its minorities or educating against historical and emotional illiteracy fostered through empty slogans, which, as French philosopher Raphael Enthoven aptly put it, “substitutes for thought.”

[hivemuthur]

a lil request, for freaktor friday or not

soo

what if vik found out the reader comes easily and is a visual learner so he would make them come just by making them watch him suck strap buckled to their hips and giving them a lil show

I feel like this should have a new day of the week invented, but I say it's Freakday since I lack better options :v

Oral Fixation

viktorxfem!reader explicit! blow jobs (?) + fingering (fem receiving since it just came out this way), established relationship, disgusting love, Reader is a complete simp, but Viktor likes it.

word count: 3,3K

author’s note: I feel like this belongs in the pegging universe, so I just kinda nodded to myself in this one, you can treat it as a part two -> here's the pegging fic. @rennethen beta read! RIP all of us cockless. Also, i hope you didn't mind the ask spam people and happy Freakday :v

—

It’s impolite to stare—you were always told. But whether out of sheer defiance or overwhelming curiosity, you’ve never paid much attention to what’s polite and what isn’t. You were right, of course, and the world was wrong. Your long ogling sessions have earned you a partner with equal levels of fixation and a mind as brilliant as it is open—keeping up has only ever been a thrill.

What started as one tiny indulgence on your part—a glance toward his hands—soon bloomed into full-blown obsession. The fruits of which would betray you to anyone who opened your notebook, now full of sketches. Every knuckle, every wrinkle rendered with the kind of care that screams affection.

And it betrays you, as you feared, when those same hands—immortalised in ink—leaf through the pages. Heart plummeting, you watch him carefully. See if he’s noticed. But the moment Viktor holds the book at arm’s length and compares one of your sketches to his open palm—you know it’s over.

He teases you for weeks after. “Is it just my hands that interest you?” he asks, all innocent and smug. “Or are you curious about other people’s hands too?” You swat him for it, ignoring the ‘cripple’ card he pretends to pull, but you’re still smiling as you walk away. You can’t help it.

And what turns out to be true—despite everything—is that it was never just his hands. Nor anyone else’s. It’s the whole of him. The strange, perfect sum of all his parts.

The next fixation is his eyes, though you don’t linger long. He’s too quick, too perceptive, and your stares never go unnoticed. So you move on. His nose comes next. Here you stay for a while, long enough for him to finally clock your silent advances. And Viktor—mercifully—makes the first move.

This, of course, opens up a whole new range of possibilities. All those parts hidden under layers of clothing that you’d only been able to imagine are now granted to you—completely denuded. Pure skin, and sinew, and bone, laid bare only for you to worship. Falling asleep with your ear to his stomach is bliss. Kissing over the bruises left by the brace—a privilege. Pressing your mouth to where his underbelly hollows, trying not to let your breath tickle him—pure joy.

There is one part, however, that managed to escape your attention—until recently. Viktor’s lips.

They are not the kind of mouth you’d notice at first glance. Not full, not plump. But you’ve watched them closely now, and they are a wonder in their own right. The way they purse when he chews absently on a pencil, softening when the pressure eases. How his fingertip comes to rest at the corner of his mouth whenever he’s deep in thought, tapping once, twice, then stilling. You’ve seen him lick his lips after a sip of too-hot coffee, tongue darting out to chase the steam before it vanishes. Watched how they part around a spoon or the edge of a fork, cheeks rounding slightly as he eats, the motion making his whole face look softer—almost unfamiliar.

And when he smiles—genuinely, openly, without irony—his whole face pulls taut with it. The corners of his lips lift first, then the skin around his eyes creases in that way that makes your heart ache. His mouth was never just a mouth. It was a thousand quiet gestures stitched together into a portrait you hadn’t even realised you were memorising.

Viktor, the ever present hawk eye, notices. Mid-sentence, no less, pencil resting slack against the paper while you fixate on the way he mouths the words, vowels rounding tenderly, adding new meaning to the phrase soft-spoken. He doesn’t call you out this time—not exactly. Just tilts his head and smiles in that way that means he’s caught you again. You fail miserably in looking away.

Later, when the work is packed and the clock tells you it's much too late to be lingering, Viktor rises and holds out a hand with purpose.

"Come," he says, voice low with something just shy of caballing. "I’ve thought of something that might make you happy."

You quirk a brow. "You're awfully confident for someone who still insists on instant coffee."

He hums, not rising to the bait, just draws your hand into his and begins walking. The halls are quiet. His cane clicks softly against the stone. "You’ve been looking at my mouth like it holds all the secrets of the universe," he says. "I figured… maybe it should offer a few answers."

You stumble a little, less from the pace and more from the way heat curls in your stomach at the implication. “And you’re not going to tell me what you mean by that?” you ask.

“I think you’ll understand soon enough,” he says, glancing at you sidelong. “If I’m right—and I usually am.”

Viktor doesn’t lead, not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t drag you behind him or push you to move faster. Instead, he floats ideas, opens doors—metaphorical and literal—and lets you choose whether to walk through. He is an eager and generous lover, yes, but also a careful one. He has never once assumed. He doesn’t chase power, he invites trust.

Even when he first offered you his most tender parts, baring himself not to surrender but to be seen. That night had been many things—electric, cathartic, almost embarrassingly emotional—but what lingered most was the way Viktor had looked up at you afterward. Like you’d cracked open something in him he hadn’t known was closed. Like he wanted more.

And now, this. Another door. Another idea. Wild, hushed for now, but clearly mapped out in that labyrinthine mind of his.

The lock clicks behind you as he shuts the dorm door. Viktor turns to face you properly, smile curved like he’s hiding something behind his back. "Will you let me show you?" he asks. His voice is quiet, but sure.

You nod, cheeks blooming into that lovely vermillion he likes so much. He watches the colour spread like paint in water—utterly taken. “Good,” he says simply, and nods toward the chair near his desk. “Get undressed. Sit there.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, already pulling at your shirt hem. “Are you getting undressed too, or am I the only one baring all tonight?”

Viktor’s smile curves sharp, wicked. “There will be no need. Not yet.”

The way he says it—not yet—twists in your belly like silk pulled tight. You settle into the chair, shifting as your skin meets the cool seat, but Viktor is already moving, reaching to the drawer by his bed. He returns not with flourish, but with quiet certainty, cradling the harness like it’s something precious.

“Is your attitude in need of… maintenance again?” you tease, though your voice comes a little thinner than intended.

Viktor glances up, bemused. “Not particularly,” he says. Then sits—gingerly, carefully—onto the pillow he’s placed at your feet. One leg at a time, he slides the straps up your calves, his hands as gentle as they are precise.

