#semi-supervised learning

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Discover the fundamentals of Machine Learning algorithms through our comprehensive guide. This simplified overview breaks down the essential principles behind ML algorithms, making it easier to grasp their concepts and applications. Perfect for anyone eager to delve into the world of artificial intelligence. Stay informed with Softlabs Group for more insightful content on cutting-edge technologies.

[govindhtech]

Define machine learning: 5 machine learning types to know

Machine learning (ML) can be used in computer vision, large language models (LLMs), speech recognition, self-driving cars, and many more use cases to make decisions in healthcare, human resources, finance, and other areas.

However, ML’s rise is complicated. ML validation and training datasets are generally aggregated by humans, who are biased and error-prone. Even if an ML model isn’t biased or erroneous, using it incorrectly can cause harm.

Diversifying enterprise AI and ML usage can help preserve a competitive edge. Distinct ML algorithms have distinct benefits and capabilities that teams can use for different jobs. IBM will cover the five main categories and their uses.

Define machine learning

ML is a computer science, data science, and AI subset that lets computers learn and improve from data without programming.

ML models optimize performance utilizing algorithms and statistical models that deploy jobs based on data patterns and inferences. Thus, ML predicts an output using input data and updates outputs as new data becomes available.

Machine learning algorithms recommend products based on purchasing history on retail websites. IBM, Amazon, Google, Meta, and Netflix use ANNs to make tailored suggestions on their e-commerce platforms. Retailers utilize chat bots, virtual assistants, ML, and NLP to automate shopping experiences.

Machine learning types

Supervised, unsupervised, semi-supervised, self-supervised, and reinforcement machine learning algorithms exist.

1.Supervised machine learning

Supervised machine learning trains the model on a labeled dataset with the target or outcome variable known. Data scientists constructing a tornado predicting model might enter date, location, temperature, wind flow patterns, and more, and the output would be the actual tornado activity for those days.

Several algorithms are employed in supervised learning for risk assessment, image identification, predictive analytics, and fraud detection.

Regression algorithms predict output values by discovering linear correlations between actual or continuous quantities (e.g., income, temperature). Regression methods include linear regression, random forest, gradient boosting, and others.

Labeling input data allows classification algorithms to predict categorical output variables (e.g., “junk” or “not junk”). Logistic regression, k-nearest neighbors, and SVMs are classification algorithms.

Naïve Bayes classifiers enable huge dataset classification. They’re part of generative learning algorithms that model class or category input distribution. Decision trees in Naïve Bayes algorithms support regression and classification techniques.

Neural networks, with many linked processing nodes, replicate the human brain and can do natural language translation, picture recognition, speech recognition, and image generation.

Random forest methods combine decision tree results to predict a value or category.

2. Unsupervised machine learning

Apriori, Gaussian Mixture Models (GMMs), and principal component analysis (PCA) use unlabeled datasets to make inferences, enabling exploratory data analysis, pattern detection, and predictive modeling.

Cluster analysis is the most frequent unsupervised learning method, which groups data points by value similarity for customer segmentation and anomaly detection. Association algorithms help data scientists visualize and reduce dimensionality by identifying associations between data objects in huge databases.

K-means clustering organizes data points by size and granularity, clustering those closest to a centroid under the same category. Market, document, picture, and compression segmentation use K-means clustering.

Hierarchical clustering includes agglomerative clustering, where data points are isolated into groups and then merged iteratively based on similarity until one cluster remains, and divisive clustering, where a single data cluster is divided by data point differences.

Probabilistic clustering group’s data points by distribution likelihood to tackle density estimation or “soft” clustering problems.

Often, unsupervised ML models power “customers who bought this also bought…” recommendation systems.

3. Self-supervised machine learning

Self-supervised learning (SSL) lets models train on unlabeled data instead of enormous annotated and labeled datasets. SSL algorithms, also known as predictive or pretext learning algorithms automatically classify and solve unsupervised problems by learning one portion of the input from another. Computer vision and NLP require enormous amounts of labeled training data to train models, making these methods usable.

4. Reinforcement learning

Dynamic programming dubbed reinforcement learning from human feedback (RLHF) trains algorithms using reward and punishment. To use reinforcement learning, an agent acts in a given environment to achieve a goal. The agent is rewarded or penalized based on a measure (usually points) to encourage good behavior and discourage negative behavior. Repetition teaches the agent the optimum methods.

Video games often use reinforcement learning techniques to teach robots human tasks.

5. Semi-supervised learning

The fifth machine learning method combines supervised and unsupervised learning.

Semi-supervised learning algorithms learn from a small labeled dataset and a large unlabeled dataset because the labeled data guides the learning process. A semi-supervised learning algorithm may find data clusters using unsupervised learning and label them using supervised learning.

Semi-supervised machine learning uses generative adversarial networks (GANs) to produce unlabeled data by training two neural networks.

ML models can gain insights from company data, but their vulnerability to human/data bias makes ethical AI practices essential.

Manage multiple ML models with watstonx.ai.

Whether they employ AI or not, most people use machine learning, from developers to users to regulators. Adoption of ML technology is rising. Global machine learning market was USD 19 billion in 2022 and is predicted to reach USD 188 billion by 2030 (a CAGR of almost 37%).

The size of ML usage and its expanding business effect make understanding AI and ML technologies a key commitment that requires continuous monitoring and appropriate adjustments as technologies improve. IBM Watsonx.AI Studio simplifies ML algorithm and process management for developers.

IBM Watsonx.ai, part of the IBM Watsonx AI and data platform, leverages generative AI and a modern business studio to train, validate, tune, and deploy AI models faster and with less data. Advanced data production and classification features from Watsonx.ai enable enterprises optimize real-world AI performance with data insights.

In the age of data explosion, AI and machine learning are essential to corporate operations, tech innovation, and competition. However, as new pillars of modern society, they offer an opportunity to diversify company IT infrastructures and create technologies that help enterprises and their customers.

Read more on Govindhtech.com

[eraenaa]

Worth the Price

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister Reader

Synopsis: Aemond does everything to prove that he is worthy of you— even if it means that he would be a kinslayer twice.

Warnings: Aemond Plots Against Aegon, Oral Sex (f & m receiving), Mature, 18+, Semi-Public Relations, Choking, Edging, P in V Sex, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 5,585

A/N: Reposting bc I was uncertain about this dynamic, but fuck it, I have a soft spot for a Lannister reader and cannot let it rest in my drafts.

Aemond had wanted you since he was young, but as a second son, he would always come second best to his brother. You were a daughter of house Lannister, betrothed to Aegon the moment you were born, an alliance not to keep their Valyrain blood pure but rather to be mixed with gold. You had grown in the walls of the keep, taken from your mother’s arms a few moons after your birth, and grew up under the supervision of your uncle, Tyland Lannister, as a measure to keep you acquainted with your betrothed, Aegon. 

However, such arrangements instilled since your infancy were changed when Queen Alicent was offered a bastard for her only daughter. The queen was quick to cut the engagement made in your infancy and instead betrothed her firstborn son to her firstborn daughter, offering Aemond as your consolation prize. Aemond, who was ten at the time, was thrilled to hear of such arrangements, finally gaining one of the things his heart yearned for the most: you. However, he could see the quiet and greatly covered disappointment not only in your house but in you as well— you were set to be queen, now you were now only to be the lady-wife of a mere second-born son. 

Aemond never truly heard such qualms leave your lips. He was fortunate enough that you had always been keen and kind to him in childhood, and your affection for him only grew in time. But he could not help but be affected by your quiet and greatly oppressed disappointment. For the first ten years of your life, you were prepared and molded to be a queen, hours of unending lessons on how to play the part wasted as you were to be bound to a mere second son. Aemond could not stand for it. He ambitioned to be so much more. He could not stand to be just the second. Second son, second in line, second in your heart. 

“My love, are you listening?” You asked as your husband’s gaze was afar, and you had noticed his attention was not on you. You furrowed your brows as he made no reply, tugging at his arm to bring him out of his trance. “I— I apologize, my heart, I was thinking of another matter,” You pursed your lips and hummed, “And praytell, what matter may that be? Certainly, it is of much importance that you have started ignoring me,” Aemond bit his lip to hinder his amused smirk; he just absolutely adored how you were never afraid to voice out and demand his undivided attention— in others, he would find that absolutely insufferable, but of course, that sentiment was not the same for his dear lady-wife. 

Aemond sighed and could not help but kiss you, unbothered that you two were in the halls and anyone could walk in and see such passion exuding from his usually stoic and rigged demeanor. As your lips parted and Aemond’s body was alight by the feel of your lips and the taste of you, you simply raised your brow, silently urging him to tell the matters that plagued his mind. Aemond tucked a strand of your golden hair and sighed once more, “Nothing— just mere matters of the realm that the king is too incompetent to comprehend and tend to,” You nodded, “Then he is lucky to have you— his brother forever capable and loyal to him and the kingdom,” Aemond bit his tongue. “You must steer him in the right direction, my love. We are already at war; we cannot have the kingdom in shambles because of Aegon’s squandering self. You have always been the diligent one, unending hours poured into learning the histories of your house and training with your sword… your great knowledge must be exercised greatly in this hour of war.” Aemond could only nod his agreement. You smiled and cupped his cheek, tracing his scar, and you hummed as Aemond pressed his cheek further into your soft palm. 

“Now go; I believe that it is the hour of the small council. Best be there and see to it that your brother does not humiliate your family’s claim to the throne further,” You say, reluctantly urging him to let go of his hold on you, even though you were always quick to miss his touch. Aemond shook his head, “Do not be so stubborn,” you said, and you smiled further when Aemond wrapped both of his arms around your waist. You rose to the tip of your toes and pecked your husband’s lips as encouragement. Even though you had shared his kisses countless of times, you still felt the quiet tingle on your plush lips as you two did such actions. “Very well then, I shall do whatever my lady-wife should ask of me,” He said against your lips, making your smile widen. You parted and tried to walk off, but Aemond took hold of your wrist and pulled you back to him, a laugh escaping from your lips, and you rested your hands atop his chest. “And where are you off to?” 

You smirked, “To some engagements for the court that I offered Helaena reprieve from. And after, you shall find me in our chambers… warming our bed… waiting impatiently for you.” You whispered the final part, watching as Aemond’s lilac eye darkened with want, pupils dilated that it made your core turn— finding it utterly flattering how quickly your husband will always grow in want of you. “Now go; the quicker you are to attend the meeting, the quicker they are to end, and you can be my arms.” You said and gave a final kiss on your husband’s cheek before hastily walking off, afraid that Aemond’s wants would get the better of him and take you against the alcove in the hall; it had occurred once or twice before. 

Aemond stomped off the room of the small council after a rather aggravating session with his brother. Seeing Aegon be so clueless with the matters of the realm and the war was pathetic. And in a way, Aemond found great satisfaction in that— seeing Aegon struggle to comprehend his words as he spoke in the ancient tongue, his brother unable to articulate even just one sentence without stammering like a simpleton was quite amusing but overly embarrassing. As the meeting ended, Aemond was quick to rise to his feet and leave, overly impatient to be with you— savoring every second in your arms before he had to leave quietly in the night to make good of his secret plottings with Ser Criston. 

Aemond walked the halls that led to his chambers, each step fervent and quick. The fading sun illuminated his chambers when he entered, setting it aglow in an amber hue. “I’ve been waiting,” Aemond heard you breathlessly call, his head quickly turning to your bed; he squinted his eye as he could not see you through the canopy covers. Aemond wasted no time to march in your direction; his breath caught in his throat as he saw your figure covered by nothing but a thin sheet that was comparable to what the whores in the street of silk wore. You lounged laxly in the middle of the bed, your body in full display for your husband, who stared at you dumbfounded and filled with desire. 

“Seven hells,” Aemond could not help but mutter in pure amazement. His knees felt weak, and his stomach coiled painfully in burning want of you. “Do you not like it?” You frowned as he only stood there, you feigned innocence— of course, you knew he would like it. You knew your husband better than he knew himself. Having grown up with him, you knew every possible thing there is to know about Aemond. Aegon may have been your betrothed at the start, but you were not at all keen to know him to such a deeper level than you had his brother. 

You went to the edge of the bed to meet your husband, who stood by the foot of it, kneeling before him as he hungrily raked his gaze through your body, yet he still did not dare to move. “Has my display rendered you simple, my prince?” You asked lowly, peeking up at him through your lashes and watching as the ball on his throat bobbed and hearing how his breathing turned ragged. You hummed and raised your hand to caress his cheek, rising higher to be met with his face, slyly pushing your breast against his clothed chest. Aemond groaned at just the simple feeling of that. You ghosted your lips against his jaw and neck, your fingers effortlessly undoing the buckles of his leather doublet. 

