#so enjoy the snippets

[thatzombiecat]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @holylustration MEEEEP. So the WIP Wednesday strikes again ig :splats: So have my boy *drops the stuff and runs away screaming*

Tagging: @ederadnt (YESS DO EET), @maggotknight, @fenlirias, @infernaldaydreams, @vitanithepure, @natchart, @nahoba, @sotc, @redstairs if yall have something to share!

[joejhang]

my favourite bits of the unhinged kandreil draft snippet

honestly this is a goldmine of insane moments. love nora for this.

THEIR BANTER THO

good to know neil's always been a cunty diva

it's giving you'll just have to taste me when he's kissing you. r.i.p. kandreil au kevin you truly had infinite rizz.

the way i feel like i've been sledgehammered

andreil still going strong

the way they have me giggling and twirling my hair kicking my feet booktok couples could only DREAM of having this kinda chemistry

i don't think i need to say anything

[laddertek]

etho said actually you _don't_ understand the intricacies of how tango is my boyfriend and bdubs is my ex

(and how tango and bdubs kiss too)

Scar: We went on that little adventure, you know! Etho: Yeah, yeah, we had our adventure, that's true, that's true. Scar: You disparaged your teammates. That's it, all right, no more spoilers. Etho: (laughs) Our team has -- our team has some weird dynamics this -- this season. Cleo: (overlapping) Really, Etho? Is there trouble in paradise? (pause) Who's third-wheeling with you, again? I can't remember. Etho: (laughs) Uhh. The -- Cleo: Genuinely can't remember. I know it's you and Bdubs. And...Tango? Tango. Tango. Etho: (loudly) Why -- Why is Tango the third wheel? Why -- why isn't Bdubs the third wheel? Cleo: Because it's you and Bdubs. I'm sorry. I understand how that relationship goes. Etho: (dissatisfied) Hmm.

[cubedmango]

「安達が魔法使いにならなかった世界線の話」 + 「もしもの話」 — english translation

[assortedcriminality]

snippet #3

Contains: blood (not much), knives, violence

Civilian’s eyes fluttered open, their vision intensely blurry. Blinking a few times to clear it up and wincing from a sharp pain in their temple, they raised their head. Instantly they startled, letting out a yelp as a figure came into focus across from them—staring right at their face.

“Awake at last,” the person drawled, tapping their fingers on the table-the table? 

“W-wh…” words failed Civilian immediately, their mouth refusing to cooperate. Their brain hadn’t yet caught up with their surroundings, but they were pretty sure they were sitting up. Why would they be sitting up? Who was the person on the other side of the table? Where-

“I’m sure you have quite a few questions.” The stranger’s voice interrupted their train of thought. “But I have some rather more pressing ones for you as well.”

Another wave of hurt came from Civilian’s head. They reached up a hand to steady themself, ignoring the stranger, but felt something…wet. With some hesitance, they took it away. It was covered in blood.

“I’m sorry about that,” the person said in a tone that didn’t sound very apologetic. “My employee was a little rough. But it was a necessary precaution, as I’m sure you’ll soon understand.”

Civilian tried to respond, to ask what was going on, but their voice wouldn’t cooperate. All that came out was a dry, rasping cough that shook their whole body. 

“I’ll give you a minute to recover,” said the stranger. They shifted through a pile of papers on their side of the table that Civilian hadn’t noticed before. Their pen jotted a few quick notes down on one of the sheets while Civilian took a deep breath, trying their best to ground themself. They couldn’t panic. They had to stay focused. If they couldn’t figure out what was happening and didn’t manage to escape on their own… well, Lover had insisted on them having that tracker in their phone.

“Wh-where am I?” They finally managed. Their voice was hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in months. Hell, they didn’t know how long they’d been out. It was possible. Unlikely, sure, but possible. God, I really, really, really hope not.

The stranger smiled and wrote something on their page. “The Agency, of course.”

Civilian blinked. “The-the Agency? Like… the hero agency. For people with actual superpowers? What?”

“Most people with actual superpowers, as you say,” the stranger corrected. “There are always those who slip through our fingers and dedicate themselves to villainy. That’s what I’ve brought you here to discuss.”

Their head pounded. “Who are you?”

The stranger’s grin widened. “Why, I’m Superhero. I thought that was quite obvious.”