“Not tonight,” he repeats, fastening the harness into place on your hips after you lift for him obediently. His thumbs skim the edges where leather meets skin, slow and certain. “But I do have another gift for you.”

You glance down, and your chest flutters with a shaky laugh that barely makes it out.

He’s loosening his cravat now, slow enough to watch your eyes track every movement. The silk slips through his fingers, down his chest and off to the side. The top buttons of his shirt follow, granting you a view of the elegant dip of his collarbones, the pale skin of his throat. He’s flushed—not just the dusting across his cheeks, but his ears, the tips of them going pink like they always do when he’s on the verge of something exciting. His pupils are near-black, and his lips curl into a smile that might’ve passed for shy, had you not known him as intimately as you do. He’s so distractingly pretty you almost overlook the cock hanging between your legs.

“I’ve noticed,” he begins, voice low, “that the full-body scan you’ve been giving me lately seems to halt on my mouth for quite some time.”

You start to object, or maybe laugh, or deny it outright—but Viktor continues, silencing you with little more than a look. “I don’t think anyone’s ever taken me apart so lovingly before,” he murmurs, and you feel the weight of that confession settle in your chest, curling into a warm ball like a cat that has finally found its place. “So allow me to indulge you.”

He shifts between your legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another, higher. His breath is warm, his lips scalding. But he doesn’t rush. Instead, he reaches up for your hand and brings it to his mouth.

The first kiss lands at your wrist, soft and gentle. Then he begins to drag his mouth over each finger, tongue flicking along the pads like he’s trying to ruin you right there. His lips close over your index, drawing it in with slow suction, warm and slick, and your breath grows heavy and burdened with need.

But Viktor takes his time. Tongue curling underneath, tracing the crease where knuckle meets palm. Then he shifts to your middle finger, sucking deeper, until the wet sound of it becomes a pulse between your legs. His eyes remain fixed on you, half-lidded, patient and unhurried. You can feel the way his tongue presses up against your skin—how he lets the pad of it slide along your body with intention, tasting you.

He nips, briefly, at the base of your thumb, then soothes the mark with a kiss so gentle it barely registers. There is no part of this that is idle. He worships, he savours. He learns.

Your eyes have not closed for a while. Even when you blink you make sure you can still see him, utterly beguiled by the trace of shiny spit his mouth produces around your fingers. The slide of it, the pout he makes to suck around you until your own hand burns with all the hot blood circulating through it. You are certain Viktor can feel your pulse on his tongue.

He releases your hand with a quiet pop, a fine thread of slick still connecting the two of you. For a moment, he simply looks at you—then his gaze drops.

One hand steadies your thigh, fingers splayed and gentle. The other slips between your legs. First, to check something very important. Whether he was right.

He teases your entrance, clever hand searching, and when he finds the answer, he gasps softly. The quiet sound that follows is unmistakable—confirmation, and proof, and reward. Your eyes flutter closed, unthinking.

“Eyes on me at all times, love,” he says. A small, firm correction. Not harsh, never. But enough. You open them again, immediately.

He’s already looking up at you, chin tilted, lips parted like he might lean in and take a bite. The light catches in his eyes—hungry, but so focused, so careful. His fingers stroke through you again, slower now, like he’s waiting to see every reaction he can draw from your face with just the tiniest movement.

When he speaks next, his voice is lower. Intimate. Pleased. “Good. That’s very good.”

And then, oh—a kiss. Nowhere near your skin. On the tip, sweet and teasing, it pries at the hinges of your jaw, makes your eyes go wide. It is as if you can feel whatever Viktor presents. Your mind, drunk already, soaks in the sight of him at your feet—but mostly, his mouth. Wrapping solemnly around the length nestled between your thighs. With the slide of his lips, two fingers ease inside you.

They curl, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft where you’re most sensitive. But even that stretch is a distant hum compared to the way your brain short-circuits watching him.

What Viktor is doing is maddening enough with the phantom feeling between your legs, and you cannot stand the idea of what it would actually feel like. He’s not rushing. No frantic bobbing, no mess—yet. Just the steady, measured pressure of his lips gliding down, then pulling back.

And though you don’t feel the warmth of his mouth there, the sight of it—him—at your feet, eyes half-lidded, cheeks hollowing—is enough to have your body tensing up and toes curling.

Whenever your eyes fall closed, he stops. “Watch me,” he says firmly, pulling back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip in a mockery of a kiss.

The pace he sets when you obey is punishing in reverse—the slowness of it, tormenting. His fingers inside you only add to this feast of teasing, but it strikes you that you can endure it, so long as Viktor never rises from his spot.

Innocence is not your virtue—you’ve thought about it. But now you're convinced that vivid imagination isn’t your virtue either, since the fantasy has absolutely nothing on the reality of Viktor’s mouth caressing the underside, lips shining. Gorgeous, you think.

He moans, pleased, as if to perplex you, a glint of joy dances in his eye when his tongue flattens out and the inanimate head slaps against it. Drool wells around your cock, and you imagine how warm it is, how smooth the slide must feel in Viktor’s mouth—how it would feel to you if it were actually attached to your body.

And as if all of that is not maddening enough, Viktor pushes back down. Lower, further, past the barrier of throat, where his vein is faintly risen, where you can see his quickened pulse painted in pale blue. He doesn’t stop when he gags—just squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, breathes through his nose, and steadies himself. The sound it makes is so vulgar, and it only seems to spur him on. He pulls back, lips stretched glossy around you, then lets it rest heavy on his tongue. Holds it there, looks up, eyes dazed but daring.

You gulp, and he doesn’t. Not until he needs to, and even then, he does it dramatically—lets it fall from his mouth with a slick gasp and a trail of spit, only to drag his tongue along the underside as he catches his breath.

All the while, his fingers are moving with studied intent inside you, curled perfectly, just shy of unbearable. And then—

He takes it again. This time deeper. Swallows it down. At the same moment, he thrusts his fingers to the hilt and presses his thumb firm against your clit. You cry out, reflexive and raw, will your eyes to stay open through the blur of tears, desperate to not miss anything.

It’s not enough to come, but nearly. Nearly is worse. So you move, slow at first, unsure, rocking your hips in shallow thrusts—meeting the wet heat of his mouth, and pressing his fingers deeper in return.

He hums around it, and the phantom vibration flutters straight through you, your brain somehow wills it into existence. You watch the lines of strain on his face, the determination behind his eyes.

It’s odd, in a way. Viktor is always speaking—explaining, coaxing, teasing. But now, his mouth is busy, and the absence of his voice only makes you crave it more.