Your hand slowly trailed south after you had successfully removed his upper clothing; you heard the catch in Aemond’s breath as your fingers trailed his toned chest and torso. Every single inch of him was carved by the gods and embodied a warrior. Aemond hissed as he felt you cup his needing length through his trousers, watching as a sly smirk rose to your lips. “I see that you are quite… tense, my love,” You whispered against his lips, catching as his eye fluttered to a close as you added pressure into his length. “I am.” He gritted, and your smirk widened. “Hm… tell me then what do you need— what do you want, my prince?” You taunted and felt him shudder as you slipped your hand into his trousers, finally letting him feel skin against skin.

“I want… I need you, little wife. I desperately need you,” He muttered as his eye opened. Aemond moved to kiss your lips, but you instead lowered yourself to be met with his length, yanking down his trousers and letting your lips wrap around the tip of his needing and weeping cock. Aemond’s hands lost themselves in your hair, fisting the gold strands in utter pleasure, hissing as you sucked his length, urging yourself to take his cock deeper into your throat. Lewd sounds of your and Aemond’s heavy breathing, along with you gagging on his cock echoed through the chambers. Quiet praises leave your husband’s lips as you pleasure him with your mouth. You reached out to fondle his stones, earning a loud groan from him, and his head tilted to the heavens. Aemond could only stand there and marvel at you, his eye torn as to what to stare upon, your pretty face or your ample behind that hung in the air and squirmed with each of your pleasurable movements. He began to wonder what he had done to have you as his lady wife and pondered the ways he could prove himself worthy of you. 

Aemond felt himself ready to come undone, and he forcefully slipped out his cock from your lips, earning a whine from you. “Had I done something wrong?” You panted as you wiped away the traces of drool on your chin, looking up at Aemond with slight hurt in your eyes. Your husband was quick to shake his head and cup your cheeks, “No— you could never do me wrong, my heart,” He reassured, but you felt yourself pout and wonder as to why he had ceased your actions, if you were being honest, you quite enjoyed sucking his cock. 

“Then wh—“ Your words were left unfinished as you felt Aemond cup your dripping heat. Your eyes widened, and the earlier smirk on your lips had now flown to your husband’s. “Already so wet for me… you are a saint, my heart. Tending to my needs first even though you yourself are in desperate want of release.” Aemond hummed as your eyes rolled back; he effortlessly slipped two digits into your dripping core. You mewled out his name, squealing as he curled the digits and as his thumb fervently rubbed your sensitive pearl. “I want your cock,” You said distractedly, any form of decorum or chasteness gone as your want for Aemond had made you utterly desperate. 

Aemond let out an amused breath, “Of course you do,” He taunted and smashed his lips unto yours. You clawed at his toned arm as you felt your release bubbling, but before you could finally feel the climax you sought, Aemond parted your lips and ceased the pleasure of his fingers. You whined, glaring at your husband, who only stared down at you in amusement as he brought his fingers to his lips and licked off your essence. “Patience, my heart. All that you want shall come in due time,” He whispered his oath, and you huffed as he walked away, leaving you to wonder what had gotten into his mind. 

You lay on the bed as your husband went to one corner of your chambers. Your legs were spread, and your cunt was pulsating in need. You could not help yourself as your fingers slipped along the wet folds, holding back your moans as you touched yourself because you could not wait for your husband to give you your release. Aemond stilled as he heard your once still breathing hitch and the distant and quiet sound of your wetness. He turned to the bed and saw as your back was arched, and your fingers disappeared to pleasure your cunt. 

He took large strides only to witness you on the verge of an orgasm that he had denied you of. You groaned as Aemond took hold of your wrist, your second time being denied your release. “You’re being cruel, husband,” You whined as you stared up at your husband, a wicked glint in his eye. “Please, Aemond… I need you,” You breathed out, and all he did was hum. That was then you realized he held something in his other hand. You sat up, skin slick with a thin sheen of sweat. Aemond moved his lips to pepper kisses on the side of your neck, bitting to leave his mark as a reminder as to who you belonged to. 

“Open it,” Aemond murmured against your skin as he placed a velvet box into your hands. You frowned as he continued on to pepper kisses on your neck and down the swell of your breasts, ripping off the thin sheet you had worn. You did as he told and felt a gasp escape your lips as you saw what was inside and as his fingers pinched the bud of your tit. “W—What is this for?” You said mind befuddled as you did not know where to focus, your husband’s gift or his pleasure. “It is for you, of course.” He said plainly, took the ruby tiara into his hands, and moved to place it atop your head. Aemond grew further with need at the sight of you flushed and naked; the only thing you had on was the tiara he had commissioned for you. 

You stared up at your husband in wonder, “I— It’s lovely… thank you, but my love, I am in no position to warrant a tiara— it is rather inappropriate, do you not think?” You asked and tried your best to focus as Aemond fondled your breasts. Aemond placed open kisses onto the side of your breasts, trying to form his words. “Aemond,” You called and Feld his face to look you in the eye. You delicately took off his eye patch as his lips pursed. “What is this for?” You asked once again. 

“Do you wish to be queen?” He instead asked you, and you were rendered speechless. “Do not deny it, my heart… You were born and bred with the purpose of being queen of the seven kingdoms.” He sighed, and you tried to find your words. “Even now, you bear the duties of a Queen that Helaena cannot tend to,” He added, as you were always by his sister’s side, aiding her with her duties until she all together left the role up to you. You let out a heavy breath. “I… Sometimes I do— seeing that was my whole purpose, why I was taken out of my parents’ care and instead raised here to do what was expected of me.” You admitted and felt your heart pit as Aemond avoided your gaze. “But I’d rather have married you than be queen.” You quickly added. 

“I may have wanted the title, Aemond… but I want you more. I am perfectly content with just being your wife,” You reassured, but something in Aemond burned in anger. Anger at the gods as to why he was born the second son— anger at himself as to why he had to seek out Aegon instead of just letting him escape. You sighed as you rested your forehead against Aemond’s, “Do you believe me?” You questioned and waited for his reply. Aemond bit his tongue not completely believing that you were perfectly content with your station because even he was not contented. He knew envy was a lesser emotion that he must not succumb to, but it was inevitable, especially as he bore witness to how his brother squandered off the most coveted station in the kingdom. He gave a nod and connected your lips, deciding to lay the matter to rest for the moment. 

You sighed and steadied yourself as he hoisted you on his lap, moans leaving your lips as you sank down on his cock. Aemond’s breathing labored as he felt your tight cunt around his length and as your nails left traces along his back. “Oh… gods, Aemond—“ You cried as you rocked your hips, the tip of his cock hitting the perfect spot that made your back arch and your eyes rolled back in utter pleasure. Your moans filled his ears, and Aemond could only hum with satisfaction. “You sound like such a whore, little wife,” he muttered as he reached downwards to trace circles on your nubbin. You could only whine louder, too focused as you bounced on his cock and sought out your high. “Such a vision you are… bouncing on my cock and moaning out my name with a tiara on your pretty head.” 

Aemond’s other hand harshly gripped your tit as he was overwhelmed by the feel of you. “So perfect you are,” He praised, and you smirked at him through the haze of pleasure, your cunt clenching further as you had always loved when he would compliment you. “Such a perfect wife— you would have been wasted on my squandering brother.” He gritted and groaned as you clenched around him tightly and as you nodded your head in agreement. “I was meant to be yours, Aemond,” You breathed as you felt your skin alight with your nearing climax. “You’re mine… all mine.” He groaned as you came undone, your loud moans spurring his own release. “All yours,” You swore and watched as his face contorted in pleasure. 

You sighed in contentment as you lay on Aemond’s chest and as he ran his hands through your hair. “I must leave,” He suddenly cut the silence. “I must meet with Cole,” You pursed your lips. “I know.” You said, trying not to let the tone of bitterness and concern be heard. Aemond furrowed his brows as he looked down upon you. You raised your gaze to meet his, “I know you, Aemond. I know you better than I know the back of my hand— did you really think I would not figure out that you had plotted secretly with Ser Criston?” You questioned, and Aemond sighed, his heart warming further for you as you uttered such words. 

You sat upright to gain a better view of your husband, Aemond already feeling cold, as you removed yourself from his chest. “Be cautious, my love— do not be so reliant on Vhagar. Swear that you will return to me unscathed.” You implored, and Aemond leaned forward to capture your lips. When your lips parted, whatever tenderness you had was hidden behind your serious and threatening expression, urging your husband to be cautious and vigilant. “You will not make me a widow at only nine and ten, Aemond.” You said, voice overly serious and gaze scorching, but your husband still had the gall to laugh. “I wouldn’t dare to, my heart.” He said and captured your lips once more to seal his oath that he would return to you unharmed. 

The whispers of vipers were deafening. ‘The king was slain,’ they would say. And murmurs had spread that the fall of the king was not caused by the Queen Who Never Was but rather by the One-Eyed Prince. You had stewed in silence as you could not possibly fathom what had happened. The only thing that had kept you sane was a single letter that came from your husband stating that he was well and would fly back and return to you in a day or two. 

You stood in the gardens alone as you pondered upon the whispers spreading around the keep when you felt strong hands wrap around your frame and lips pressing kisses upon your neck. Your tense frame momentarily turned lax at the touch of your husband. “I have missed you, my heart,” He said softly and tried to capture your lips— for him, a week was far too long not to be in your presence. Suspicion rose in you as you heard elation in his voice— elation that was rarely present in him. You turned and saw satisfaction glinting in Aemond’s eye. “What has happened?” You questioned, a sickening feeling in your stomach as your intuition told you that there was something afoot. 

Aemond frowned at the seriousness on your face. “We had won the battle— we had effectively cut off Dragonstone by land, my plan proven effective.” He said, dipping down to try and capture your lips, but you backed away, your movements sending a tinge to Aemond’s heart. “What has happened to Aegon?” You whispered and saw how quickly the satisfaction in your husband’s eye disappeared. “The king was inexperienced in battle— he fought against the qualms of his council, and now he reaps the consequences.” You shook your head as you studied each expression of your husband. “Who had caused his injuries? They are whispering that it was not made by Rhaenys but rather by his own brother… tell me the truth of it, Aemond.” 

Your husband sighed, stirring you to the side, away from prying eyes and ears. “It was an unfortunate incident… but it was a necessary one. The end justifies the means, my heart. You must know this.” He whispered, hoping to see understanding in your eyes, but he could only see horror. Your mind spun at the words your husband said; you felt bile rising to your throat because, within a blink of an eye, you scarcely recognized the man before you— the man you had spent your whole life with, unrecognisable. Aemond felt his heart sink as you shook your head and removed his hold on you, hastily running away from him.  

He knew what he had done was cruel— treasonous, but it was for the greater good. He could not watch idly as his brother commanded the throne even though he was unfit to rule. He could not stand to watch as Aegon squandered away his birthright and made their cause’s claim weak. It was a last resort that he had to succumb to— a last resort to save their faction and to prove himself worthy of you. Your words haunted him; the way you admitted that a part of you wished to be queen and the image of you wearing a tiara of rubies burned into his mind. He had to make it a reality. He needed to be king and have you by his side as his queen.  

You avoided your husband the following days, unable to comprehend what he had somehow become. You had always known he had great ambitions—you would lie if you said that you had not encouraged his, for you as well had your own—but you never meant for it to come to this. You never thought of the possibility that Aemond would kill for the throne. For revenge, yes, but certainly not for his own brother’s station. 

It was the day of Ser Criston’s return when you finally revealed yourself to Aemond. Standing by his side along with his mother as you three peered down on the few soldiers returning from battle, along with a cart that housed the fallen king who was clinging to life. You stared head-on as you felt the questioning and almost spiteful stare of the Queen Mother towards your husband. Not an ounce of remorse was shown by Aemond as he proudly wore the Valyrian steel dagger. 

The queen walked off, ready to meet her firstborn son, and you moved to follow, but your husband took hold of your upper arm and forced you to look upon him. “How long will you ignore me, little wife?” He hummed, growing impatient with each day of your ignorance of him. You stayed quiet, unable to meet his gaze. It was torture for you as well— you had missed your husband greatly, but the guilt you felt by his actions, which you knew were partly because of you, was greater. You long tried to hide your disappointment as you were not made queen; you thought it cruel that they had taken you away from the arms of your mother moments after your birth just to be raised in the keep and groomed to be the perfect and dotting wife of a king and take it all away with just one notion. 

All those years of effort and sacrifices were wasted. But you did not dwell on it further as they presented Aemond to be your husband instead. You knew he believed you and your family see him as a consolation prize— and for your house, he was, but for you, you would gladly trade away all the gold in your house’s coffers and the crown for Aemond. You had loved him ever since you two were children; you were intended for Aegon, but your heart had always longed for his younger brother. It was a shame that he could not see it until now. 

It was flattering that he tried to prove himself to you— that he says he does not deserve you, but you could never agree to such sentiments because you knew in yourself that you were meant to be his. It pains you that whatever you say, whatever you do to reassure him that you are happy and content in his arms, even without the prestige of titles, he still does not believe you. 