“S-Superhero?” This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. They’d eaten spicy food last night and were having a bad dream, that’s it. Why would Superhero, of all people, kidnap them? They weren’t a hero, not even a sidekick. Sure they had powers, but the Agency only took first and secondary powered individuals. Civilian’s tertiary power, the ability to calm others with their singing, was good for helping Lover relax after a long day at work, but not so much for fighting crime. 

“Yes. Now then, Civilian, I wanted to ask you something…” Superhero flipped through a file, pulling out a photograph. “Do you know who this is?”

Civilian raised an eyebrow, wincing when they found it hurt to do so. Of course they knew who it was. The picture was of Supervillain, the most notorious criminal in the city. They had evaded the heroes for years, stealing from every important figure in range and causing destruction with their powers of invulnerability and telekinesis. In the photo, they had their hands raised, floating in front of a smoking skyscraper. A team of heroes were surrounding them from all angles, but they wore a confident smirk, as if they knew something no one else did. “That’s Supervillain.”

“Indeed. Now—“ Supervillain took another photo from their folder and slid it across the table. “I believe you know this person?”

Civilian started. The image was of Lover, wearing a suit in a restaurant. They appeared to be meeting with a business partner, as they often did. “Why do you-“ 

“Answer the question, Civilian,” the hero interrupted. “Do you or do you not know this person?”

“I-I do,” they stammered. What did Lover have to do with this, whatever ‘this’ was? “But-“

“Everything will become clear in just a moment.” Superhero withdrew the photo and placed it back in the file. “You and this person, Lover, have been dating for over three years. Is that correct?”

Civilian stared at them. “I…yes. That’s right.”

“And you work as a performer?”

“Yes. I’m a-a singer.”

The crimefighter scribbled something and glanced down at a paper. “And Lover, they’re in business?”

“Real estate,” they said numbly. “But why-“

“All in due time,” Superhero said without looking up. “Real estate,” they chuckled quietly, giving no explanation. “And you met them when?”

Civilian shifted in their chair. “A little under four years ago. I was doing a show at a restaurant. They came up after, gave me a tip, complimented my voice���”

“And you lived happily ever after,” Superhero finished for them, flipping through a few more pages. “You live together, yes? An apartment building off 57th?”

“How do you-“ 

“Nice apartment for a real estate mogul, isn’t it?” they cut in. “Penthouse and everything?”

“They work for a very successful-“

Superhero closed the file with a pronounced slam. Their expression was incomprehensible. “You want to know why you’re here, Civilian?”

Civilian, caught off guard, nodded. 

The hero folded their hands on the table. “I want information on Supervillain.”

Their head was spinning. This was all so confusing, so wrong. None of it made any sense. Why would Superhero kidnap them—violently, it seemed—and think they knew any more about Supervillain than the Agency? “I don’t know why you think I can help you. I don’t know anything about them. Please, I don’t know what you did to me, but just leave me alone.”

Superhero tilted their head to the side, a pitying expression forming on their face. “I know you know, Civilian. Don’t make me do something I don’t want to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they snapped, standing up. They were done with this. Clearly, Superhero wasn’t the person everyone thought they were, all shiny and moral, placed on a pedestal by the whole city. “But I don’t want to hear it.” They stormed over to the door and were about to throw it open when their body froze against their will, hands slamming to their sides. 

“Sit,” Superhero said. 

Civilian’s eyes widened in horror as their legs began to move back towards the chair of their own volition. They’d never seen Superhero’s powers used before, never imagined how terrifying it could be. The ability to control others with their mind, used to easily dispatch criminals without any need for bloodshed. They struggled to no avail as their hand reached to pull out their chair. Superhero’s face was full of mock disappointment. 

“Now then,” the hero said as Civilian was forced to sit down again. “Let’s continue, shall we? We were talking about Supervillain, weren’t we?”

Civilian couldn’t speak. They couldn’t move. They were trapped in their own body, unable to do anything but move their eyes. 

“Please don’t continue your naive stubbornness,” they sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for it. Tell me what you know. This is your last chance.”

“I don’t know anything,” were the words that shot out immediately, before Civilian even realized they could talk again. “Please believe me, I don’t know-“

“Civilian, dear.” Superhero shook their head. “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe you when I know you’re dating Supervillain.”

Their breathing stopped. “What?”

“Supervillain, Lover…” the hero shrugged. “One and the same. I mean, it all seems quite obvious now. I simply can’t trust that you didn’t know.”