You hear it anyway, conjured from memory. How he sounds when he praises you. How he groans when you ride him. How he whispers your name like a confession. But the sounds he’s making now—wet, guttural, wanting—are nearly enough.

Before you know it, your ass slides to the edge of the chair, wood creasing the skin of your cheeks, hips spilling over. Your hands come up to cup his face, and it’s the first time Viktor closes his eyes—calm smoothing over his features, as if your fingers have ironed out the tension.

And then—oh God—you’re certain Viktor plots to ruin you eternally, when his jaw slackens, and he offers you a gift. Control. Messy, and glistening with his spit.

He brings your hands to his throat, one at a time, guiding them. Your thumbs prop his chin, and he waits—mouth provocatively open, trusting—waiting for you to move your hips into his palm, between his lips.

It’s surreal, the way he opens for you—so patient, so steady. The way he makes himself available without ever surrendering power. You can see it in the set of his brows, in the calculated push of his fingers inside you, the press of his thumb against your clit timed with every breath he takes around the length in his mouth.

You move, slowly at first. Testing the tension in your thighs, the wet glide of his lips. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. His hand stays on your hip, just placed there, letting you do the rest. And whatever you do is yours to decide.

So you fuck his mouth tenderly, a rhythm born of instinct and awe. Not for the cock, not for the illusion—but for him. For Viktor, who has always known how to give. For Viktor, who never rushes but always sees you.

He moans again—low, almost a hum, the vibration somehow finding a way of seeping straight into your gut. You want to tell him he’s beautiful. That he’s undoing you. That no one’s ever looked so good sat on their ass with a cock between their lips. But your mouth won’t cooperate—your mind, already fraying, can't hold language when he curls his fingers just right and presses the flat of his tongue along the length.

The chair creaks beneath you when your hips stutter. His lips are wet, stretched, cheeks hollowing with every pass.

It comes faster than you expect. Your hand finds his hair and you pull— just enough. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and unblinking. Your mouth falls open, your thighs tremble. He groans around the base, and it tips you over—hot and high and breaking against the inside of your chest.

Your body curls forward. His hand, warm on your belly, holds you through it. Hazy, you gasp and breathe heavily, the rise and fall of your stomach made real by Viktor’s touch. When you step beyond the other side of climax, the side of warmth and pliancy, you slip down from the chair, knees finding the floor, and Viktor’s arms open instantly. The harness shifts between you—warm and slick with his spit, now nudging his stomach awkwardly. It makes you both laugh, breathless and low. Still, you clamber into his lap, careless of grace, needing only to be close.

Your arms go around his neck. His hands bracket your hips. You wrap yourself around him like you might fall through the floor otherwise, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and breathing deep. The scent of him, the sweat on his collar, the faint ghost of whatever soap he used this morning—all of it hits like safety. Like home.

“God,” you sigh, voice threadbare. “How do you know me so well?”

He hums. You feel it in his throat before you hear the answer. “I am very observant,” he murmurs. A kiss to your temple. “And curious.” His hands shift at your back, stroking slow. Then, softer still: “And I love you an insane amount as well.”

The words crack something open inside you. You hold him tighter, and mumble quietly into his shoulder. “There is no other way to love you than an insane amount, Viktor. You are my biggest fixation.”

“My fixation,” he repeats, tasting the word like it belongs to him now. “Come to bed.”

[aomiiine]

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘

love & deep space w ZAYNE format. fic. warnings. fluff + nsfw. mdni. fem!reader. soft vanilla love making. praise. endearments(darling, princess, etc). strawberry cake mention cs its my fav. summary. he’s more focused on you rather than the occasion which was his birthday.

author’s note. hppy belated birthday to my fav boy!!

“So you made these for me, hm?” The dark haired man beside you asked, his gaze attentive and tone almost accusing—something you were awfully used to by now. “Are you sure you didn’t buy them, darling? I won’t be mad if you did,” he added, pushing himself off the kitchen counter he was recently leaning his hips against.

“I made, Zayne. I’ve told you this time and time again—I’ve been practicing, okay?” you countered, your brows furrowing and your lips forming a small pout of annoyance at how your lover kept on questioning the source of his birthday cake for this year. Unbeknownst to you, while you were busy pouting and setting up the candles on the cake, Zayne had his eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lips curling to faint smile as he spectated your change of expressions from your side profile.

“I never said I didn’t believe you, my love,” the tall man uttered in a soft scoff. He watched attentively as you finally held the lighter to light up the candles, the small flames making an intimate atmosphere in your purposely dimly lit home. Even with the skilfully made strawberry cake you decorated for him, the only thing he had given his attention to was you, and it seemed like it would be that way for the entire night.

”There. Make a wish and blow them out for me,” you urged, putting the lighter away and turning to him with a fond, excited smile. It was like you were more enthusiastic about his birthday than himself—and the way you caught him looking at you the moment you shifted your gaze to him proved that point more. It was his birthday—so why was he staring at you?

Your smile faltered nervously, feeling a bit self-conscious with how intense his dark hazel green eyes gazed at you, fingers twitching and all.

“Something wrong?” was all you could muster to say at the moment, cursing yourself for letting him affecting you so despite your years of being together. He still managed to make you flustered, shy.

“I made my wish.”

You raised a brow at him, blinking at him curiously with the candles on cake flickering softly, the flames illuminating the room just enough for you to see each other. The second you opted to part your lips to ask him what his wish was exactly, he stole your breath away, halting your actions by leaning down to you, letting his lips meet your soft ones. Your breath hitched once you registered his actions, not letting him wait and giving him access to your mouth.

“Zayne,” you huffed between your kisses, his hand moving up to circle your neck, his thumb gently caressing your jawline.

“You are what I wished for,” was all he whispered in return before sliding his tongue against yours, taking you in and leaving you to nibble on your wet lower lip. “I can’t possibly wish for anything more—,” he added with a soft groan, his free hand reaching up to grip your hip, fingers massaging your flesh there before pushing back up against the marble kitchen counter. “—other than for you to stay by my side.”

At this point, you were near breathless, soft mewls of his name leaving your lips at the feeling of his cold fingers skimming under your shirt and over your tummy. You had your hands hold onto his arms, nails gently digging him and earning yourself a hum of delight from him.

In a matter of seconds he had your shirt lifted up over chest, one hand helping you held it up while the other slid up your rib cage to cup your breast that was encased in your bra. All the while his fingers tugged on the fabric of your bra, he had his lips glued to your neck, tongue peeking out to leave warm licks along your skin whenever he felt your pulse. With a mere hook of his fingers on your bra, he had your tits spilled out for him, his mouth migrating downward to your sweetly bared nipples, taking one of them around his lips.