Aemond felt his heart twist further as you shook your head and walked off. He followed you quietly as you two ventured to the chambers of the king to bear witness to the price of ambition. You could not will yourself to walk in; the distant sight of Aegon filled with burns, clinging to life, along with his death rattle breathing, was enough for you to flee away. Aemond watched as you stumbled through the halls, unable to bear the sight of what he had done. It was only then did Aemond felt guilt. Not guilt for what he had done to his brother but guilt as he saw your reaction— it was only then did he realized that the weight of his actions would affect his lady-wife as well. 

It was sundown when your uncle sought you out. Telling you what had transpired in the small council and how Aemond was named Prince Regent. He as well questioned you as to what you knew about the battle in Rook’s Rest and if your husband had confided in you any secrets, as all who had returned from the battlefield kept a tight lip. You said not a word. Your loyalty to your husband has proven to be greater than your guilt for Aegon’s state. 

“Greatly unfortunate as the events were… I must say that the council and I are relieved that your husband shall see to the concerns of the Realm.” Your uncle muttered, and you sat stiffly in your seat. “Really?” You asked in a small voice. “King Aegon might be the firstborn, but all are aware that Aemond has the tact to rule. Let us pray that he would lead our side to victory— his brother certainly cannot.” He sighed as he stood, kissing your cheek as he exited your private chambers, leaving you to ponder on his words. 

A storm came at night, and you could not find rest as your husband was not by your side. The rain and thunder always made you uneasy, and at times like these, you greatly relied on Aemond for comfort. You walked the path to your marital chambers and peeked inside, only to see your husband was absent. You walked along the cold halls of the keep, searching for Aemond in his usual spots, but to no avail. Your feet carried you to the great hall, and there you found him, staring upon the iron throne. You bit your lip as you studied him, staring at the prize of his efforts. 

Aemond felt a presence join him, and he turned his gaze and was met with you. “Was it worth the price?” You questioned, a steely look on his face as he thought over your words. You stood still as your husband took slow strides towards you. “If it proves me worthy of you, then it does.” You let out a breath as he said the words. “Aemond… how many times must I repeat myself— you do not need to prove yourself to me. I— I love you unconditionally. I do not need the throne or a crown… can you still not see that all I want is you?” 

Aemond cupped your cheek, and you leaned into his touch. “What’s done is done. We need not dwell on this matter, my heart. What is important is that we got what we wanted— we finally have what we deserve.” He whispered, lips flying towards yours. You felt weak as your lips entangled with your husband’s. “This… this is not right.” You whispered as his kisses trailed down to your neck and to the valley of your breasts, his fingers slipping off the shift you wore, leaving you standing bare in the middle of the throne room. “What is not right is that our efforts and potential are wasted as those who are unfit for the title, rule. We were made for the throne, my heart… stop resisting it; you know it is the truth.” 

You breathed heavily as you watched your husband fall to his knees, and his lips kissed your cunny. “Admit what you want, my heart.” His voice muffled against your skin, your hands moving to grip his hair and steady yourself as his tongue drew circles upon your cunt. You feel him grip your thighs, urging you to speak. “You… I want you.” You cried, desperately writhing your cunt against his face. “And?” He questioned, and you tilted your head back, your climax quick to come as your body ached for your husband’s touch. “To be queen… I want you and be queen,” You admitted with a gasp as you felt his tongue enter your dripping core. Aemond smirked against your cunt; his body fueled with need as he tasted your essence. When you came undone, he greedily licked and lapped any remnants of your release, not at all conscious that you two may be caught in such compromising situations. 

You watched through the haze of your release as your husband stood and undid his trousers. Your gaze followed him as he stood behind you and slipped in his length; your loud, surprised moan echoed through the empty hall and was accompanied by the clap of thunder. You cried as Aemond mercilessly pounded into your cunt, your dazed gazes planted on the throne. You gasped for air as Aemond wrapped his calloused hand around your throat and urged you to rest your weight on his leather-covered chest; all the while, his thrusts were relentless. “Are you to come? Are you to come before the throne, my wife?” He taunted in your ear, biting the lobe, and you could only cry in pleasure, your body arching and your hips meeting each of his thrusts. “Yes… yes!” You cried as his other hand returned to its usual torment and drew circles upon your cunt. 

You threw your head back upon Aemond’s shoulders as you were met with your second release. With a few more thrusts, you feel him come undone, his seed filling your cunt, and he could only hope that it would finally take, for he surely needed heirs. Aemond turned your head to face his and kissed your lips, finally feeling a speck of calm in his raging being, for he knew he had secured the station that you both deserved. 

As you two tried to relish in the calm brought by your climaxes, outside the great hall, the castle was in an uproar as the king drew in his last breath. Men searching for the prince regent to inform him of the dire news. They scoured every corner of the castle and soon found their new king seated on the iron throne with his queen bouncing on his cock, Aemond fucking her in their rightful place.

[golddustwomanwins]

Could you do brothers best friend but with Patrick as your brother 😦?? I would eat this up 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

SALT AIR

Art Donaldson x Best friend’s sister reader

18+

Art’s life had been measured in summers ever since he met Patrick at the academy. Art was a nice guy, he talked to people a lot, had many mutuals but none of them really stuck around or actually knew him. Patrick had approached Art, ever the extrovert, and since then on it was fire and ice. Patrick balanced Art’s shyness and Art balanced Patrick’s forwardness with his politeness. He liked being somewhat of a people pleaser. Art liked it when people liked him. His angel looks only complimented his soft nature but like he said, he wasn’t all that. Under all that polite manners and soft smiles Art wasn’t any better than Patrick. He just hid it better.

Art was a guy after all, so when he first spent his summer at the Zweig estate he had to learn to practice his polite behavior real good. He would spent the first two weeks of vacation with his nan, not wanting to trouble her enough, so he’d end up the rest four weeks at Patrick’s. His parents weren’t home anyway, only you, Patrick’s little sister. Little sister was an exaggeration, you and Patrick’s age gap consisted of one year.

When Art was sixteen and spent his first summer at the Zweig’s, you walked past in a tight bikini, making Art turn, flushed embarrassed.

“Put something on, slut,” Patrick hollered after you but you only showed him the finger.

Art stared with wide eyes at Patrick. “That’s your sister?”

Patrick was lounging on the couch, shoving handfuls of crisps into his mouth as he nodded lazily. From Patrick’s explanations, Art envisioned you to be ugly and annoying, not this small little vixen, walking around carelessly and sending lazy smiles Art’s way. You had the same smile Patrick had and it made Art instantly hard in his jeans.

After that Art was looking forward to every future summer spent at the Zweig’s, itching with desperation and longing to finally leave his Nan’s and get to you.

Art watched you grow from a sweet teenager to a beautiful woman and when it was time for summer again, he was looking forward to seeing you. It was like a game to him, picking out all the little changes from the last time he saw you. How your hair grew longer, how one summer soft blondish highlights hid between the strands. The new tattoo resting on your hip bone.

Coming back from Stanford, Art had changed quite a bit himself. His jaw got tighter, his chest and shoulders broader and despite his shy boy persona he wasn’t doing bad in the ladies department. You were currently looking forward to apply colleges this summer. This being your last one before things got serious you wanted to enjoy it to its fullest. A golden summer.

Art and you were lounging by the pool. You had one of your skimpiest bikini’s on and Art had been sporting a semi for the past half hour. Patrick was still out, having stayed over by one of his conquests and for once the Zweig estate was bathed in silence.

“You know if you need help with your applications and stuff, I can help you,” Art offered and you turned your head, sending a lazy smile his way.

“That’s sweet thanks, Art.”

He flushed at your words, shifting slightly in his seat. “Yeah, no worries.”

You lounged by the pool for a few hours, stepping in the shade when it was time for lunch but Patrick never showed. Usually it was up to him to plan the day, your parents never cared for what you did as long as Patrick was supervising you. Being the older one and all. Which was ridiculous since Patrick was the perfect example that age didn't mean anything.

Instead of waiting up for him you and Art watched a movie in your room. Art was always surprised how girly your room was, with all the pink and glitter laying around it still seemed like your childhood bedroom.

The movie was playing for a few minutes now but he couldn’t focus on any scene in front of his eyes. You were laying right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

He’s been sporting a semi for quite some time now, the pillow in his lap only for show, while your eyes were trained intently on the movie. Art looked at you every few seconds. The way your lashes brushed your cheeks every time you blinked, your lips parting when you pressed a piece of popcorn against them.

You had on tiny sleeping shorts that would ride up so high it looked like you were wearing underwear. A soft tank without a bra under it. He could clearly see your nipples poking against the fabric, making his cock twitch in his pants.

“Art,” you chuckled and looked over at him. He quickly looked back at the screen. “We can watch something else if the movie is boring,” you suggested.

“What? No. This is fine.” He waved you off and tried to concentrate on the movie again.

You grabbed his chin and turned his face back to look at you.

“What is it? Why are you being so shifty.”

“I’m not being shifty,” Art denied quickly and you rolled your eyes.

“Yes, you have been. The whole summer actually.”

He pulled his face out of your grip and shrugged. “I’m not.”

“Okay, then.” You turned back to watch the movie only for Art to shift around again. You huffed frustrated and put a hand on his thigh. “Would you stop that?”

“Sorry,” Art mumbled, tensing up completely when your hand wouldn’t leave his thigh. “Can I ask you something?”

“If it stops your fidgeting, yes.” You leaned over Art to put the empty popcorn bowl on your nightstand, making him hold his breath as your lips almost brushed his cheek.

He was acting weird. In the past he didn’t have a problem with physical touch when it came to you. It always seemed like an impossibility for anything to really happen.

“Why are you hanging out with me instead of going out with friends or your boyfriend?”

You almost laughed at how obvious he was being.

“I like hanging out with you, is that a crime?” You shrugged. Art looked at you then with flushed cheeks.

“No, just making sure.”

“Why are you hanging around with me instead of going out to party and flirt with cute girls?” You probed.

He looked at you then, the light of the TV flickering across your face and caressing the highs and lows of your cheeks.

“I like hanging out with you,” he said almost sheepishly, red dusting his cheeks. Your lips spread into a slow smile. Your hand wandered up his leg, making Art’s breath hitch. You almost missed the sound if it weren’t for his lips parting.

“Do you have a girl back home at college?” You asked him, your fingers playing with the waistband of his joggers.

“I—n-no,” he stuttered, his eyes watching your hand intently.

“Cool,” you stated nonchalantly. Your hand dipped inside the fabric and past his boxers before grabbing his already hard cock.

Your brows raised in surprise as you looked up at Art.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“It’s all right,” your hand softly pumped him up and down, making Art whimper softly.

“Oh,” you breathed surprised, the sound he made making wetness pool in your panties instantly. Art threw his head back as you continued to pump his cock.

“You really shouldn’t—“ he whimpered again when your grip tightened slightly, thumb drawing over his slit and making a drop of pre cum ooze out. You used his cum to wet his cock, the room filled with the sound of the movie playing and the wet slap of your hand meeting his pelvis.

“That feel good?” You leaned in to kiss sloppily at his exposed throat, making Arts hips buck up in surprise.

“Ahh—fuck. We really shouldn’t be doing this,” he shook his head but didn’t move away. Your tongue drawing over his skin made him shiver.

“Why? Because I’m your best friend’s little sister?” You teased. He was flushed all over, his eyes flickering open and watching you with widened pupils.

“D-don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” You widened your eyes innocently, pumping him faster. “Like it’s something forbidden? What do you think Patrick would do if he knew his little sister was jerking of his best friend, huh?”

You tightened your hold, while Art bucked his hips up, matching your rhythm. Your nails slipped under his shirt, scraping along his abdomen.

“Fuck,” Art cursed, eyes squeezing shut. “You need to stop talking.”

“So you don’t cum?” You chuckled. “But that’s exactly what I want you to do for me, baby.”

Art whimpered and whined, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

“Come on, baby. I wanna feel your hot cum run over my hand.”

“Oh no,” Art breathed heavily. “Fuck, no—I’m gonna cum—I’m gonna—“ you teasingly bit the lobe of his ear and Art was a stuttering mess.

His cum shot out of his cock, coating your fingers and partly his joggers. Art pressed his face into your neck, crying out and whimpering as his hips kept moving and moving until they finally stuttered to a stop.

He was still breathing into your neck, one hand of yours coming up to stroke his soft curls.

“It’s fine,” you whispered. “You did so good.”

“Nhh—“ another slow dripple of cum ran over your fingers at your words.

After he calmed down enough, embarrassed cleaning his cheeks of his tears—and you cleaning up your hand, you smiled at him.

“Next time I’ll give you my mouth, make those pretty cheeks go red all over again.” You teased and Art groaned putting a pillow over his head. His cock was hardening again.

[jen-with-a-pen]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is. 

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter–  to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day. 

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

[all-with-angel]

Cross my heart, I hope you die

Summary: In which you try to avoid the rude, short-tempered and dangerous special grade sorcerer, Sukuna Ryoumen, who happens to also be your senpai. But whatever you do, it seems that he simply never leaves you alone. Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3(WIP)

❥ Sorcerer!Sukuna x male!Reader

❥ rivals to lovers, cursing, injury on reader, other warnings on pt.1, m!reader

W.C. 3.7k || Masterlist || A.N. so sorry this took so long lovies <3

Sukuna Ryoumen was not a pathetic man. Keyword: was.