A laugh burbled up in Civilian’s throat. “You can’t be serious. Lover, a master criminal? That’s ridiculous. You have the wrong person. Lover doesn’t even have powers.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve never noticed anything off about them? Like the way they never seem to get injured, even everyday things like paper cuts and little bruises?” they asked skeptically.

“They’re just-just lucky, I guess.” Come on. Anyone could avoid injury just by being careful. And besides, just because Civilian had never seen them get hurt doesn’t mean they never had been. 

Superhero’s eyebrows rose. “Lucky. All right, how about the way they’re gone from dusk to dawn with no real explanation? Or how we’ve witnessed them meeting with Villain, a known criminal, under the guise of making a real estate deal?”

Civilian shook their head vehemently. “No. No. No. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. It’s all just a misunderstanding. They’re not like that. They would never break the law like that, put people in danger.” Their voice rose. “You don’t know them.”

The hero let out a snarl, their face contorting, rising half out of their chair. “You know something. I know you do. You will tell me.”

“I don’t know anything!” Civilian yelled, standing up again. Superhero seemed to have forgotten to keep controlling them. “Leave me alone!”

Superhero rose to their full height, sliding their chair back. Their expression was murderous. They put a hand on the edge of the table and slammed it to the left, making it crash into the wall. Civilian let out a yelp, hastily stumbling backward as Superhero approached.

“St-stay away from me,” Civilian said, hands outstretched. Their back hit the wall. Before they could move, Superhero’s hand smashed into the brick beside their head. With their other, they pulled a knife from their belt. Civilian froze, terrified eyes meeting the hero’s furious ones.

“You do know. You know everything. And I will drag it out of you however I need to,” they growled. “I don’t even need this knife, though it would be fun. I could make you jump out of the window. I could make you stab yourself in the heart. So I suggest you tell me what I want to know. Now.”

Tears began to slide down Civilian’s face. “Lover isn’t Supervillain, I don’t know anything, I swear, I don’t know—“

Superhero’s knife slashed up in a flash of silver, cutting a bold line across their cheek. They cried out, more tears mingling with the blood that immediately began to stream down their chin in a thin, steady line. 

“How dare you,” they demanded, managing to glare the supposed hero down through their pain. “Everyone parades you around, saying how amazing and great you are, and here you are torturing me.”

A sinister smile formed on Superhero’s face. They angled their knife on their captive’s shoulder, starting to slowly dig in with the tip. Civilian bit their lip, determined to be defiant. “No one ever needs to know. Give me what I want, and I’ll stop. Simple as that.”

“I…” they trailed off, gasping as Superhero dug their blade deeper into their shoulder. “Don’t know… anything.”

“You lying bi—“

BOOM. The door fell flat on the wooden floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Bricks clattered to the ground, loosened by the force. Superhero whirled around, knife still held tightly in their fist. A tall figure stepped into the light, clad in a dark gray supersuit and a black mask that covered their features. A mask anyone in the city would recognize. 

“No,” Civilian breathed, forgetting their pain.

“Supervillain,” Superhero drawled. In a flash, they turned momentarily to seize Civilian’s wrist and pull them forward. They were too frozen to struggle as the hero’s arm wrapped around their waist and the knife was placed on their pulse point, forcing their chin up. “How nice of you to join us.”

Civilian held back a sob as Supervillain’s masked gaze slid to them. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. They hadn’t believed it for a second, not through the hero’s insistence. They had never doubted their partner, not ever. They’d never had a reason to. But now…

“Lover.” The name was less than a whisper on their lips, but the villain still flinched.

Superhero glanced down at their hostage. “You really didn’t know?” They gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I suppose you were somewhat useful. Now…” They faced Supervillain with a triumphant expression. “Turn yourself over to me, or I slit their pretty little throat.” 

Supervillain’s finger twitched. It was an almost imperceptible movement, unnoticeable had Civilian not been watching them a hawk. A wicked blade, about twelve inches long, sat in the air in front of Superhero’s face. It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere. The hero stiffened.

“Release them. Now. Or I kill you. They’re innocent, they have no part in this.” Their voice was both familiar and unfamiliar, deeper and a little raspier than usual. 

Superhero sneered at them around the blade. “They lost their innocence the second they started dating a master criminal. They’re just collateral now.” They increased their pressure on the knife, causing a thin line of blood to bead up on the hostage’s neck. “You’re fast, but are you fast enough? You might kill me, but you’ll be too late to save them.”