“Baby, the candles—they’ll melt,” you breathed out between pants and whimpers, shivers running down your spine with every tug he made on your hardened bud, the swirl of his tongue around your areola making you mumble pathetic, empty pleas for him.

“Then we’ll make love in the dark. I know every part—every crevice of your body by heart,” he replied calmly, not bothered by the thought of the candles suddenly going during their intimate moment—he was too into it to care.

How could he stop now? When he finally his hand hovering above your wet cunt, fingers teasingly hooking under your waistband of your pants but not pulling it down until he felt you were desperate enough. And that didn’t take long. ‘Cause he had your pants pooled around your ankles in seconds, hands impatiently lifting you up onto the cold counter where your pretty cunt was finally equally level with his hips.

“Let me unwrap my gift, darling,” his smooth voice whispered into your ear, his hot breath kissing your skin and heating up your face when he laid your lower half bare to him. You had your hands gripping onto his upper arms, then his shoulders, eyes glazed over and watching closely as he undid his the zipper of his pants, his slender finger sliding his boxers down a bit to pull his cock out easier. You gulped in both nervousness and eagerness at the sight of his thick length standing at attention with a slight curve, beads of precum forming at the tip of it.

“You’re drooling,” he murmured teasingly to catch your attention, exhaling a soft sigh and smiling at the sight of the adorable face you made when you left your trance of need whenever you admired him, any part of him. “I’ll give it to you, love, don’t worry,” he assured you, hand moving to part your thighs further, pulling you further to the edge of the counter and finally aligning his cock along your pussy, nudging your slick folds apart with the fat tip.

“Fuck,” you heard him growl softly, the mere contact of his tip with the outer layer of your sweetness affecting him more than he’d like. With a look of determination, he pushed his hips forward slowly, easing himself into your slit while keeping a good hold on your hip.

You couldn’t help the whimpers and moans that he coaxed out of you, your entire being melting at the fullness you felt when he was fully inside you, his balls pressed against your ass.

Zayne winced and grunted with every spasm you made around his cock, loving how his sweet yet filthy praises affected you so with only a few thrusts he made into you. And he didn’t hesitate to surge forward more, pounding into you with unbecoming moans and squelches made from your sex filling your home.

You held onto his shoulders tightly, your grip shifting with every thrust his hips made, making you wrap your arms around him and pulling him closer to you. Your thighs quivered around his hips, high-pitched moans forced out of you from how tightly the knot in your lower belly tied, the tip of Zayne’s dick hitting you in the right spot every time. Perhaps it was uncoincidental that your lover felt the same, the warmth and intensity of love that was shared between you amplifying the pleasure ten fold.

“Princess, ‘m gonna cum for you—inside you,” he murmured, his words jumbled and almost incoherent. It was clear his mind was as hazy as yours at that moment, his hips pounding into you with need. His movements turned jerky when he finally neared that climax along with you, your tightening cunt giving him the final push from the edge, his aching cock twitching and pulsing inside your depths as he finally spilled thick ropes of his cum, painting your velvety walls an innocent white. Your own orgasm followed suit, mixing with his own to form a potent mixture of sensual adoration.

With ragged breaths, he slumped against you, his knees bucking slightly as he basked in the afterglow with you. He didn’t shy away from your embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling the scent of your sweat and shampoo, calming him from his exertion.

“I don’t mind spending my birthday like this again next year, my dear. Maybe I’ll help you shop for a cake too,” he muttered against your neck, his voice hoarse yet playful. You groaned in response, hitting his arm lightly for acting suspicious about the cake you proclaimed to have baked yourself. “I didn’t buy the cake,” you grumbled against his shoulder, resting your head against him, to which he only chuckled at. “Sure, you didn’t,” Zayne murmured, smiling contently above your shoulder.

[nightscythe]

primarchs' obscure fetishes/kinks

as in random, not so talked about fetishes they may have. trying to improve my smut writing skills cause it's not my forte. i was trying to research some of these to make them better and i read some like. dirty shit. fucking loved it mate. i learnt new words and all.

would happily do a shitpost version btw, or more "taboo" vers.

very nsfw, 18+ below the cut. based on pre-heresy. i've tried to make each one as gender neural as possible.

tw for some of these, especially somnophilia and hypnosis. i have made them as consensual as i can. angron's one is reader unaware. it says at the start what the fetish/kink is, if you're not into it, don't read it, that's all i can say. enjoy otherwise!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

the lion: somnophilia. his jaw is clenched. every part of him ached. he'd not been sure why he came here, he should have been preparing, planning, but he couldn't get you off his mind. and now he as here, and you lay peacefully before him, his body only yearned harder. remembering the way you reached for him that morning, how he pulled himself away from you for duty, and regretted each moment since. each part of his armour is discarded, his trousers hastily unlaced as he kneels beside you, gently caressing your thighs, not wanting to disturb you too much. he leans over you, nearly each part of you touching, and presses a soft kiss to your neck, then your jaw, and whispers your name. his fingers twist into the sheets as the softest whimper leaves your lips. i'm back, my love, he tells you, let me take care of you now. when he thinks you’re not listening, that’s when he shows his caring side. 

fulgrim: vicarphilia. you're sat beside him, deep in conversation that you'd drifted in and out of. but then you hear it. really? do tell us more, as his fingers wrap around your wrist. you steal a glance his way, but his fixation on his guests doesn't change. they share an intricate story of debauchery, their narration not missing a single detail. as the story goes on, he finally looks your way, the sweetest of smiles on his lip, a silent ask as he grips your hand a little tighter. a polite excuse is given before he leans down to you, a murmur that you should have expected, every single thing they did, his voice pauses for a moment as that regal smile falls back onto his lips, i'm going to do to you tonight. he makes sure his guests never miss a single detail. every single touch, every single denial. his eyes get darker with each admission. he’d not explain why it makes him feel this way, maybe it is the thought of you in those positions, or maybe its just the thought of the sex itself. either way, he’s not missing a single detail. 

perty: kinbaku. he'd stood and admired his work. you were perfectly presented, restricted, artistically refined with beautifully intricate rope tied in all the right places to ensure you couldn't move without his help. he circles you, fingers ghosting your skin, each of your nerves sparking as he disappears from view. you're on your front, hands are behind your back, thighs and hips suspended from above. you can feel his touch drag across your thighs, the rope not too tight, but enough to feel everything, and when he takes his hand away, a soft gasp leaves your lips. don't move, his voice commands, and though you feel your thighs tighten in response, you keep still for what seems like minutes. when you feel him again, its a challenge. he dares you to go against him as he finds your most delicate areas. as long as you endure, he'll give you everything you want. good pet. 