Past tense, because he was sure he was pathetic in every single way he acted around you. He was no different from a kicked dog following its master, surely.

And what did you do? You just existed. Loudly. No, not loudly, but you were loud to him. The way his eyes just snapped to you in a room, how your voice always seemed to reach his ears first, loud. He hated loud. So why, pray tell, did he just have to follow you wherever you went?

Sukuna didn’t like to call it stalking. Stalking is a strong word. He was just… keeping an eye on you. That’s it.

He saw that you were strong, a first grade sorcerer who was on a path to be a great special grade but he still used the excuse of protecting you. Making sure you didn’t get ambushed, that you didn’t get hurt because of your stupidity. (He saw you burn your tongue while you were eating once, and that was enough to solidify his latter excuse.

You weren’t careful enough. You trained too late at night. You took missions solo when you shouldn’t. You were reckless, and yeah, fine, maybe that was part of why he liked watching you. You pushed your limits until you bled. Just like he still did.

So what if he stood outside the gym while you trained and watched your form improve over time? So what if he started showing up early to the cafeteria because you always got there late and skipped meals when you were tired?

God, he was pathetic.

And he hated that he liked it. Hated that he remembered how you liked your coffee. Hated that he noticed your stupid mannerisms- the way your eyes squinted slightly when you were lying, or how your fingers twitched when you were holding back a snarky comeback.

Sukuna wasn’t good at feelings. So when he started showing up uninvited, when he started provoking you on purpose, when he started picking fights just to hear you curse him out—he thought that was normal maybe even more than necessary. That was how people like him said hello, I like you.

He liked you, and he was sure it was obvious.

Sukuna hated your existence and everything you stood for, is the one fact you could be 100% sure of. Actually, there was another fact you were 100% sure of, and it was that you hated him just as much.

It was a thought you had solidified in your head just recently, while you were on your way to the vending machines after class. Everything was just another day, until Yaga pulled you aside. 

He had that look on his face. The "this is going to suck, but I’m pretending it won’t" look. So you stood there, arms crossed, already tired, while Yaga fidgeted with his clipboard and cleared his throat like he was announcing your execution.

“You’ll be traveling. Two days out west. Exorcism. Medium-level curse. The area’s been experiencing some strange fluctuations—negative energy spikes, disappearing livestock, minor possessions. Could be a semi-sentient curse nesting in the woods.”

“Sounds manageable,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing. “So who’s my partner?”

“Sukuna Ryoumen.” 

No. No, you must’ve misheard that. There was no way, maybe he just misspoke and meant to say Shoko-  “Who?”

“Sukuna,” Yaga repeated, eyes flitting back to the paper. “He’ll be accompanying you as part of a supervised mission. Think of it as… a learning experience.”

“Is this a punishment?”

"No."

“Are you sure?"

“Yes.”

“Because it feels like one.”

Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose like he was this close to assigning you anger management. “Sukuna requested this mission.”

“What?” Your eyes widened as the furrow between your brows deepened, Sukuna requested you as his partner?

Yaga sighed like he knew this would happen and didn’t care. “Sukuna specifically requested you as a partner. Said he could learn something from you.”

You felt your brain stutter like a car running out of gas. Sukuna? Learn? From you?

Bullshit.

That was the most suspicious thing you’d heard in your entire career at Jujutsu High. Sukuna didn’t “learn” from anyone. He picked fights, broke bones, and called it a day. 

You stormed out of the office, envelope crushed in your fist, heart burning with indignation and more than a little dread. It was one thing to deal with Sukuna in passing—those goddamn hallway encounters, the offhand insults, the unsolicited “advice” he barked like commands—but a mission? Together? Overnight?

You felt a migraine forming just thinking about it.

The next morning, you arrived at the train station early. Too early. You figured if you got there first, you could at least enjoy a few moments of peace before Hurricane Sukuna rolled in.

The station was quiet at this hour, washed in pale morning light that didn’t do much to warm the early spring chill. You adjusted your jacket, sighing, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you leaned against a cold metal bench. Your fingers tapped an annoyed rhythm against the side of your thigh.

He requested you.

That part wouldn’t stop echoing in your skull like a stubborn curse. Why the hell would he request you?

Was it just to mess with you? Some sick joke to put you on edge the entire trip? Did he think you’d be fun to torture in a confined space for hours? Or maybe this was some elaborate revenge scheme for that time you’d kneed him in the ribs during sparring so hard he spat blood.

Honestly, that one would’ve been fair.

Still, it didn’t add up. Sukuna didn’t go out of his way for people. Not unless there was something in it for him.

You glanced at the time.

7:01 a.m.

The train would leave at 7:30.

And then—like the devil finally clocking into work—you heard it. The low, drawling whistle of a bastard walking with far too much confidence for someone so unreasonably irritating.

You turned your head slowly, like you were bracing for an oncoming car crash.

There he was.

Ryoumen Sukuna. Pink hair as obnoxiously spiked as ever, tattoos curled around his skin like they belonged there, a smug grin tugging at his mouth like he’d just won a bet with God.

He looked directly at you the second he entered the platform. Like he’d known you were there the whole time.

Great. Creepy stalker powers confirmed.

“There’s my favorite little sweetheart,” he drawled.

You didn’t answer. Just let your eyes slowly drag over him with the unimpressed flatness of a particularly judgmental cat.

He strutted over, hands in his pockets, eyes glittering with what you could only describe as malicious amusement. Sukuna sat down beside you uninvited, spreading his legs obnoxiously wide like he owned the entire bench while you were forced to scoot over, pressing yourself against one end of the bench. Jeez, he was massive. “You’re in a mood.”

You scoffed. “Gee, I wonder why.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked at you from the corner of his eye. “What, aren’t you honored to be spending the next 48 hours with me?”

“You could’ve picked literally anyone else.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, tone quiet and sure. You looked at him. For a fleeting second, his expression was unreadable. No smirk, no teasing glint. Just quiet, thoughtful weight behind his gaze. And it pissed you off even more.

“Why?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, then shrugged. “Thought it’d be fun.”

“Fun,” you repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah. You’re strong. You don’t take shit. You’ve got good instincts. Better than most of the idiots that call themselves sorcerers, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh.” Oh. You blinked at him, stunned for a second. Was that… praise? No. No, no, no. That wasn’t allowed. Not from Sukuna. You looked away after that, finding the floor more fascinating as you muttered a thanks. Nothing was said after that, both of you letting the silence stretch on as you two waited for the train.

The receptionist glanced at her screen and smiled again, that same rehearsed, customer-service kind of smile that was the norm. “Ah, yes, reservation by Jujutsu Tech, correct?” she said sweetly.

“That’s us,” you muttered. Well, mostly you. Sukuna hadn’t said a word yet, hands shoved into his pockets, bored eyes scanning the lobby like he was looking for a fight to pick.

“You’ll be in Room 507,” she chirped. “King bed, as requested.”

Your brain did a record scratch.

“…What?”

She blinked. “Yes, a king-sized bed, one room.”

“Wait, no, there must be a mistake.” you said quickly, trying not to let your voice rise. You threw a pointed glance at Sukuna, who raised an eyebrow as well. "Is there anything else available? Maybe two singles? A futon? A coffin?"

The receptionist flushed, tapping again. "I'm so sorry. It looks like we had a booking error. We're completely full tonight because of the local festival. All the inns nearby are booked too."

You stepped aside and dialed the front desk number on your phone, pacing just a bit away. You weren’t going to be rude. You refused to be that person. But the tightness in your voice gave you away as you spoke with a second staff member, repeating the issue calmly but with a razor’s edge.

No extra rooms. No rollaway beds. Not even a blanket and pillow set to crash on the floor.

"Great," you muttered as you hung up, sliding your phone into your pocket with the grace of a man trying not to explode.

You turned on your heel and began marching toward the elevator without even checking to see if Sukuna followed. Inside the elevator, you didn’t say a word. Neither did he. The silence buzzed louder than the soft elevator music, and you swore you could feel his smug aura from across the small space. It was like standing next to a space heater that also insulted your intelligence every five minutes.

The room itself was… nice. Too nice. The lighting was warm, the sheets crisp, and the bed was offensively luxurious. The kind of bed that looked like it had its own subscription to interior design magazines. And of course, there was only one of them.

He stretched, long limbs shifting under his shirt, and you immediately looked away. Not because he was hot. Absolutely not. It was just—he was warm-blooded and made mostly of muscle and spite, so the shirt clinging to him probably just did that naturally.

“I’ll take the couch,” he offered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“The couch.” He huffed and threw his bag on the couch in question, that was notably way too small for a man his size. “I’ll take it.”

You frowned. It was uncharacteristically considerate of him. Weird. It made you suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I’m not a total bastard.”

You raised a brow, unconvinced.

“…Okay, maybe like eighty percent bastard,” he amended. “But still. I’m not letting you get scoliosis from a night on that thing.”

You stared at the couch, then back at him. “I’ll take it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You’re bigger than me, and I’ve survived worse.”

Sukuna looked oddly… conflicted. Like he didn’t want you to suffer for the sake of being polite. Or maybe he was just trying to avoid being indebted to you. But after a moment of silence, you both simultaneously said:

“Let’s just share the bed.”

You froze. He raised a brow.

“…Okay then,” you muttered, walking past him to toss your bag by the wardrobe. “Are you seriously okay with this?” He snorted. “Why wouldn’t I be? You scared I’ll bite?”

You rolled your eyes at that, deciding to keep your mouth shut. You grabbed your gear while Sukuna mindlessly poked around the room, it was late noon and it would probably be late when the two of you would get back from patrolling the area.

The night air was crisp, the faint scent of blooming sakura drifting through the quiet streets of the small village. The mission had been uneventful so far, with only the occasional rustle of leaves breaking the silence.​ Sukuna walked with a kind of heavy presence- shoulders relaxed, but every inch of him coiled like a snake. His hands were in his pockets, but you knew he could be lunging and maiming something in a breath.

“Tch. You’re looking around like a damn scared cat,” he drawled suddenly.

You huffed, relaxing your grip on your katana. “I’m surveying. It’s called being thorough.”

“It’s called overcompensating,” he smirked, not even glancing your way.

You rolled your eyes at that, “Sorry for taking my job seriously.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a real model sorcerer.”

You clicked your tongue, opening your mouth to let out a retort until a chill ran down your spine. The air grew heavy, and the shadows seemed to deepen. Cursed energy, multiple points.

Without warning, a group of curses emerged from the darkness, their grotesque forms twisting and writhing as they lunged towards the both of you.​ 

“Tch,” Sukuna’s fingers curled out of his pocket. “Took long enough.” 

Despite their numbers, they were relatively weak, and you dispatched them with practiced efficiency.

Everything was going fine until one of them—the sneaky little bastard—caught your arm with a swipe of its jagged claw. It wasn’t deep, just a shallow line across your forearm, but it burned like hell. You hissed and ducked back, gut twisting as warm blood soaked into your sleeve.

Sukuna noticed immediately, slicing through the last curse with a flick of his wrist. “You serious?” he barked, “You let that thing scratch you?”

You rolled your eyes, wincing as you felt the fabric of your uniform stick to the wound. “It’s a cut, not a mortal wound.”

“Still pathetic,” he muttered, voice sharp with irritation as he stomped his way in front of you. He glared at the wound, grabbing your wrist and raising it so he had a clear view of the cut. “Hey!”

He ignored you, sneering at the blood starting to seep through your uniform and drip onto the pavement. “You had the angle. You should’ve dodged.”

“I was dodging, dumbass. The curse moved weirdly mid-swing.”

“You’re just slow.”

You looked like you wanted to hit him, and to be fair, you were dangerously close. “Keep talking, Ryoumen. I’ll make you bleed worse just to see how you like it.”

“Bring it,” he snapped, gripping your wrist just a bit tighter. You cringed at the pressure, but didn’t back down. His crimson eyes narrowed, flicking briefly to your wound before he let go of your wrist, huffing and turning away. “Tch. Whatever. Let’s just get back.”

The walk back was quiet. You didn’t talk. He didn’t either. Just that same heavy silence from earlier, now heavier.

You excused yourself to the bathroom the second you got into the hotel room. The sleeve of your uniform was torn, sticky with drying blood. You peeled it away with a wince and grabbed the first aid kit Yaga packed in your bag, fumbling with the gauze and antiseptic. Your fingers were trembling, mostly from leftover adrenaline.

You hissed when the alcohol hit the wound. Tried to wrap it yourself, It wasn’t going well.

“Tch. You’re hopeless.”

You looked up to find Sukuna leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, uniform already discarded with only a dress shirt on him. The buttons were holding on for dear life. He stared at you, expression unreadable, tattoos dark under the light.

You glared. “I’m fine. I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, clearly.” He snatched the bottle and gauze from your hands, stepping in without waiting for permission. “Shut up and sit down.”