Civilian trembled in the hero’s grip, staring at the criminal’s motionless figure. They didn’t want Supervillain—Lover—to kill Superhero, no matter how terrible they were. They didn’t want to watch Lover do such a horrible thing, accept that they were capable of murder. It was the right thing for Supervillain to turn themself in, but Superhero was corrupt, possibly unstable. Civilian didn’t want to see them win either.

“Fine.” Supervillain’s blade clattered to the ground. The criminal held out their hands to Superhero. “Take me. Just let them go.”

The hero grinned. They stepped away from Civilian, offering the knife to them handle-first. “Hold this for me, love. For insurance.”

For the second time, their hand moved of its own accord. To their horror, it grabbed the knife and placed it on their neck again. They were frozen like that, not even able to speak. Supervillain’s shoulders tightened. The hero drew closer to them, taking a pair of thick power-suppressing handcuffs from their belt. 

“I can’t believe all it took to bring in the mighty Supervillain was a little mouse of a civilian,” they said, grabbing the criminal’s left hand roughly and forcing it into one of the cuffs, securing it with a loud click. The hero lifted their head and smirked at their masked face. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Supervillain murmured. Their captor continued speaking, but it wasn’t Superhero they were looking at. Instead, they gazed past at their partner’s ashen face, the blood matted in their hair, running from their cheek and shoulder. That’s when Civilian saw it. The subtle twitch of the villain’s finger on their uncuffed hand. The dusty brick that seemed to appear out of nowhere, hovering just above Superhero’s head. The hostage’s eyes widened. The hero hadn’t seen the movement, they were focused on their monologue, convinced they had already won. Civilian couldn’t say anything, couldn’t warn them. They weren’t even sure they wanted to. 

The brick came down. Superhero collapsed to the ground mid-sentence. Civilian dropped their knife, backing away. They watched as Supervillain knelt and unclipped a set of keys from the unconscious hero’s belt. They chose a silver one and unlocked the cuff on their left wrist, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. Only then did they look up at their partner. Soundlessly, they brought a hand to their face and slipped off their black mask, revealing the features beneath. Lover’s eyes met theirs. 

“Civilian, I’m so sorry—“

“Save it, Lover,” they said, voice trembling. “You lied to me. You’ve lied to me from the day we met. You’re a villain.”

Their pain was obvious on their face. “I know. It’s my fault you’re here. I’m so, so sorry, Civilian. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

“I was going to get hurt anyway!” they burst out. “No matter what happened, you were going to hurt me. Maybe not like this, but did you really think you could hide who you are forever? Why did you do this?” Their voice broke. “Why would you do this to me?” 

“Because I’m selfish,” they said. “And I love you. I loved you too much to tell you, and I was too selfish to let you go.” 

“Is that supposed to make me forgive you?” Tears began to well up in their eyes again. Their head pounded. “Because you love me, you think that makes everything okay?”

“Of course not.” Their voice was full of anguish. “It doesn’t make up for it. Nothing does. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I would understand if you hated me forever.”

“Lover…” Civilian put a hand to their forehead. The room was spinning, lightheadedness sinking in. “Lover, I don’t—“ 

Their knees buckled. Lover was there in a millisecond, catching them gently and holding them upright. Their head fell into Lover’s shoulder. The villain examined them with concern. A sheen of sweat stood out at their hairline. Their breathing was shallow and laborious. 

“Civilian. Civilian, are you all right?” they asked. 

“It-it hurts,” they whispered. 

Their partner’s eyes widened. “You’ve lost more blood than I thought. Your adrenaline’s kept you functioning all this time.” They placed a hand under Civilian’s knees and lifted them up into their arms. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I want to go home,” they mumbled.

Lover gave them a sad smile, starting out of the empty door frame. “So do I, my love.”

So do I. 

word count: 2948

[ab-horror]

"you're swaying."

the hand on kevin's hip was not unkind, but it wasn't meant as a comfort, either. more of an anchor to keep him from fully keeling over one way or the other.

"'m fine." the fight had bled out of kevin about an hour ago, one of his patented drunk kevin anxiety spirals finally stealing the wind from his sails. he tries to scowl down at andrew. the blonde only raises an eyebrow at him, the frown on kevin's face curling into a pout instesd of something chastising like kevin intended.

"taking lying lessons from the junkie now?" andrew slowly, methodically manhandles kevin back to the bedroom, pushing him back and down onto the mattress. "i'm tired of babysitting. go to bed." the protest in kevin's throat dies as andrew's fingers curl around the neck of the bottle in kevin's hand, tugging at it. kevin lets go, ever the obedient dog under andrew's hands.