khan: acarophilia. he used to tell you he loved it when you were on top. he loved seeing you that way, admiring you, watching you take charge. but recently, he'd always wanted you to be beneath him, writhing with his every touch, unable to form a coherent sentence as he filled you up. you thought it was a dominance thing, seeing you so small compared to him, but then it clicked. his hands hold you steady as you straddle his thigh, his leg bouncing, your face buried in his shoulder. as he rocks you back and forth, almost naturally in a way, your fingers clasp onto any part of him that's nearby, your nails digging into his skin. as you begin to lose yourself, you grip falters, your nails dragging over his skin, and you hear him practically growl. again, he dares you, mark me as yours, little one.

leman: odaxelagnia. he smothers you. he holds your hands above your head with one hand, he holds your body down with the other. he lives off each of your cries, the sweet sounds leaving your lips urging him to continue. and though you were both clothed, you could feel all of him, how his cock throbbed for more, but he held himself back. he was preoccupied, crafting a masterpiece of purples and blues on your neck, shoulder, and collarbone. he only stops to look up at you, searching for approval, then sinking his teeth into your skin one more time. you beg him, over and over and over, but he takes his time. only when he's satisfied does he stop rutting his hips towards you, finally giving you what you really wanted, knowing that next time his canvas would be the soft skin of your untouched thighs. 

dorn: joi. he didn’t want to rush. he wanted every single second of this moment of sin to stay with him forever. you’re sat across from him as he kneels on the floor, thighs spread, hand wrapped around his aching cock. you’d told him exactly where to be, how to sit, what you wanted him to do. he’d played the voice recording over and over to make sure he followed your instructions perfectly. faster, your voice calls to him, imagine its me. his hips stutter, sigh falling from his lips as he tries so hard to be composed. you’re not with him, yet he listens to you, even if he doesn’t want to. he wants you to be proud of him for following every instruction. he wished you were watching him to see how good he was and reward him with the mouth he loved so much. 

curze: psychrocism. he’s behind you, arms wrapped around your body. from above, the freezing water walls over you both - you’re still not accustomed to the temperature, your body squirms from each drop. the way your nipples peak from the stimulation, how you push your body into his to seek the smallest bit of warmth from him. his cock twitches against your skin, but he resists for a little longer. he presses his lips to your neck, his touch softer than usual, as his rough hands reach over your stomach, waist, hips; anywhere he could reach. seeing you shiver beneath him, he can’t explain what it does to him. but there’s a reason he always brings you back here, knowing he’ll fuck you against the wall under the freezing water when he’s done watching you whine for his warmth. 

sanguinius: pecattiphilia. no one would believe you if you said anything. no one would dare to think their pure and noble angel was capable of such acts. yet he knelt before you, on his knees, mouth occupied with pleasuring you with those perfect lips and masterful tongue. there was nothing pure about it, and he knew it. as your fingers twist into his hair, holding him down, telling him how good he is as he gets you off, he can’t help but think how others would react if they knew this side of him. submissive, yearning for touch, desperate for more. he fights back against your hands to look up to you, asking so politely, please can i have more. this side of him was for you, and you alone. but the thought of someone else knowing, that someone could walk in on him right now and see the truth… it drove him crazy. 

ferrus: technophilia. he had refined you. he’d removed every part of you that made you weak, and changed you into the embodiment of perfection. made you flawless. he had even impressed himself with his tiny adjustments, tweaking colours and minor wiring and other bits that wouldn’t have even crossed anyone else’s mind. he’d made you perfect for him. he’d sat back, leaning against the wall, looking down at your hands that wrapped around his cock, stroking him in the exact way he needed, watching him with an eye innate desire to learn precisely what it was that pleased him. and as he finally got his thick cock inside you, he’d know you could take more, he made you just for him. don’t make me repeat myself, he’d tell you, knowing you’d relax and let him take you. the smile that rests on his lips is intoxicating, and his fingers grip your chin to make you look directly at him as he speaks. good. obey me. 

angron: auralism. he’d be ashamed to admit to anyone just what he did. they’d think him weak for not approaching you. he could have as much of you as he wanted, yet here he was, stood on the other side of a wall that was far too thin, palming himself as he hears you. he’d discovered it by accident one day, but the second he heard a whimper leave your lips, he stayed. and he became obsessed. he had no idea what you were doing on the other side, but it didn’t matter to him. the way you moan, unaware anyone could hear you, whimper at presumably your own touch. it’s all he needs. maybe one day he’d let himself in, show you what attraction you’d gained without knowing, but for now he’d keep it his secret that he got off to just hearing you. 

rob: endytophilia. he remembers when it started. how his gaze followed you all day, how his heart had raced as you got closer to him. his hands showed you just how desperate he was. he turned you around, pushed you against the wall, his clothed bulge pressed firmly into you. he presses a kiss to your jaw, hands roaming over your body, fascinated by how it feels under your clothes. the way you said his name made him growl. don’t move, he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear as he rolls his hips into you, you don’t leave until i say, my love. there was no time for him to find a more suitable place, to even undress you. he slides his hand into your underwear to please you, pushing it to the side to have his way with you after. he didn’t anticipate enjoying it as much as he did. now he has you dress in sweet clothes that he touches you through, pushes aside, and admires afterwards. 

morty: chastity. he’d been obsessed with your purity since he met you. how you were so different to everyone else he knew, how you spoke to him with such grace, how your touches were meant to be everything but sexual. but his wicked mind, it made everything into more. and now he can’t get the thought out of his head. at first it was just having you look pure, wear white, such a stark contrast to him, but then he had handed you the cute-looking leather and metal belt. my little fawn, would you wear it for me? his cock twitched at the thought of you coming to him, begging him to take it off because you wanted to touch yourself. knowing he had that kind of control, that you willingly let him take control over your purity? it was only for him. if you wanted to touch yourself, he’d be there to witness it all. every single time. 

magnus: hypnosis. it came naturally to him, letting his mind overtake your own, tell you how to feel, when to feel it, all at his mercy. he’d asked you to let him try something, to see if he could get you off without touching you. so there he sat across the room from you, nothing more than his words causing you to feel an intense ache. he’d tilt his head, curiously watching as your hands twist into the sheets and your body contorts as his words fill your mind. does it feel good, imagining my mouth all over you? his smile only deepens as you rock your hips. maybe he’d taken it a step further and used his powers to make you feel it too, he couldn’t deny you that much. my heart, do you know how much i want a taste? his breathing is heavy where he sits, his cock hard from how little of him it takes to have you squirm. even worse, when he knows you’re close to your high, he’d stop without warning, teasing you with the real thing. 