You blinked, about to argue, but something in his face made you pause. It wasn’t that usual smugness. He looked… tense.

You sat.

Sukuna knelt in front of you, movements weirdly gentle as he pressed the cloth to your wound. You hissed again and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like idiot under his breath. His fingers were warm, surprisingly steady as they worked—too steady, actually. You didn’t think someone who punched through skulls could be capable of treating wounds with that kind of care.

“What?” he said, noticing your stare.

“Thanks.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes, eyes flicking back to where he was working on your wound. “Whatever.” He bandaged you efficiently, like he’d done it before. Maybe on himself. Maybe on his brothers.

“Next time,” he muttered, tying the final knot, “don’t get distracted mid-fight.”

You sighed, resisting the urge to lean back against the wall. “I wasn’t distracted. Just unlucky.”

“Bullshit.” His voice was low now, rough. “You’re better than that.”

That caught you off-guard, and it caught Sukuna off-guard too- if the widened eyes looking up at you were anything to go by. It's as if he didn’t even think he’d say those words and to be fair, you didn’t think he would either. You grinned.

“What, no insult this time?” you teased, unable to stop yourself. “Losing your edge?”

He stood up with a snort, tossing the used gauze in the trash. “Nah. You’re still a dumbass.” But he didn’t say it as harshly as usual. Huh.

You watched him walk back into the room, the tension in your chest refusing to ease. Something about this night—about him—felt different. Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was the weird domestic intimacy of him bandaging you up. Maybe it was the fact that, for a moment, Sukuna Ryoumen had looked like he actually gave a damn about you.

You weren’t sure if you liked that.

The hotel room had gone still.

Not quiet, still—the kind of stillness that settles into your bones, where even the hum of the air conditioning feels like a distant echo. The lights were off. The moon spilled in weakly through the slats in the curtain. You were on the far side of the bed, back turned to him, shoulders rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

Sukuna lay facing the opposite direction. Eyes open. Jaw tight.

He couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the bed. Or the room. Or even the stupid one-bed situation he’d pretended not to care about.

It was you. That stupid, reckless, aggravating you.

The scent of antiseptic still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the ghost of blood. Your blood.

He should’ve moved on. Should’ve been glad the fight was over and you’d only gotten nicked. Hell, most people would call that a lucky break. But it kept playing in his head on loop—your grunt of pain, the flicker of red across your side, the way you staggered just a little before recovering and pressing forward like it hadn’t happened.

It was a shallow cut. He knew that. You weren’t dying. He’d seen worse—hell, he’d inflicted worse. But that didn’t matter.

Because it had been you.

And that meant his heart had stopped for half a second longer than it should have. Just long enough for rage to take root. Not at the curses. Not really. They were dead now. Torn apart without mercy. No, he was pissed at you.

For not dodging. For letting your guard down. For making him feel something he didn’t want to admit to. He squeezed his eyes shut, scowling into the darkness.

“Idiot,” he whispered under his breath. He wasn’t even sure if he meant you or himself.

One minute you were just another second-year sorcerer, someone competent, someone annoyingly moral, someone with that steady gaze and that sharp tongue that never backed down even when he was inches from your face.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop remembering the way your breath hitched when the antiseptic touched the cut. The little wince you tried to hide. The way your lashes had lowered when you finally let him bandage you up, too tired to keep up your bravado.

He’d been too harsh. Again. He knew it. Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he hold his tongue, be ‘nice’, be something that you could look at without anger?

How dare you make him care.

He could hear you shift behind him slightly, maybe adjusting your arm or pillow. He bit the inside of his cheek before he could think of your injury again. Maybe he should’ve wrapped it less tighter?

He swallowed, rolling onto his back. His eyes flicked to the ceiling. Blank. Pale. Silent. His thoughts were louder than ever.

He wondered if you knew what you did to him. How your voice lingered in his head when you weren’t around. How your insults hit harder than anyone else’s because he knew you meant them—and because he cared that you did.

He wondered if you realized how close he was to doing something irreversible. Like falling for you completely. Like giving a damn every single time you breathed a little too sharp in a fight, or bit back a wince, or stood too close to danger.

He wondered if you’d ever forgive him for being this bad at showing it.

Because he didn’t know how to be soft. He didn’t know how to say, “I’m glad you’re okay,” without sounding like a jackass. He didn’t know how to admit he was scared without masking it with sarcasm or anger or a snide remark.

All he knew was this: if anything ever happened to you again, and he wasn’t fast enough to stop it—he’d tear the world apart trying to fix it.

He let out a breath and finally, finally turned over again.

You were still facing away, one hand tucked under your pillow, breathing slow and even. He stared at your back, taking in every small detail—the slope of your shoulders, the rise and fall of your ribs, the way your hair was slightly mussed from the pillow.

He wanted to reach out. Just once. Just lightly brush his fingers along your arm to make sure you were really there. That you were okay. 

But he didn’t.

He just stared. Like a coward.

Part 1 || Part 3 ➠

TAGLIST (open)

@prettorett @rikabby69 @iamlizardgod @cheeselordbones @mistalli @poopooindamouf

[collectingsorrows444]

Felt like making a silly faction for the Operation Ichor Au (breaks free from that one art block that lasted a few days. More like for a few hours when I’m supposed to be drawing kiran)

(Operation Ichor AU! By @slumbrr-r )

(Inspired by @segagrimreaper & @modcroissant :D )

I mean… there has to be some aquatic Twisteds.. right?

OVERSEAS COMMANDMENT

(Rough draft)

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The captain/leader of this group is Neptune Croaker, and he’s been around for a long while. This group are quite literally.. pirates! They are at seas most of the time, so if they’re parked at a dock or at shore, take your chance to get to catch a ride! (Of course, not without paying. What did you expect? They’re pirates! How else do you think they’re operating?)

Pirates are not at all trustworthy, a bit of tricks and tomfoolery here and there. However, expect this groups loyalty being the strongest trait rather than trickery.

Trust that Captain Neptune can get you to your destination safely, that’s all can be said.

Twisteds are everywhere, don’t get me wrong, but this group knows not to mess with them.

They encounter siren-like Twisteds overseas, and all of your favorite sea folklore-like creatures. Mapping them all out wasn’t easy, that’s for sure.

After all, the sea dominates majority of the world. It’s gonna take more than one ship to do it all. (Implying they’re a semi-large organization)

Commandment usually relate to a religious mean or belief, what do they believe in?

The wind, the seas, the rain— y’know, all that sweet stuff.

Let’s meet the first five faces of the faction :)

(I am still learning all of the roles, so forgive me if I am wrong. I am also still deciding roles.)

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Coral is Neptune’s granddaughter, he is her current guardian during this time. She creates these pearl jewelry, and they are used to symbolize a member’s loyalty and commitment. (They are usually the most trusted people. If you have a conflict with another member, please turn to them or the leader of the faction)

Neptune is an old lad, and he can command ships to life or into animation at will. (Of course, he’s limited to some extent. He can only command one ship that he chooses to operate.)

Onyx is a Spinosaurus

Jazz is a little scatterbrained (seaweed brain)

Azure? yes. (His sister is alive, I just haven’t drawn her yet)

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ROLES ON A SHIP (incase anyone is interested, these are also examples. There are a lot of other roles besides the listed)

• The Captain:

As the leader of the ship and crew, they are responsible for everyone’s safety. They make the big decisions and give out orders.

• The Co-Captain:

They are on the same level as the captain, and share the same role and responsibilities.

• The Chief Mate:

They are the primary second-in-command and take over supervising cargo shipment and everyone on board.

• Second Mate & Third Mate:

The second mate are in charge of navigation, navigation equipments etc. etc. sometimes they are assigned medical duties. The third mate are responsible for maintaining everyone’s safety and help with navigation/navigating. Both do watchkeeping.

• The Quartermaster:

They are the captain’s right-hand and takes charge if the captain is not present. They deal with disciplinary acts and oversee daily activities/operations.

• The Boatswain:

They are responsible for doing maintenance on the ship, the ropes, wood etc. They are in charge of leading parties to look for materials and supplies when docked at shore.

Of course,

You could also look up different roles yourself :) These are examples!

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Dynamics/Views with other factions

Gardenview: Neutral— not enough interactions or barely any interactions to make a full impression (unless the creator wants to input their own narrative)

Zodiac: No. (The pirates catch them in nets for fun and kind of dangle them over a bonfire if near shore— other than that, they’re just plopping them off in the middle of the sea. They’ve been dealing with these guys for too long.)

The Merchant Order: Friendly/Neutral— they mutually benefit off of trading and transactions of goods.

Ruin Corp: Friendly— Those pirates surprisingly pay well and fairly, give good equipment to clean their decks (good business is business)

Vinization: Neutral— Not exactly allies nor enemies. They do well with transportation, but barely interact. (edited)

The Caravan: Friendly— Whenever the two factions bump into each other, the exchange/share goods, news and information, and supplies with one another. There is some slight favoritism from Neptune since he sees the group as just “young lads/fellas” (edited)

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Enough yapping, I’ve done this all in one day. Never again. Getting sick again chat😔

“I read your lips and phrases, scanning for information

Sirens know about every route and horizon

Now I know how to get back to my island!”

Different Beast, EPIC: The Musical — Jorge Rivera-Herrans

[reiderwriter]

Hi there! It's me :"> again I read that you're closing your request soon and I just want to put another in before the deadline haha But by no mean you should put more pressure on yourself please take all the time you need, I'm always here happily waiting while enjoy reading all of the fabulous writing you had for other requests <3 Much love to your work <3

I have a request for s smut fic when the BAU was called in for a case: the victims were workers at the local bars/restaurants, the bau!reader recognised one of the bars the unsub frequently target is the one she used to work at as bartender/mixologist while putting herself through school and asked to be the undercover while other agents supervise. After successfully closing the case, the BAU decided to celebrate at said bar and the owner was happy to let the reader personally make your friends any cocktails outside of the menu.

The reader then learned about all the mildly irritations and possessive feelings softdom!Spencer had while watching people hitting on you behind the bar, but all of that can be solved with a (almost criminally) 3-sugar-cube level of sweet of a cocktail the reader personally made for him hiding an ungodly amount of alcohol which made the night a lot more interesting ;)

I'm sorry if all of my requests are soo long I know you want to have as much details as possible but please lemme know if you feel like it's too much haha Happy writing!! :">

A/N: Thank you for your request! I was partly inspired by this post to help me out with some of the drinks orders, so go check it out for more character headcannoms!

Warnings: NSFW, soft dom! Spencer, spanking, semi-public sex, jealousy, slight breeding kink/ creampie, thigh fucking etc. 18+ Minors DNI

It had been a good few years since you quit the bartending job that put you through college, so you didn't realise just how much you'd missed it.

You thought it was the universe intervening when a case popped up in your college town, and the bar you'd spent every weekend in for nearly three years straight from the end of your undergrad to the first years of your masters degree was at the dead centre of Spencer Reid's geographical profile.

You knew the unsub had been hunting from bars, and it took only a few nights of surveillance to catch his scent, and one more of a simple cover to get the guy.

You'd taken up your spot once again, slipping easily back into making cocktails and pouring pints of beer on tap - a skill you were regretfully slow to learn but happy to see stayed with you even in your brief retirement.

You busted the bar while your coworkers tried to look inconspicuous sitting around as customers. Diligently, you served them mocktails and alcohol free beer ad regulars clapped you on the back, greeting you like an old friend as you worked to catch a killer.

JJ was the bait, and you were glad, for once, that it wasn't you, even if that thought made you feel guilty. She slipped out with a crash, and all eyed were on the man that followed her quietly to the alleyway out back.

He practically arrested himself. All in all, it had taken maybe three days to catch the guy, and you'd never been so happy to have had to work a double shift to do it.

“Y/N, if this FBI thing doesn't work for you, I'd be glad to have you back behind the bar. These college students just aren't what they used to be.” Your ex-boss grinned at you, indulging in his own glass of whiskey now that the case was closed.

He'd graciously invited your entire team to spend the rest of the evening at the bar celebrating (for at least a drink or two before his wife came to collect him). You were shocked when Hotch took him up on the offer, but happily stayed behind the bar mixing up the drinks.

“Okay, now that we've found out you're this magic mixologist, you have got to make us personal cocktails. I want to see how drunk you can get me, Y/L/N.” Emily laughed from the corner, finishing the last dregs of her virgin piña colada.

“My dear Emily, it is not the mixologist job to get you drunk, it's the mixologist job to keep you sober for as long as possible so you keep buying drinks.”

“No, come on kid, I'm intrigued as well. I'm not a cocktail guy but you've been pouring like a woman possessed tonight. Help.me out here, Spencer, hasn't she been on fire?”

Spencer's eye caught yours and your heart skipped a beat when he gave you a small smile. He'd been quiet all night, and you felt a little regretful that you'd made him stay so long in a place he wasn't entirely comfortable with. But he was still here, and surprisingly, still drinking, nursing the beer that your old boss had served them all when they'd returned from the crime scene.