"'drew-"

"bed." andrew leaves no room for discussion. the near empty bottle sloshes quietly as andrew leaves the room. kevin's gaze trails after his form, eyelids heavy.

"fine."

[cvntoid]

letting roman pretend you’re dead while he uses you as he pleases will always be on my mind. even naughtier if he’s an actual mortician 😳

He’s not in the family trade - not technically. Not really. Not… in the same way.

If he focuses on his family business being a right-wing news conglomerate and media/entertainment monopoly, then, no, he’s not. If he’s thinking strictly in the business of causing death, well… that’s a different story. He may not contribute to causing those deaths - no, definitely not. But death is his livelihood, day in, day out, as a mortician. And is there maybe a little give-and-take in his mind, justifying the way he benefits from his family name by actively trying to care for the dead and show them respect in some small way? Or is this all a carefully crafted ruse so he can play God in his own fucked-up little world, just him, just a bunch of semi-pliant, quiet bodies on slabs, all the tools and power in his hands?

Maybe that’s food for thought on a different day.

He skates his fingers down your shaking, cold body. Roman leaves his heater off almost always, even in the brutal winter, opting instead to bundle up in layers, in blankets when he can get away with it. He likes it cold. Likes feeling cold fingers and toes, likes it when you press them against his legs when you sleep over, when you spider your freezing fingers over his ribs. Makes him hard, unbelievably so. Aching.

Taking ice baths isn’t something you like doing. It hurts, it makes you panic and makes your lungs close up, and Roman’s there to keep you down by the shoulders when you struggle to stay in all that freezing water. He won’t let you up, even when you beg, even when you start doing those embarrassing, hiccuping sobs. Please let me out please let me out please it hurts please I can’t I can’t I can’t. Please. Please Roman please. You think every single time it’s not going to be as bad, that you’ll get used to it, and you never do. It doesn’t feel nice. It makes you want to escape, but Roman’s eyes get all glassy and focused and his pupils expand and it makes him so fucking hard, so weirdly intense, and nobody’s ever done this to you before. It’s fucked up. It’s just… part of the game. So he holds you down, forcefully, calmly. He never says much - he shushes you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he forces you to stay in the bath, til you’re skin’s glowing red and shaking, til your nipples are so fucking hard it’s painful.

He has a special table. A special room, in fact. It’s small, empty, just… that fucking table, some sleek metal cabinets, a rolling metal tray. A small freezer with a lock. Slick and minimalistic. A slab, you might call it.

And so he has you lie on the slab, cold and shaking, all the fight gone out of you. The game, the game. Staring up blankly at the ceiling while he runs his hands over your body, sometimes with latex gloves and sometimes without. It depends. This time he traces that black latex across your collarbones, traces a line down your sternum, down, down, so slowly, dipping into your navel before coming to a stop where you pubic hair begins, the shape of a long 'Y'. His shaky breath. The hint of a moan he swallows back. He slowly removes your jewelry, all of it.

“This is where you’d be cut open, if you needed an autopsy. I wonder how it would have happened - naturally? Some kind of accident, maybe…? Partied too hard, overdosed. Maybe… mmm, maybe taken to a secret place, used, strangled. Stabbed. I wonder what you’d prefer, hmm?”

No answer. Words aren’t allowed in this game, only his own. His breath hitches in his throat as he comes back up to touch your throat, practically shuddering.

“Wouldn’t blame somebody for wanting to own you like that. Wanting to immortalize you - the last thing you experience as a person, yeah? Your last desperate breaths, reduced to that and that only - their property, all theirs...” Roman reaches down to smooth a hand over his aching cock- fuck. He hisses and grinds against his own palm like that while you tremble on the table and stare up at the empty ceiling, a low pulse in your cunt as you lie exposed and vulnerable. “But that’s not my job. My job is to make your pretty, pretty body ready. After all that, you come to me, and I…”

Roman dances his fingertips up to your throat, pressing his fingers lovingly over your pulse. He strokes you there so lovingly, pressing to find your beating, racing pulse. The feeling of the glove is slick and makes you bite back a moan, taking a slow, gentle breath to steady yourself. God, you’re fucking wet. You can feel that pulse all through your core, so hot and racing inside where you’re so cold outside. Roman slides his free hand down and tucks those gloved fingers between the lips of your cunt, stroking at your clit, both hands mimicking each other. He waits to see if you can keep playing - it’s important not to react. You close your eyes, then, breathing slowly through your nose. It’s hard not to grind or buck your hips or even twitch them just a little, but you manage - you’ve had so much practice with him. He breathes a little laugh and hums, pressing harder against that butterfly-wing flutter under the thin flesh above your carotid, your jugular.