horus: narratophilia. he’s not an exhibitionist. the thought of someone else seeing what’s his? knowing your beauty in the way he does? never happening. but maybe its close. he’s sat beside you, a possessive hand splayed across your thigh, his grip light yet his fingertips still press into your skin to remind you he’s there. he’d smile like he was paying attention to whoever is speaking, but really, he’s planning. imagining. he leans to you, close enough that no one would be able to lip read, but maybe the words he says will carry in the slight breeze. if i had my way, you’d be on my lap right now, and i’d be fucking your tight little hole, his words are accompanied but nothing more than his grip on your thigh tightening. he shifts in his seat, so he’s as close to you as he could possibly be. forty minutes left. he can explain it all in detail. try to keep still, sweetheart. we wouldn’t want others knowing how hearing what i’ll do to you works you up. smug bastard makes it out like he’s not the one edging himself. 

lorgar: zelophilia. his heart rate is through the roof. his breaths are heavy. his hands grip onto the stone wall before him as he watches, knowing he’s powerless to it all. he could kill the man who had his hand on you without thinking, but then he’d no longer feel the ache through his body that grew the fire in the pit of his stomach. he reached his hand down, softly caressing himself through his clothes, eyes never leaving yours. when you finally catch his gaze, he has to stop himself from responding. anyone who looked closely would have noticed the way his eyes begged. and as you lean into the stranger's touch and let them touch what is his, not once breaking eye contact, he digs his thumb into his tip and starts to get himself off. he doesn’t care for anyone else. he just needs the agony of seeing someone with you to remind him that he couldn’t function without you. having you play along too? know exactly what your smile at another does? then go back to him and let him serve and devote himself to you? that is the euphoria he lives for. 

vulkan: lingophilia. he’s a caregiver. he wants to worship you, love you, support you like no other. and what better way to worship than his mouth? he hadn’t thought much of it at first, it was normal to love with every part of him. but something was different. feeling you in his mouth, tasting you, lapping his tongue whether makes you feel best. lay back for me, beloved, he’d say, his larger hands guiding you to a throne of pillows he’d built for you himself, you are meant to be cherished. he’s slow. devoted. relentless in his pursuit of adoring you beyond the realm of any other. he’d have you come multiple times, never expecting anything in return, just wanting to see you writhe from his mouth alone. but it doesn’t stop there. even when he’s buried deep inside you, length covered in your own release, he has his mouth around your nipple, or tracing kisses on your neck, or even finally stealing a kiss from your own lips for once. 

corax: hypoxyphilia. he had his hand around your throat. he’d been hesitant at first to do it, knowing how fragile you were. but when you’d been so eager to feel it, to be completely at his mercy, there was no going back. he’d imagined you’d be a whimpering mess in his arms, but this was different. you were on his lap, back against his chest, completely naked and at his mercy. his fingers gripped your neck tighter, knowing he could still go further without hurting you. his cock throbbed against his thigh as he fucked you with two fingers, working you open. your pretty little hands curled around his wrist and bicep, not wanting him to stop, but wanting to feel more. you like this more than you thought, right little dove? he chuckles to himself as he adds another finger, tightening his grip one more time. should i choke you whilst i fuck you too? he’s not lasting long when he does, if he even makes it that far. 

alpharius: sensory deprivation. it was just a pretty piece of baby blue silk he’d held in his hands, but it meant so much more. he’d been gentle as he tied it over your eyes, reassuring you, you don’t need to see. then you’d felt something slip over your ears, with his words whispered just before he left you with little more, just feel, angel, be good for me. no predictions, no warning – just trust in him. he’d take his time. he’d leave a lingering touch on your inner thigh, but then he’d be tracing your collarbone. his mouth, so warm and inviting, would be on yours, then it’d be tracing somewhere more intimate. he’s right there, touching you, making you feel pleasure like you haven’t before, and then he’s just… not. he can watch from the other side as your press your thighs together and shift on the bed, searching for him. but he’s in control. he decides when you feel good, when you can react, when you finally break. he’d be sitting across from you getting himself off just at the thought.

these are pretty tame. i will do a more taboo version if wanted, i have some ideas but not sure how they will be taken.

anyone want like.. a mournival version, or a night lords brooding pile version. i've got ideas...

[ohbo-ohno]

fic guide

ghost x soap x reader

don't leave me locked in your heart - 20k (ao3)

Soap sees you dancing at a bar and decides you'd make the perfect anniversary present for Ghost, so he tempts you into going home with him one night and simply… doesn't let you leave in the morning.

bunny ears and devil horns - incomplete (ao3)

Since being discharged, your life has been mundane. Safe. Boring. One night in a church with your best-friend-with-benefits Johnny changes that, dragging you into a horror story that leaves the both of you spiraling out of control.

(or: the possessed boyfriend au)

ghost x reader

run until you feel your lungs bleeding - 6.4k (ao3)

You're on the run after finally escaping from your abusive husband's clutches, hitchhiking south along California highways. A strange man in a black mask picks you up, and it doesn't take you long to realize that not every hand offered should be taken.

(or: the hitchhiker au)

animal, sick as they come - 14.3k (on ao3)

Ghost has been starving his whole life. Never enough food to fill his stomach, never enough blood to cover his hands, always leaving him hungry and ready to snap. You’re the supposed solution to his problem, willing or not.

(or: the kidnapped home chef au)

ghost x soap

i'll eat you whole - 10.8k (ao3)

After a terrible accident during a race, Johnny is left abandoned and lost in the forests of Alaska. While looking for shelter, he’s cornered by a bear.

(or: the bear x dog au)

lamb to the slaughter - 26.3k (on ao3)

Recently injured, discharged, and desperate for money, Johnny manages to find a job at a local prison by calling in a favor. What seems like just the blessing he needs to get himself back on his feet quickly becomes his worst nightmare when one of the prisoners fixates on him in the worst way possible.