“Mixology is an interesting field of study. When you think about it, it's practically chemistry.”

“I like to think of it as alchemy,” you grinned at him, enjoying the way he could turn anything into something more complicated and mathematical than it is. “Because one sip of one of my cocktails will have you thinking you've unlocked the secret of immortality.”

“Okay, if that's how drunk we're getting tonight then I'm calling home now,” JJ laughed standing from her chair and already dialling the numbers.

“Okay - here we go.” You grabbed the bottle of vodka from the counter and started, keeping your eyes focused on Reid as much as you could.

–X–

After two hours and about 5 rounds of cocktails, you'd nearly defeated the entire team. Your ex-boss had thrown you the keys half an hour earlier and called himself a cab, leaving you behind to close up just like old times.

Hotchner and Rossi had given in after two drinks each, apparently old and wise enough to know just how much alcohol was in an Old Fashioned and a Negroni each.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” Emily had mocked them on the way out, but two drinks later and she was asleep in the back of a cab having been carried out by both JJ and Morgan.

You'd used the good gin in her Aviation cocktail, and it was only a matter of time before she ended up peacefully sleeping the week away.

The only member of the team left standing was, surprisingly again, Spencer.

You'd gone simple with his Espresso Martini, though you'd made a big show and dance about adding twice as much brown sugar syrup than the recipe required.

“A sweet cocktail for the man who drinks the sweetest coffee known to man.” He'd brushed his hand across your fingers every time you'd passed him a refill, and you'd felt the familiar jolts of anticipation pass through you with each shared glance.

Your old boss had even noticed that you were ‘sweet on that little coworker of yours,’ and you'd had to do your best to stop yourself from openly flirting with him whilst he was sat there at the bar.

You'd done it for tips every single shift, not caring about the consequences, buy with Spencer, you so desperately wanted there to be consequences that you never so much as tried.

“We should pack up and head home, Spence.” You said, cleaning up the final glass of Mai Tai Derek had left behind, but when you turned around to see him, he was gone.

More accurately, he'd moved to your side of the bar and was sliding his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you in.

You gasped his name like a prayer, not expecting his cold fingers to curl under your shirt as he buried his head in your shoulder.

“Spencer! What's… what are…”

“Let me hold you.” He didn't say much more than that, but he didn't need to say more. You'd already.relaxed into his touch, eyes shutting so you could focus on the feel of his skin against yours.

“You're good at this,” he mumbled, words slightly slurred. “Everyone was watching you, they all wanted you to pour their drinks.”

You listened to each word of his voice fighting off confusion. Who was everybody? There hadn't been another customer in the bar since you'd made the arrest.

“The old men in the corner, they looked down your top when you picked something up for them. I heard them talking about it, how they thought about stuffing a couple of one's right here,” his hand trailed up to your breasts and you gasped, “like you were some stripper.”

His hands were slowly caressing you as he stood, chest pressed against your back, and you felt desire flood between your legs.

“Spencer, you're drunk, we should get you back to the motel.”

“My blood alcohol level should be around 0.11, so yes, legally I am drunk. If you want me back at the motel, be my guest, but I don't think I can keep my hands off of you tonight, Y/N.”

His words were blunt, delivered the same way he usually talked about case details, or books he'd read. There was nothing in it to indicate he'd meant to turn your world upside down just like that.

His hand had moved under your bra now, and you snapped back to reality, grabbing his hand and halting his movements momentarily as you craned your neck to look at him.

“Spencer, you're not in your right mind, you're going to regret this-” you didn't get to finish the sentence as he cut you off, pushing his lips into yours softly. With each second, his passion grew, until the two of you were caught in a battle of tongues, saliva dripping down your chin as you cared about nothing else but the pleasure you found in each other's mouths.

“The only thing,” he whispered between kisses. “That I'm going to regret, is if I let you walk me out of that door without showing you how much I want to possess every inch of you.”

His words were insistent but there was a question hidden in his movements. He'd withdrawn slightly, giving you enough space to turn him down should you want to.

You didn't.

Instead, you let a hand run up the back of his neck to his hair until you were pulling him down into you, stepping back into the warmth of his broad chest as you opened up to him.

Your other hand relinquished his, letting him explore your chest further and doing much of the same as you tried your very best to twist in your spot to get a better hold of him.

He was holding firm though, despite everything he'd drank, and had pushed you once again against the counter, hand moving between exploring your ass cheeks, and placing your hand firmly underneath you on the table so you could stabilise your position.

He worked his lips down your neck, prying your other hand out of his hair and placing it parallel to the first, before pulling your hips back slightly and encouraging you to arch your back.

You only realised you'd assumed a position for spanking when the first blow landed on your ass.

It was soft, all things considered, and he was still busy bruising your neck that you almost thought you'd imagined it.

The next one was harder though. It was real.

“Spencer!” You gasped as he stroked a hand over your asscheeks.

“Shhhhhhhh s'okay. You have a beautiful ass, I'm just making it prettier.”

His hands fumbled over your pants zipper, and then pulled them down to your knees as he continued stroking your ass and licking your neck.

The material limited your movements, trapping your knees together as he delivered one more blow. The skin to skin contact was too much and you let out a sinful moan, surprised at how loud you were suddenly managing to be.

You'd never been spanked before, never even thought about it, but something about Spencer's hands on you, the lingering scent of alcohol in the air had every hair on your body standing in excitement.

You heard Spencer unzip his own pants and were a little regretful that you didn't get the honour. You wanted to see him hold him in your hand, take him into your mouth and play with him until you knew just how he worked. But your back was still to him, and he wasn't giving you the space you needed to turn around and catch a glimpse.

“Every man in this bar tonight wanted to be where I am right now,” he whispered into your hair as he kissed the crown of your head, and then pushed your panties aside and ran himself along the lips of your cunt.

It was a night of sounds - the zippers, his whispers, your moans - bit you still weren't expecting to be able to hear your arousal.

It was erotic, near pornographic how wet his spanking had made you, and he let out small groans of appreciation as he gathered your juices on his cock.

He didn't try to breech you just yet, but rocked his cock between your thighs and cunt, teasing you just enough to keep you hooked, but nowhere near where you needed him to get you.

“Every man who was in here wanted you, and I got you. Right?” He asked again, practically rutting against your cunt.

“Y-Yes, Spencer.”

“Yes, sir.” He corrected, and you gasped as his hand struck your ass again, dangerously close to where his hips joined yours.

“Yes, sir.”

“Be a good girl for me, baby. I want to take care of you.”

With those words, he lined the tip of his cock up with your entrance and slipped in.

With your knees still locked in place by your pants, it was really up to Spencer to control the pace. You didn't spare a second for the thought that had you been completely naked with a better range of motion that he still wouldn't relinquish this quiet control of you.

With one hand on your hip, and the other curled around to reach your clit as you arched your back against him, it wasn't long before he was setting a vigorous pace.

It wasn't that he was thrusting particularly fast, or that he was doing it ridiculously hard, like some men who knew no better tried. It was the combination of how far he was able to reach with his careful concentration on your pleasure.

You felt him speed up once before quickly drawing himself back to the even tempo, doing his best to not get lost in you.

His fingers traced your cunt in a slow figure eight as first, before experimenting with different movements, shapes, words until he'd been rewarded by your cunt clenching around his cock as you came all over it.

You gasped in shock, and flushed, so shocked it took only that long.

Instead of congratulating himself on getting you off though, he used your orgasm to inform himself of what you liked, what you so desperately needed from his fingers and his cock.

And most importantly, he didn't stop.

Even as your body twitched and spasmed around his cock, he kept up his wrist movements, keeping your body warmed up as he finally took his turn.

“Tell me how much you want this,” he whispered into your ear.

“I want this so badly, Sir, I need your cock pumping in and- ahhh out of me.”

“Tell me how nice my cock feels,” he again ordered and you willingly obeyed.

“Your cock is perfect, it's so big and warm, like it was made just for me.”

“Good girl, now tell me how much you want me to shoot my cum inside of you.”

Your mouth went dry as you choked out a moan, his pace getting rougher and rougher with each thrust. You hadn't heard him correctly, surely, your brain was imagining things.

But he prompted you with a slight tap to your face, a slap that wouldn't leave any mark.

“You don't want my cum all over this bar, do you? It would be a shame for your ex boss to fail his hygiene inspection.”

“Cum in me! God, please cum in me.”

He gripped you tight around your waist as he finally pushed himself over the edge, filling you with his seed and keeping you pinned in his arms until he was sure that none of it would escape.

“I'm glad you agreed, because I wasn't asking,” he said, chest still slightly heaving as he rode out his orgasm, lower body twitching in its sensitivity.

When he finally did pull out, he'd spent so long inside you, cockwarming, that not much of his cum slipped out. He cleaned you up with a clean dishcloth you pointed to on the counter, and pulled your pants back up, quickly manoeuvring his up too.

After a brief moment of silence, you finally turned to look at him, melting into his arms again as you took in his fucked out expression.

He stroked your head quietly for a few minutes, before pulling back from your hug.

“This bar doesn't have CCTV, does it?”

[thedwarrowscholar]

🧾A Note From Behind the Beard

Every now and then, I receive questions that stray a bit (or a lot) from Tolkien, Dwarves, or (Neo-) Khuzdul. Nothing too intrusive—don’t worry—but more personal curiosities: “What are your hobbies?”, “What’s your background?”, and even, after the release of our semi-nude calendar (yes, that happened), “What’s your orientation?”

I’ve always made it a point to keep my personal life in the background here. Not out of secrecy, but simply because I wanted The Dwarrow Scholar to focus on the Dwarves, their language, and lore—not on the one behind the curtain. With the possible exception of my end-of-year rambles, I’ve tried to stay behind the runes, so to speak.

I never set out to make this about me. But after years of questions—and kindness from this community—I figured it was time to offer a little glimpse at the one behind the stone wall. Heads-up: if you're just here for Dwarves, Khuzdul, and the like—feel free to skip this one entirely.

📆 About that Calendar...

Let’s address the elephant in the forge.

Yes, there was a semi-nude Dwarvish calendar. No, it wasn’t entirely serious.

It started as a simple, genuine idea—I wanted to create a physical Dwarvish calendar with proper Neo-Khuzdul months, cultural motifs, the whole nine yards.

Then a friend casually joked:

“Oh, like those fireman calendars?”

And I couldn’t unsee it: Half-naked dwarves posing with hammers, anvil glistening, beard windswept. Too absurd not to bring to life. So we did. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. Possibly both.

🌱 Hobbies

Over the past few years, gardening has become my main thing ("obsession"?). I now live in a beautiful, hilly part of Flanders called the Flemish Ardennes—a land of rolling hills (Think The Shire—but with better beer. Truth. Deal with it, Hobbits.), known for its cycling mainly.

A look at a section of the garden I've created

Plum trees are abundant in my garden (amongst other trees), and I've even started making homemade plum liqueur from them. It’s surprisingly decent. Brewing beer has somewhat crept into the background too (when in Rome).

I don’t watch sports often, but I do have a few faithful loyalties:

As a somewhat fierce fan, I’ve resigned myself to the Toronto Maple Leafs’ yearly playoff disappointment.

Luckily, my joy levels were high thanks to Wrexham’s earlier promotion to the EFL Championship. (And no—I didn’t hop on the Hollywood bandwagon. I’ve followed Wrexham since I was a kid. Still, I’m cheering them on.)

Why these two teams, far from the Belgian coast where I grew up? Well, trips to Wales and fanatic hockey-fan uncles go a long way toward explaining that.

And I’d be remiss not to mention Lili, my white Chow Chow—a four-year-old ball of fluff and sunshine who’s easily the friendliest creature in the entire Flemish Ardennes. She supervises all garden activity with quiet dignity (and frequent naps).

These past two years I’ve also been developing a fantasy management game—a single-player project where you run a Dwarven fighting stable.

You’ll train warriors, forge gear, negotiate with sponsors, go on quests, learn the lore of the land, mine for resources, and aim to win the Emperor’s Cup. It’s a blend of tactics, unique rich lore, and stubborn Dwarven grit, naturally.

More on that when it's ready to leave the mountain.

🎭 Background

Believe it or not, my background has nothing to do with linguistics, fantasy, or Tolkien studies. I actually studied the arts, and ended up in a completely unrelated career. But languages? That’s been a passion since childhood.

Long before I knew the word “conlang,” I was creating imaginary languages in my notebooks for fun. I grew up in a multilingual family and country, which helped—but really, I just enjoyed puzzling through grammar systems like some people enjoy crossword puzzles.

I speak Dutch, English, French, some German, and have dabbled in Japanese, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, and Hebrew.

🪓 Why Khuzdul?

Khuzdul pulled me in not just because it’s the language of the Dwarves, but because it’s very unlike anything else in Middle-earth.

It’s Semitic in structure—structured, yet mysterious and methodical. There’s beauty and hidden meaning in every root. Yes, it can be daunting at first—especially without a Semitic background. But you don’t need to be a trained linguist to enjoy or explore it. Curiosity and patience go further than any degree.