“Cut you here - just to get into the artery. Gotta bleed you dry, fill up all those gorgeous veins of yours with embalming chemicals. Gotta keep this body intact and prepared as long as possible, right? Keep it pretty. And, you know, sweetheart, I gotta - mmmmm, I’d massage every single inch of you. You’d come in stiff, but I’d rub you pliant again. Every inch, every limb, all mine. I’d know every single part of you, touch it, take care of it. You wouldn’t be you, of course… you’d just be mine. My own doll. But even in death, I’d treat you with care, precision, and - you know," he moans, "lips are still soft. They can be made to feel natural as ever, did you know that?”

Roman leans down, and you can feel his body heat as he brushes his lips against yours. You don’t react as he kisses you so tenderly, staying limp and slightly parted for him. He moans openly now, licking at them, pressing kiss after heated kiss against your motionless mouth. His fingers find a new home inside your cunt, where your muscles involuntarily retract against him there, where he massages your g-spot so tenderly you could cry. Staying motionless this long makes your heart beat out of your chest. It’s almost claustrophobic, and is this really what it feels like? A little, in some way? Motionless, at the mercy of your environment, unable to speak or move or provide any input?

You almost gasp as he leaves your side to bring it out - a glass toy, kept in a special freezer where he keeps many these things. Long, smooth, so fucking cold as he slides it against your willing flesh. You’re wet. It slips over your lips, over your clit, chilling your core before he finally works it slowly in and out of you. It’s not for your pleasure; it’s to keep you as cold as he can get you, even inside. He must be close. If you dared open your eyes, you know you’d see him fisting his cock in the other hand, and if you listen you can hear it - his accelerated breaths, hitched and soft, the wet, fleshy sound of him jerking himself off as he stares at you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, trailing his fingers down your belly. He stops above your navel again, pressing against your skin. “And - a-and here,” he gasps, “slice you open. Just a little, honey. Just enough to work the trocar inside. Slide it nice and slow, gotta - ohh, gotta aspirate you. Gotta disinfect those soft organs, make sure they - they keep.”

He works the toy in and out of you, slowly, grinding it against that spot. Fuck, oh fuck - he makes it so fucking hard on you, but you’re playing along so nicely. His breathing; you could cum from that alone, cunt throbbing as he stokes that secret little fire in your guts, so bright and alive where everything else feels so cold.

“Stitch you back up nice and fuckin’ tight. Wash your body. Perfect, so fucking still and perfect for me. The ultimate act of worship, you know that? Being the one to completely and utterly take you, to prepare you from the inside out, all for me. All mine, just mine alone, nothing else but your quiet, pliant body under mine, all fuckin’ clean and limp and serene.”

Roman pulls the toy out a little too quickly, but you’re prepared for this part. He grunts as he digs his hands gingerly into the flesh of your hips, your waist, slowly pulling you down the table until your legs hang limply off the edge, bent, dangling. Lifeless. He lowers the table with a pedal and he’s got your pretty pussy scooted at the edge, thighs spread, and he can’t wait any more. Gasping for breath, he lines his cock up and slowly pushes himself inside. He takes his time here, working himself in and out inch by agonizing inch, moaning so loudly you think he might blow his load right away. But he’s patient. He’s careful, he’s focused. He finally works himself all the way inside and you can’t help it - you have to peek as he runs his hands over your body. He’s got his head thrown back, black gloves crawling over your belly, digging into the meat of your inner thigh as he fully seats himself inside and releases the most erotic groan you’ve ever heard in your life. Before he can lower his head again, you close your eyes, still, being nothing for him. Being meat. Being dead.

He continues like this, thrusting into your lifeless, useless body - your corpse - and he whines. He gasps and worships you, squeezing the pliant flesh over your hips, thighs, belly, breasts, reaching up to hook his fingers sooo softly between your lips against your limp tongue, rubbing it just a little, the edges of your teeth against his skin. It's here that he shudders and fucks harder, meaner. It's always the last moment that it happens.