(or: the prison au)

won't you stay? - 4.3k (ao3)

Ghost can't figure out how to tell Johnny he wants to be together, so he shows him instead.

see the beast - 3.8k

Something is wrong at Price's cabin, but Ghost isn't too upset when he sees what - who - it is.

smutshots

johnny goes to the groomers (1.4k, ghost x soap)

ghoap x reader primal play (3.5k, companion to dlmliyh)

ghoap x trans male reader (1.8k, puppy play pwp)

johnny "wrong hole" mactavish (1.7k, soap x reader pwp)

angry sex with soap (3.6k, soap x reader ft ghost pwp)

ghoap x reader purge au (5.7k)

ghoap x reader alt purge au (4k)

cbf-turned-bully!soap x reader (3.5k)

perverts!priceghost x reader (3.8k,)

au's without full fics (yet?)

a/b/o au (mostly alpha ghost/alpha soap/omega reader)

soulmate au

serial killer ghoap x reader (and x blind reader)

conqueror ghost x princess reader x knight johnny

zombie apocalypse ghoap x reader

writing challenges

1,000 follower celebration

kinktober 2023 (70k, 31 chapters)

kinktober 2024 (28.8k, only 12 days completed)

NOT call of duty

CHALLENGERS

you’re obsessin’ (just confess it) - 7.6k (on ao3)

Tashi convinces Art to let her invite Patrick into their bed for just one night, but Art hadn't quite realized he wasn't invited too.

THE HUNGER GAMES

not built but woven (my head and your heart) - 13.4k (on ao3)

Katniss gives her children Covey names.

THE LAST OF US

bleeding through her fingers (a treasure in her hands) - 12.3k (on ao3)

Toxic lesbians.

[reiderwriter]

◇ Fixated ◇

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: You're determined to keep both your job and your relationship intact when there are rules against dating your coworkers. Your boyfriend is more determined to keep his tongue on certain parts of you he enjoys very much.

Warnings: Day 24 of Kinktober - Oral Sex, Munch!Spencer, multiple orgasms, face sitting, begging, slight BDSM themes, Spencer is a dom if you squint, reader calls herself a whore idk man this one just got me feeling some feelings.

A/N: I'm loving being back on track with posting now, and I'm hoping to get through a lot more of these tomorrow to finish up all the posts this week! Sorry again for all the late kinktober posts, but i hope you're enjoying them now that they're here 🥰

Months into your wonderful job in the BAU, and your possibly more wonderful relationship with Spencer Reid, you were all too aware of the horror stories of office relationships.

You'd spent enough time around a tipsy and lamenting David Rossi to know that there were some serious rules against office fraternisation, and every time those conversations happened, you felt a chill run down your spine at the thought of losing your job, or losing Spencer or both.

Spencer didn't seem to have such qualms. And recently, he was getting loud about his indifference to such rules.

From early into your relationship (read: since you'd first fucked and then decided you had feelings too), Spencer had been open about just how much he enjoyed pleasuring you. Before he'd even put a finger on your clit he'd fallen to his knees, and you'd somehow gasped out a sarcastic "so it's safer to kiss down there, too?" at him as he glared at you from his place between your legs.

You'd joked about his oral fixation many a time, catching him licking his lips as he stared at you like he wanted to eat you, or the way he enjoyed watching you with his fingers in your own mouth too.

Fact of the matter was, you could count the number of times you'd had sex without him spreading your legs and eating you out like a man starved on one hand. But that had always been with you on your back, in your own home, on your own bed.

Now, he wanted more.

He wanted your entire cunt and ass sat on his face, and he wanted it in the shitty motel you were staying in while on a case.

"Y/N, please, want to taste you so bad." He whispered into your ear as you poured yourself some shitty precinct coffee, waiting for the end of the day as you wrapped up your recent case.

You had one night left in the motel until you could be back at home

Honestly, you were going to give in, but there was something about his desperation that had you on edge, so sure that you were about to get caught because he wanted to make you cum so badly, and suffocate himself in the process.

"Spencer, not the time or place. What if someone hears you?"

"I don't care who hears, I just want you."

The words sent shivers up your spine and you were about to reply when Hotch walked in and dismissed you to your motel rooms, telling you to rest up for the night before the flight home in the morning.

Before Spencer could open his mouth again and say something incriminating, you had to beat him to the punch.

"Spencer, you can finally read that book I was going to lend you. It's in my room, you know the one I did the oral exam on in college." It was giving in, but you were still going to enjoy it as much as you possibly could, starting with teasing him the entire way there.

"Sure. Can I come pick it up now? We're driving back together anyway, right?" You nodded, and the two of you shuffled back to the car, trying to contain yourselves and walk a normal pace to not betray your obvious excitement.

The minute you're inside the motel room, he practically jumps you, pressing his lips to yours between small gasps for breath.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you, can't wait to taste you again." He can barely keep his lips off you while he straps you down, and you barely protest him taking such control, his eagerness doing a lot to dispel any hesitancy you may have had about seating yourself on his face.

"Are you sure?" You stutter out trying to ignore the shivers he's sending down your spine as his hands ghost over your clit, making sure your body wants this and is prepped for his tongue.

"I've never been so desperate for something in my entire life." Sitting himself on the bed, he greedily pulled you over him, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you suddenly into his mouth.

Shocked by his fast motions, you gasped out, grasping the rickety bedpost at first, trying to keep your breathing steady and your weight mostly off of him as he began assaulting your dripping cunt.

You'd been aroused before, now you were damn near feverish with want.

"Fuck Spencer," you whispered, hearing the sound of voices in the next room. It sounded like Hotch calling Beth and Jack to tell them he'd be returning soon. Wrapping a hand around your mouth to suppress the moans your thighs squeezed together quickly before you tried to relax as he continued.

He didn't respond but simply yanked you down further into him, slapping your ass to let you know he could take more of you, that he needed more.

You tried to fight it, but with his tongue so expertly working its way along all your sensitive spots and his nose wedged up towards your clit, you couldn't help but settle deeper onto him.

Panting like a whore, you began rocking yourself against him even as he worked you through your first orgasm, not showing any signs of slowing anytime soon.

Usually he'd mollified himself with one oral orgasm and then pushed into your cunt to spend himself inside you, but this time, he obviously wasn't finished yet.

Your entire body twitched in over stimulation, trying to pull away from his lavishing tongue, but his grip was strong, and your legs like jelly. You couldn't move as he pushed you over the edge with his tongue and mouth a second, third, and fourth time, enjoying how you gushed into his mouth across the hours.

You really had to collapse that last time, though, finally prying your lips open and using your safe word to ensure that he knew to stop.

"Good girl, baby, well done. You made me very happy, baby, you know that, right?"

You smiled faintly as you noticed the tent in his boxers, rolling over onto your back and spreading your legs.

"If you're done with your head between my legs, I can think of something else I want there."

He smiled like a kid in a candy shop and rolled back over you, ready to deal with the ache in his cock, kissing you with your own juices staining his lips.