🌈 The Other Question...

Some asked about orientation—fair question, given the tone of my calendar. I’m a straight fellow, with an open and accepting mind. Been happily married to my wife for nearly ten years (together for twenty), and I deeply respect the spectrum of identities others bring to this community. You're all welcome here.

✨ Fun Fact Speed-Round!

First Dwarvish word I ever coined? Honestly, I can’t recall—it’s been thirty years...

Favourite Khuzdul root? Probably [KhGR], which is one of the rare winks to my local childhood dialect. A “kegge” is West-Flemish for “big nose,” and that’s exactly where KhGR came from—it’s now the Neo-Khuzdul root for “nose.” Most personal Khuzdul word I’ve coined? That would be ugloriskhûna—meaning “wise woman known for kindness, humour, and the ability to enjoy life.” The word (and its meaning) was inspired by the nickname of a dear friend of mine.

Most surprising moment? When I visited HobbitCon in Bonn, Germany. I dropped by the booth of the German Tolkien Society to say hello to a kind acquaintance—only she wasn’t there. Instead, someone had a full-on fan moment and asked for a picture with me.

Most moving request I’ve ever received? Someone once asked me to translate a poem for the funeral of their brother.

Best compliment I’ve received? I get more praise than I feel I deserve—but one that truly warmed my heart was:

“You would have made Tolkien proud.”

Most ridiculous runic request? Well, aside from someone asking me to translate The Hobbit in its entirety (which would take me years), nothing truly “ridiculous.” Folks ask because they’re curious—and that’s never a bad thing. That said... the biggest chuckle? A tattoo request for “Meat is back on the menu”—to be inked on a very private part of the body.

And just so you know who’s been rambling behind the beard all this time—here’s a noble mashup a friend made of me, in full Gimli regalia. (Yes, that’s me. No, I don’t imagine I swing an axe nearly as well.)

If you’ve read this far—thank you. Thank you all for being part of this strange and wonderful journey. Your curiosity, kindness, and shared love for Dwarves have kept the forge warm. I hope this answers some of the more personal questions that found their way into the queue. Now, let’s get back to the runes, shall we?

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

[ja1-d3n]

birds & beginnings || OPEN

Jaiden moved into Theta house with ease; Her previous move from Arizona to Los Angeles had her semi-prepped for the occasion. Her room unpacked, her computer set up, her bird cage in the corner near the window, everything felt cozy and safe. Both of her birds, Tofu and Ari, were itching for attention after being in a cage for so long during the move. Jaiden only felt it right to take them out and get some fresh air outside.

She did plenty of research before moving here about the local wildlife, learning that there weren't many birds of prey within the area, making it safe for her birds to be outside under supervision. She sat underneath the shade of a tree with either bird on each shoulder, occasionally feeding them millet and watching as they free-flew.

Ari, however, had other plans than just flying. After soaring around for a little bit, he made a beeline and perched himself onto the shoulder of a complete stranger. Jaiden was mortified. Not only was Ari not usually this outgoing to strangers, this person was probably about to have a heart attack, or worse, hurt Ari by accident. She sprung to her feet--Tofu clung to her shoulder--and raced over to the stranger that her green-cheek conure just assaulted. "OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY-- HE USUALLY DOESN'T DO THIS, OH GOD..." She scrambles awkwardly, reaching her hands forward to try to grab the bird from their shoulder.

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

Do you have any hcs for good!Chase in that alternate timeline in which Clay becomes the leader? What are his dynamics with other monks because with Omi it's quite obvious (he's basically his dad)

When he was with Master Fung and the group as a whole, Chase was essentially a TA to Master Fung, but that's not what he was usually doing.

Master Monk Chase still sort of did his separate thing and did pilgrimages and solo missions like we see Guan doing, he simply chooses to work with the Xiaolin temple much more closely and base himself there instead of splintering to his own temple. He's still usually not part of the kids' Shen Gong Wu hunts.

Even after Master Fung is gone, Chase stills goes off on his own to do solo missions (like searching for Omi himself when Omi sneaks off back to the temple, something Chase does seem like he really filled the others in on).

So he doesn't really consider himself in charge of supervising them or acting other them-- that was Master Fung before, and now it's Clay. Chase sort of becomes Clay's occasional TA, but they still operate semi-autonomously.

Chase leaves most decisions about the monks to Clay. This new home, the farmland, Master Fung's statue-- those things are all Clay. Chase doesn't feel any need to question or challenge Clay's position, and is certainly not competing with him for it.

Master Fung and the other three monks who aren't Omi facilitate a lot of mutual growth in each other throughout the main series, and they do a lot of the same here. So you can tell Master Fung was still their main teacher.

Master Fung still helps Raimundo learn discipline and duty and to stop hiding behind a class clown status to avoid his fear of applying himself that Raimundo leaned on to avoid failure, and Raimundo still helps Master Fung learn to be more gentle and more empathetic with his lessons and more willing to bend and take their input into consideration and respect his students more. Master Fung still helps teach Kimiko how to calm down and find her center when she wants to and Kimiko helps teach Master Fung how to be emotionally intelligent and emotionally available for a kid who is crying or breaking down and needs a soft hand. Master Fung still helps Clay find a home away from the suffocating environment of the Bailey Family home and in praising Clay for his out-of-the-box thinking, and Clay stills helps Master Fung in being the support and foundation the team needs.

Chase's involvement indirectly smoothed out a lot of the internal affairs with the monks from the series. That, and Hannibal's presence from the start meaning that Wuya was slightly less hard pressed in needing a lackey outside of Jack.

Either way, in some way or another, I don't think Raimundo betrayed the monks in this timeline. Raimundo's conflict with and resentment towards Master Fung still happened, but it was a much smaller hiccup and they resolved it differently, since the permanent cracks in the group's dynamic that Raimundo left from his betrayal don't seem to be present in the alternate timeline.

Kimiko seems pretty friendly towards Chase, since she was the only one who stopped what she was doing to wave and greet him when Chase returned after what must have been a very sudden and unexplained departure. Though Chase's restrained greeting back is definitely something less personal and animated than he had with Omi a few minutes prior.

But Kimiko is also very willing to pass the Lao Mang Lone off to Chase where she vehemently stopped Raimundo from drinking it. So despite being the one of the monks who's probably friendliest with Chase, this also shows still shows that distance that still exists between Chase and the other three.

Outside of Chase's personal attachment to Omi and tendency to personally interfere in directly Omi-related matters, Chase ultimately keeps himself at that distance with the others and asks them to operate their team according to their generation's decisions. He's certainly happy for them when they do, but he also doesn't consider himself a necessary part of it.

Chase also helped iron out a lot of the drama of the leader selection, since that had to happen shortly after they lost Master Fung and the temple.

Namely, I think Chase just went ahead and declared that, although they shouldn't compete or backbite each other since the universe would be making the call in the end, Omi was not in the running-- he was the youngest and was still essentially Chase's protégé. Especially since when the topic of leadership came up, one of he monks probably pointed out Chase's very open favoritism towards Omi and asked if that would tip the scales, and Chase had to clarify that. (Because Omi freezing himself in this time had nothing to do with the leadership selection. Everyone already fully expects Omi to know that Clay is already the leader. Something else motivated Omi there.)

Chase's presence also irons out a lot of the internal conflicts in the team because he was there for Omi, and vice versa.

And Chase and Omi still facilitate mutual growth in each other-- Chase was very jaded after losing Guan and Dashi, and Omi is who helped Chase softened and come back out of his shell after 1500 years of being pretty closed off to the world. Even though Chase never really went full scorched earth the way Guan does in the main timeline, Omi is what anchors him and helps him be who he is today.

And Chase being Omi's favorite person from the start and the person he clings to frees Master Fung and Omi of their uncomfortable one-sided relationship where both Master Fung and Omi wants the other to be something and someone they just can never be and don't really want to be. In Omi's moments of acting out or feeling isolated, he has Chase to cling to. That's why Omi hasn't thrown caution to the wind and jumped into the Yin-Yang world to rescue Master Fung at any cost in this world.

[isat-headcanons]

Guess who's back again! This time I wanna talk about Bonnie (+ Siffrin in how they interact with Bonnie and such)

Potentially sensitive topics: alcohol mention, mention of running away from home, mentions of children not being as well-supervised as they probably should be (I think that's all of them)

I feel like Bonnie likes hanging out with Siffrin a lot (when they're not overcome with guilt like in the game). Bonnie gets a lot more freedom when around Siffrin, which leads into the fact that-

-Bonnie definitely hasn't had a normal childhood, even before this. They probably are used to having more autonomy and independence than most kids at this age, and has for a long time. I'd bet on that because Nille is probably busy trying to keep food on the table and keep everything afloat. She might not have time to do all the normal parenting things as well. Not to mention the whole "ran away from home" thing.

Anyway, lightning round, go!

Bonnie probably got some bruises and scrapes by doing things Siffrin permitted at least five times.

Bonnie definitely learned how to start a fire after promising to not do it in front of the rest of the party (they didn't want Bonnie getting burned) or anywhere anything unintended might catch on fire.

Siffrin definitely was a bit TOO relaxed with how much they let Bonnie do, but as another semi-feral child, he didn't really know any better. No one taught him what a "normal" childhood looks like or what is considered "safe" for a child.

This is also because Siffrin loves being the "cool adult" for Bonnie and is maybe a bit permissive when trying to make people like them.

And maybe also because he knows HE didn't listen to authority figures who tried to control everything but DID listen to the ones who rarely said no and realized if THEY don't do it, no one in the group will.

The "Oh this is definitely alcohol and yeah you can have some" incident was DEFINITELY not the only time something like that happened. I'd bet it happened at least ten times over the course of the adventure. It doesn't STOP happening either.

Alright, I think I'm done for now! Until next time!

- 🌸 Flower anon

Holding them both /pos

And hello again, Flower anon!

[xochiackiller]

For my first request, can you write a oneshot featuring Aizawa with mummification, chastity and gags please? In the fic, he goes to a love hotel for a bondage session. In it, hes stripped naked, has his mouth tape gagged and his cock in chastity. But he learns too late that it's an escape challenge and if he can't escape, he'll stay locked for a week. So now he has to try and escape while feeling orgasmic. What do you think?

A/N: Yes sir, I can—and I did! This was such a fun and unique request to bring to life. To the lovely person who sent it in, I hope it scratches the itch you were hoping for. And to all my readers: I hope you enjoy this one just as much.

HEADS-UP❗️: This story features themes of restraint, denial, and intense scenes of control and power exchange. Please make sure you're in the right headspace to engage with this type of content.

minors, please do not interact.

Thanks as always for reading and supporting my chaotic little corner of the internet ₊˚ෆ

Bound and Denied | Shouta Aizawa

| MDNI - 18+ | total wc: 1.2k+

The soft click of the door behind him was oddly final. Shouta Aizawa stood in the dimly lit room, the scent of sandalwood and leather wrapping around him like a second skin. A red envelope lay on the back-lacquered table in the center of the room, marked only with the initials he had scrawled himself when he booked the session two weeks ago: S.A. 

This wasn’t new to him—playing with restraint, with silence, with submission—but this was the first time he was giving himself over to someone else’s design. He’d selected everything beforehand: the materials, the limits, the challenge. Full mummification. Chastity. Mouth gag. One hour. No safeword. Just the lock. 

A camera blinked in the corner. They were watching. 

More specifically, you were watching. 

You stood behind the tinted glass in the control room, arms folded, sipping your coffee as the other hotel attendants lounged beside you, eyes glued to the monitors. Your job tonight was more than just supervision. You were the orchestrator of his descent into denial—the voice he’d hear, the pressure he’d feel, the one who’d decide just how long the tease would linger. 

And you intended to make it unforgettable. 

You watched as he opened the envelope.

Welcome to the Silk Binding Suite Mr. Aizawa.

Your session begins now. 

Objective: Escape within 60 minutes. 

Succeed: Earn another bondage session of your choosing.

Failure: Seven days in your chosen chastity device. 

Aizawa exhaled slowly. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing with practiced focus. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—only calm acceptance of the challenge ahead. 

The assistant entered then—tall, masked, and deliberate. Wordlessly, Aizawa began to undress. Each article of clothing was removed with quiet precision, as if this too was part of the ritual. His toned body, sculpted from years of discipline, was revealed in layers. Dark hair framed skin already tinged with heat. His cock, semi-hard, gave a slight twitch—eager, restrained, aching for what was to come. 

Without a word, his clothes and belongings were placed neatly into a decorated bin. 

The gag came first. A thick strip of industrial-grade silver tape was pressed over his mouth and then wrapped securely around his head—tight, final, silencing. 

Next, the chastity cage. Cold. Gleaming. Unforgiving. 

He flinched slightly as the assistant guided his arousal into the confining metal. His body responded involuntarily—tensing, twitching—before a soft metallic click echoed in the room. Locked. 

Then came the bindings. 