Roman, your living, breathing god, fucking his cock deeper and deeper, daring you to make a noise. Dead girls can't say no. Dead girls won't struggle, won't let him do what he needs to do. And you don't. It doesn't matter that it hurts, that it's hard to stay so slack and unresponsive when you're this close to cumming, but you do. One of your legs hinges a little funny and it hurts, a cramp starts burning in your hip, but you ignore it.

"Oh - oh fuck - yeah, you... mmm, mine, mine, mine..." Roman's hips stutter with his moans and he's filling you up, big cock pulsing into you, filling you with his molten cum, spurting life into your (dead) body. He works quickly - he pulls out barely after his orgasm, shoving his fingers back into you as he fastens his lips over your clit. Licking, moaning, lapping, fucking himself knuckle-deep to bring you off.

And you do. Fuck, yeah, you do - finally then, spine arching up, like you're coming back. Moaning. Whining, clutching the edge of the cold table, coming undone on his tongue before his dick's done twitching.

Roman laps at you way past your orgasm - he likes you like that. Slow, pathetic, barely moving. A victim to his pleasure. It's proof- look how much you like it, look how much he owns you. You want to be his dead little girl. You want it.

[l3v5ha]

#SEVERANCE: boy it's not that complicated 🙄

[solalunar-eclipse]

Sonadow Snippets #2

In which Sonic returns the favor.

| One |

Shadow’s eyes were carefully trained on Sonic as the blue hedgehog raced through the forest, jumping over roots that sprouted out from the ground and spin-dashing whenever he could in an effort to gain momentum. Of course, Shadow was right by his side, the jets of his skates hissing in rhythm with his strides…but this particular time, the more serious of the two never pulled ahead.

For once, this wasn’t a race.

Instead, Shadow was following Sonic on a path only he knew, waiting to see exactly what lay at the end. After the time when Shadow had invited Sonic to come watch him skate atop a lake out in the middle of nowhere, it hadn’t taken long at all for him to receive an offer in return. Sonic had come up to him one day while he was out picking up some odds and ends for Omega as a favor (apparently his friend had gotten himself temporarily banned from his favorite hardware store but couldn’t handle going without his usual supply of materials to tear apart). Sonic had been his usual direct self, just asking “Hey, do you want to go somewhere with me this Friday?”.

Of course, Shadow had requested a few more details, preferring to know such things as “When, exactly?” and “Why?” before he agreed. Sonic’s response to the latter had more or less made up his mind, however.

“I really appreciated you showing me your skating spot the other day, and…I wanted to show you something too.”

After that, how could he say no?

Of course, this had all come after Sonic offered (seemingly out of nowhere, at the time) to take part of the massive stack of various wooden boards, pieces of plastic, and a strange number of PVC pipes currently threatening to fall out of Shadow’s arms. As an artificially engineered lifeform, he might have been stronger than most, but even he couldn’t hope to win a fight against gravity with a haul that unwieldy.

After that, Shadow had agreed to show up to Sonic’s proposed meeting place, but insisted that “you’d better not be late”, which of course set off a lighthearted argument over whether or not the famously titled “fastest thing alive” was in fact ever late to anything. (Sonic said no to preserve his pride, Shadow said yes based on testimonials he’d heard secondhand through Rouge.)

But Sonic certainly hadn’t been late for this. He’d shown up at the appointed meeting spot even before Shadow had, something that was quite impressive considering the alien hedgehog’s tendency to be almost frighteningly punctual.

And now, the two were running through the forest together, as Shadow awaited the place Sonic considered so important.

All of a sudden, Shadow saw brighter sunlight up ahead—and then burst out of the tree line just behind Sonic into an open field. His momentum sent him tearing past Sonic, as a matter of fact, who had stopped in the middle of the field, apparently having reached his final destination. Shadow quickly turned into a wide arc, slowly decreasing his speed as he looped out, around, and back towards Sonic, before finally kicking his skates forward and coming to a stop himself.

“Pff, show-off.” Sonic teased, smirking.

“I just needed to find a way to burn off my speed,” Shadow insisted, not mentioning that he did generally prefer to do so in an artistic way when possible. “It’s not my fault you stopped without saying anything.”

“I did so say something, you must not have heard me.”

Shadow sighed, before letting it go for once. “So, what did you want to show me, anyway?”

Sonic gestured out to the field, which Shadow hadn’t looked at properly yet, first blinded by the sun and then focused on stopping himself. He turned in the direction Sonic had moved, and…

…it really was a special place.