[riddle-me-ri]

Hey there!! No rush to get to this but could I request a headcanon list for the dork squad (+ penguin) x reader? I’m a sucker for pampering my f/os and I’d love to see your headcanons on how a spa/pamper day would go with these fellas,, heaven knows they deserve it

- vintage-selfshipper (for some reason, tumblr won’t let me ask with my side blogs womp womp)

a/n: aahhh it's okay no worries vintage ( @vintage-selfshipper )lol but thanks for taking the time to specify, this was such an adorable idea and I hope you and the others enjoy pampering these wee dorks!

Pampering the BTAS Dork Squad and BTAS Penguin

BTAS Riddler

- Edward is thrilled!

- Edward has heard of all sorts of different routines and treatments but never imagined actually doing any of them…

- Let alone with..someone he adores.

- He enjoys watching you tend to his nails and skin…

- Not to mention the close proximity it provides.

- Ed tries to keep his cool by prattling about some riddles or mysteries he’s recently fixated on–or a new possible toy idea he pondered about.

- You smile and nod, listening intently, glad to see your enigmatic partner truly relax and be comfortable with you.

BTAS Scarecrow

- Jonathan is a little hesitant at first..

- For one, he's never exactly been pampered before…

- Secondly, he isn't quite sure how to feel about having all this doting attention on him.

- You were able to coax him into it by giving him a small little massage to his shoulders and upper back-

- As his protests begin to die down as you continue your ministrations–

- You feel encouraged to continue further down his back, to even his legs and feet…

- It's quite easy to lull him into anything when you've massaged him into putty.

BTAS Mad Hatter

- You had to explain that it was you pampering him and not the other way around..

- Jervis’ face heats up, but he can't deny he enjoys the idea of being doted on by his beloved.

- You've washed his face and hair and trimmed a tiny bit off his bangs-

- Which led you to devote some time to rake your fingers through his fluffy golden hair and gently rubbed certain parts of his scalp.

- You couldn't help but giggle as you noticed Jervis slowly dozing off in your lap.

- You leaned down a couple of times and kissed different spots on his face.

- Each one caused a small contented smile to stretch across Jervis’ sleepy face.

BTAS Penguin

- Oswald would be all for a pamper day! After all he loves nothing more than to spoil you–

- Oh, you mean…you want to pamper him?

- You don’t need to, really, honestly, t-that’s his job, and he’s more than happy!

- It takes some convincing, but Oz does see it as a way for you two to spend some much needed quality time together.

- Whatever you do to Oz, Oz mirrors the same action towards you.

- If you help him put on a face mask–its only fair that he does the same for you…

- It's a new kind of intimacy that Oswald never even considered, and now he can’t get enough of it.

[koiiiso]

Sweetpea.

Batfam/Murderous Reader

Warnings: Based on Rhiannon Lewis from Sweetpea, yayyy, Possible NSFW, and uhh, deaths? R is just wrong in the brain.

Just a silly prologue deal, might make a series, this is just a combination of stuff I like and in specific, I’m paraphrasing Sweetpea from what I can recall. RHIANNON IS AN ASS SO R WILL BE ONE TOO, SO HAH. This was also rushed as hell and is real short because I was bored so yay!!

╰┈➤ ˎˊ˗

People are really full of shit, you decided that long ago and it cannot be more present than now. They feed off of compliments, some competition, and others, real freaks, like to be degraded and left alone, fuckers like pain.

Sitting across from you was your personal group of PICT, ‘People I Can Tolerate’. You didn’t really like anyone but you didn’t want to be a complete loner. If you were one that meant more people would be suspicious of you and that couldn’t stand, you still have people in your closet hidden deep down there in their own seven pits of hell.

They were ‘work friends’, some annoying, others not as much. Wayne Enterprises had everything really, and most recently, a news area. The most annoying would be your personal boss. George White. It was a basic name for a basic man. He was plump and red when he was angry, like an apple maybe.

He was full of shit.

They all were.

You hated your job, ‘recent’ by company means was four years, and you’ve been there for that long. Four fucking years and that asshat barely lets you do jack. You wanted to write but he remained ultimately fixated on denying you that. You gritted your teeth, silently smiling and glaring at him while your aggression with the fork and knife against your food increased, subtly of course. You needed to control yourself.

You could imagine his death really. He would be silently walking, take a shortcut through an alleyway, and with his back turned you would throw yourself on his back and stab him, getting soaked in his blood as his red skin looses the color, fading to the paleness he never allowed to reign show. He was constantly pissed on and could only stop being so shitty when he joins the few you’ve already killed.

Whatever.

The only reason he was at the table with the ‘PICT’ is because he wants to stick his dick in the newest edition of the group, a younger intern, barely legal too. Maybe that’s enough of a reason to kill him. No one would really notice because it’s Gotham of all places. He could be labeled an anonymous victim and no one could say otherwise.

He wasn’t important, he was forgettable and replaceable, you’ll have your chance later.

The dinner was a company one, all sections of Wayne Enterprises gathered one day a year for whatever shitty announcements were to arrive. You couldn’t really care, you hated your job, but it had some of the best benefits for your experience and degree.

You wanted a raise, yet you can’t ask for one or else you’ll never get one. People were weird about that. You were like an assistant to everyone in your section, nothing more than a face to demand things of and look pretty.

You were also technically the receptionist so when people came in to yell and whine and moan about the news and portrayal, you were the first face to be screamed at. It helped you more with containing your emotions though. It was that sheer training that kept you from killing the red, fat faced, Mr White.

The announcements came and went, Mr Wayne shifted the control of his company to his nepo baby of the hour, Tim Drake. Apparently your department is gonna be expanding due to positive reception and blah blah blah, all that. Apparently it was so well that George got a fucking raise and he didn’t even deserve it.

It was finally over, yet rain came and you’re back in that jacket. It was black and heavy, a raincoat in the sense it shielded you, and it also kept your identity safe. It was perfect.

Footsteps in front of you mixed with puddles, and Mr White takes a turn to that alleyway. You followed him, the pocket knife it ins rightful place of your hands seemed to boil. You could get away with it.

You slow your steps and approach, waiting and waiting until he goes to a halt at the dead end the alley, and you take your chance.

You push your weight upon him, knife going to his neck and pushing through the chubby skin, reached deeper and deeper until your remove it, your right hand fitted over his mouth. He screamed and kicked and bit, and despite your own stature, you succeeded.

His corpse laid down, now beneath you. You silently move him into the heavy duty trash cans with some strain. You can’t wait to get home, to Tink and all of your collectibles.

You finish the job, the rain washing away your mess. You wrap your jacket around your waist next. Blood stains are a commodity yet you won’t take any chances.

You left the alley, unaware of the eyes that watched you, curious and demeaning.