Layer by layer: gauze, latex, leather. Each one wrapped expertly around him—arms pinned to his sides, legs fused together, chest compressed, thighs pressed firm. His tender feet were left bare, his hair untouched, cascading freely while the rest of him vanished beneath the silver cocoon. 

When the assistant stepped back, he looked less like a man and more like a masterpiece—helpless, bound, and breathtaking. 

Only his eyes remained visible, locked onto the glowing countdown clock. 

60:00. 

The assistant exited. And now, the real game began. 

You leaned into the microphone. 

“All set, Mr. Aizawa?”

A muffled grunt—“Mmmph!” 

“Remember what you signed up for. Escape, and you get the privilege of being restrained again.. Fail, and the little cage stays shut for seven days.” 

“Mmmnn—mmph!” he replied, struggling to nod, eyes flaring with arousal and anticipation. 

You grinned. 

“Let’s begin.” 

The lights dimmed. The matt beneath his feet glowed faintly,  slow and warm. 

The first few minutes passed in silence. Aizawa tested the bindings—rocking forward, leaning back, shifting side to side. All futile. You had made sure of that. 

He shifted his weight too far, misjudging his center of balance. Bound tight and unable to counter the momentum, he toppled backward—landing ass first onto the soft mat with a muted thud. 

A grunt escaped behind the gag. Embarrassed, perhaps—but still determined. 

Each squirm after that only made it worse. Every movement sent a jolt through his restrained body, his cock flexing helplessly inside its cage. Frustration mounted. 

“He’s already hard,” one of the younger attendants murmured. “This’ll be brutal.” 

You chuckled. “Exactly how he wants it.” 

You tapped a button. The mat vibrated beneath him—just enough to simulate simulation, to give him the illusion of pleasure. You saw him jolt, hips bucking reflexively. 

“Mmmmphhh…!” 

“Enjoying yourself, Shouta?” you said into the mic, tone dripping with amusement. “That vibration won’t get you off. But it’ll sure keep you close/” 

Another desperate moan—”Mmmghh!”—rumbled through the gag. His hips rocked harder, and you could hear the strained effort in each sound. Gagged as he was, he tried to speak, to beg, to curse you through that infernal layer of tape. 

You increased the pulse frequency. He arched, trembling now. Sweat trickled along his temples. He rolled, trying to grind against the mat, desperate for friction. But the cage was merciless. He could do nothing. 

“Look at him,” one of the women whispered, biting her lip. “He’s gorgeous like this.”

“To think that this was the underground hero who struck fear into the hearts of criminals.”

“Now a desperate mess of man.” 

“And we’re just getting started,” you muttered. 

45:00. 

He had no progress. His wrap was still pristine. But his body was soaked, chest rising and falling quickly, muscles trembling under the strain. You could almost hear his breath hitch each time the cage pulsed against his sensitivity. 

“Mmmnnff—!” 

You leaned into the mic again. “Getting needy, Aizawa? Imagine this, for seven days. Waking up hard. Going to sleep harder. Teased. Denied. Helpless.” 

His hips jerked. Another moan—”Nnnhh, mmphhh!” 

You pressed the secondary button. 

Tiny nozzles activated within the mat—spritzing a barely-there mist of synthetic pheromones, designed for sensory enhancement. His pupils dilated. 

He began to murmur through his gag. Then came the heavy breathing.

“That’s right,” you purred. “Don’t resist. This is all part of the challenge. Let the scent drive you deeper.” 

30:00. 

His body was convulsing lightly with each pulse of stimulation. His thighs flexed against the wrap, his hands twitching within their bonds. You knew that frustration was like fire under his skin. The denial wasn’t just physical now—it was mental. Emotional. 

“What would it take,” you whispered, just loud enough, “for you to beg?” 

“Mmmmph!” he shouted through the gag, the sound cracked and raw. His cock flexed wildly within the cage. He was so close—yet completely unable to do anything about it. 

20:00 

You watched him squirm, hopelessly. You saw the exact moment his resistance faltered—when he stopped fighting and just felt it. Every pulse. Every hum. Every forbidden urge. 

10:00. 

You knelt in front of the glass, eyes inches from the screen. 

“You did beautifully,” you said, low and sincere. “But not even close.” 

He moaned—long, slow, desperate. “Mmmmhhh…nnnphh…” 

00:00. 

The lights turned on. The door slid open with a hiss. Two assistants walked in, followed by you. 

He lay there, stil bound, still gagged, still hard. His body was trembling, slick with sweat. His cock was deep purple, caged and swollen. 

You crouched, brushing the hair from his forehead. 

“Seven days. No release. No mercy. We’ll check in. Maybe tease you more.” 

“Mmhph…” A somber moan leaked from his gag. But you had another surprise for him.

“One more thing I forgot to mention.”

He turned his eye, his head barely moving.

“When I said you’d be bound by the chastity device, I wasn’t referring to just the cage on your cock.”

His eye widened with the realization.

“No. I was referring to the bindings that keep you chaste.” He patted the tape on his chest.

“Mmmghh…!” he whimpered. 

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your gloved fingers trailing down the curve of his jaw. 

“You’re mine now, Aizawa.” 

You stood. The assistants began resetting the room. 

And you walked out, leaving him wrapped, aching, and completely, blissfully denied. 

Exactly how he begged to be. 

Author Note: thanks for reading o(≧v≦)o request are open <3

[thebluestbluewords]

the lake had it coming

AKA the semi-annual Auradon Prep Junior-Senior Camping Trip

* "Why are you wet?" 

"Fell in the lake," Jay announces cheerfully. "It's fucking freezing." 

Audrey shoots him a glare from across the campfire. She's got some pretty princess hangups about hearing uncouth language from the mouths of her classmates, so really, they're doing her a favor by swearing. It's like exposure therapy. Desensitizing her. 

"Again?" 

Jay shakes his wet hair at Mal like he's a fucking dog. Her dog. She should probably try getting him a leash one of these days. After all, they're allowed off campus now, as the big scary seniors who can be released into the wilds of the tiny towns around Auradon Prep without direct supervision. She could totally make it out to a pet shop. She can even bring Ben along with her. He's got a better sense of style, and there's something very satisfying about imagining her royal boyfriend picking out a leash for her isle boy. 

“The lake had it coming. I'm gonna get it right sometime."

Carlos, behind his shoulder, is shaking his head. "He's not," he mouths, making a sort of cutting gesture across his neck. "No." 

Mal swallows down the urge to giggle, both because it's undignified for a lady of her age, and because she's not ready to acknowledge the small, equally wet apparition over Jay's shoulder. "The lake might be more powerful than you can comprehend, Jaybird." 

"Nah. It's a lake. I can comprehend it just fine." 

"He can NOT." 

"I think maybe the lake is defeating you," Mal says cheerfully, reaching out to clap a hand down on his (very wet) shoulder like she's one of his pretentious princely teammates.  "Also I know for a fact you brought one change of clothes and a toothbrush, so tell me the plan for surviving the night in wet clothes, and then I'll trust your plan to tackle the whole lake." 

"So, hear me out here," Jay says, gripping Mal back with both hands. She's wearing Evie's outdoor fleece (purple with waterproof shoulder details), so the water doesn't soak in. Anything short of a full-body hug, and she should stay warm and dry.  "I'm gonna fight the lake."

"It's made of water." 

"I'm gonna fight it," Jay repeats. There's a sort of crazed look in his eyes that she hasn't seen since they were fourteen and discovering the wonders of boobs for the first time. Fighting the lake isn't nearly as important as looking at Dahlia Tremaine's boobs if you ask Mal, but watching Jay get his ass handed to him by a teenage girl in a pink velvet jacket was funny enough the first time that she's going to let this one play out. "I know its weakness." 

"Yeah, and it's not crazy boys with lake water in their brains." 

"Fire!" 

Ah. She's remembering the other consequence of that look now. The consequence that ended up armed and extremely pissed off at both of them for daring to look at anyone other than him. The consequence that's still haunting them in the form of increasingly irate letters about how they're "betraying the isle" by not bringing over an entire crew of bloodthirsty pirates hell-bent on revenge, with no interest in attending school or even trying to learn that sometimes, goodness isn't the worst thing ever. 

Pirates, seriously. You make out with them a few times under the docks, and they think they own your ass. 

"I'm not burning up the lake for you."

"I'll spread lighter fluid from the boat, and you can just light the surface on fire," Jay says. His hands are still on her shoulders, and the crazed look in his eyes is going a little beyond boob-driven enthusiasm now. Sort of leaning into all-out crazytown. "It's important." 

"For what, getting you in detention for the rest of the year?" 

"The lake needs to burn." Jay insists. "She needs it." 

"You," Mal says carefully, ducking and then weaving, and then just pulling Jay's hands off her shoulders, because the subtly really isn't working at all, "Need to put on dry clothes before you think about burning anything. Evie's got some cute themed stuff for us, or whatever. Go find her." 

Jay beams. "Great idea. Evie always carries a lighter." 

"No, no no no. Dry clothes first." 

"I'll be safer setting the fire if I'm wet," Jay points out, logically. "It'll help me resist the burn." 

Okay. Well. There's some wisdom there.

[5eraphim]

Would you ever write something about Scout as a rabbit hybrid thingy? This question was inspired from your “Puppy Eyes” fic that I’m in love with

In my head writing this, Scout is meant to be a hybrid, but still goes through transformations cycles like a werewolf would, and isn't exactly in a fully human form when not a werewolf.

Rating: M (MINORS DNI, GO PLAY OUTSIDE)

Content Warnings: rabbit hybrid, yandere, exophilia, taboo fantasies/roleplay (CNC, cop/prisoner, cop/serial killer, incest, abuse of power, revenge sex), reader is kept gender neutral

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

Highly prone to "puppy love," which makes him feel paradoxical guilt for lusting after you so intensely, and he genuinely struggles to work up the courage to ask you out. Partly because, despite his narcissistic personality, the idea of getting rejected terrifies him more than anything imaginable, and he can't help but choke up in the moment.

Because of this, he'll be looking for any excuse to get his hands on you as soon as you give them the green light. The brutal truth here is for your first week or so of hooking up, Scout is horny out of his mind but, unfortunately, unperceptive of your needs. Scout has too much pent-up frustration to give much pleasure on your behalf and can't stop bursting pretty early. It's a learning curve for both of you to get this right, but he's eager to please. (Once he can figure out how, that is.) He's got to do a lot of learning on the fly here because even if it's evident to you that he's pretty out of his league, he refuses to admit it.

He thinks it's cute that you assumed he would be 100% sub, someone you could order around and easily control, but Scout's pretty versatile and prioritizes variety above all else. (Blame his hyper-active imagination for this, as well as a shameful amount of time jerking off and daydreaming about sleeping with you.)

Unsurprisingly, Scout is extraordinarily needy behind closed doors. (He's a very hands-on person in public, too, but there's more desperation when other people aren't watching.) Scout is prone to nightmares about losing you if the two of you are apart for too long.

Gets embarrassingly aroused when you wear anything with a bunny logo on it. The Playboy logo is like crack to him.

When he goes fully cum-brained he'll have some of the most deranged taboo fantasies of the two of you, often gross, or sometimes just flat out weird.

You're a rookie detective agent given the assignment of a lifetime set to assist in the investigation of a serial killer targeting citizens like you alone at night in your hometown. Because you're so new and don't have much experience in the field, you try to catch him all by yourself and are given a grim reality check.

You're a prisoner, and he's a cop in charge of supervising your cell. You were put in solitary confinement for bad behavior, failure to follow the rules, and fighting with other prisoners. You're too far away from the others to call for help, and Scout knows that. At the end of the day, it'll be his word against yours. 

The two of you are step-siblings sharing a bedroom with overprotective parents. He's muffling you with his sweaty palm while using his other hand to keep your thighs apart while he thrusts inside.

He's a jilted lover who's holding you hostage, determined to babytrap you so you'll never have the option of abandoning him freely ever again.

Scout gets really nippy when he first transforms. No matter how many times he goes through all this, the rabbit teeth will hurt when they grow back in, and he goes through a semi-second mini-teething phase to get used to them. They usually won't hurt so long as you don't try to resist too much.

The transformation cycle fucks with his brain chemistry and hormones like crazy. Unfortunately, the main reason behind his intense neediness and proclivity for jealousy is due to factors largely out of his control. 

Related to the insane sexual fantasies he has for you, expect Scout to ask you some strange questions about the relationship, such as,

Would you be mad at me forever if I killed both your parents?

Would you still wanna date me if you found out we were cousins?

Would the two of us have been friends as kids? 

Is there any chance we would've dated in high school?

Would you still want to be in a relationship with me if you were the monster and I were the human?

The very first transformation of his into a rabbit as your partner would be the most painful and intense one of his entire life. At last he finally has met his own mate, someone to help keep his bed warm at night, to protect with his life, and to Scout you are synonymous with the future in life itself. But still, he was scared to death thinking about laying a hand on you in such a state. Despite what you might expect, he would put you and your safety first, at least for the first two or three months. His horniness simply cannot entirely surmount the hypothetical guilt of accidentally killing you or ruining his chance to get intimate in the future.