This was the kind of field he’d begun to suspect only existed in storybooks and paintings of days gone by, after several years getting used to life down here on the planet. Most fields were filled with grass so tall he could barely see, or were patchy with dirt and mud amongst the green. This one, however, was covered in lush green grass, among which grew a veritable bounty of wildflowers.

It took him a long moment to think of what to say, and even then, it didn’t feel like much. “It’s beautiful.” he said, and then tried to add something more. “I…appreciate you bringing me here.”

Sonic beamed at him, leaning forward eagerly. “And this is just the beginning! Come on, we gotta get further out!”

Shadow followed Sonic as he walked further into the field, occasionally spinning around and walking backwards just to get a better view of everything. He’d always shoot Shadow a smile whenever he did that, too, and Shadow would dip his head slightly in response. It became almost comforting after the first couple of times, a silent little call-and-response.

You still liking it?

Yes.

Hey there!

Hello.

Glad you came.

I am too.

Eventually, they found one particular spot (Shadow knew it was specific because he saw Sonic lining up his position with a couple of landmark hills and rocks), and both stopped right there, at the top of one of the low, rolling curves in the earth. Sonic sat down cross-legged, before falling backwards and lying down, kicking his legs out as he did so. After a moment where he looked expectantly upwards at Shadow, the alien hedgehog lay down delicately, easing himself into it a little more than his companion.

For a while, they just lay there together in silence, staring up at the vibrantly blue, cloudless sky. Shadow sighed, feeling the warmth of the sun as it rapidly soaked into his dark fur.

Soon enough, he closed his eyes, just basking in the heat and letting his breathing slow down. It was sometimes difficult for him to stay grounded in the present moment, always ruminating on the past or trying to plan ahead for the future. Whenever he could feel his thoughts starting to wind up, though, he would just open his eyes again, tilt his head to the side, and try to count all the different colors and flowers that he could see in the field.

After a few more moments, Sonic spoke up. “I knew you’d be the perfect guy to do this with.”

“Did you?” Shadow asked, his voice hushed. He didn’t want to disturb the stillness of the moment.

“Yeah. I know we hang out a lot because we can keep up with each other…but that goes for the slow times as well as the fast ones.” Sonic answered.

Shadow let out a slow exhale. “Indeed. It’s more difficult to slow down mentally rather than physically, but when I can, it’s very much appreciated.”

“Is now one of those times?” He heard a shifting over to his right, and turned to see Sonic’s eyes looking at him, somehow a more vibrant green than the grass beside him.

“I’m doing my best. It’s a lovely place.” Shadow said softly.

Sonic smiled, much more peacefully than his usual grins. “One of the best parts of saving the world is getting to enjoy it after. You made this place possible, just as much as I ever have. I appreciate that.”

Shadow felt his face soften and relax slightly, and though he wasn’t sure what it looked like, the way Sonic’s eyes widened told him that it was a rare sight. “Thank you, Sonic. For bringing me here, and for your words.”

“Anytime, Shadow. Anytime at all.”

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: Yeah no– yesterday I met Roier and Missa for the first time, which was really really freaking cool. Me and Badboyhalo were walking 'round the floor, and Bad got a notification of like– [Briefly interrupted by his father] –with like, Roier taking a photo with like a viewer, and Badboyhalo was like "He is here!" 'Cuz on Insta– [An off-screen "hello" distracts him from the rest of the story] Yes?

[maladaptivedaydreamsx]

Silvio really became the "do you need a dog? I can bark" meme ... we've come full circle now 🤭

[thatblackstarinleo]

Because you all deserve this and so much more, and because it's Mack's birthday!!!, here's a long snippet from Chapter 12 to hold you over while you wait

Thank you for sticking with me 💙

"Hey, Smitty," Davey says, tapping the toe of his sneaker against the bottom of Will's stall. "Your boy's famous now."

Will doesn't look up. He's still half-wrapped in his compression shirt, trying to get his left sock off without yanking his ankle weird, and the last thing he needs is one of Davey's shit-eating grins to go with whatever this is. But then a phone gets shoved under his nose, and Will glances down.

It's open to an article from The Athletic. Will knew the piece was coming—Macklin had told him about it, about how the Omega writer had made him feel comfortable throughout the interview, how he hadn't asked anything stupid, how he'd actually listened. What Macklin hadn't mentioned was the pictures.

The header shot's not one Will's seen before. Macklin's standing at center ice in Agganis, legs long in back joggers, the sleeves of his red BU hoodie shoved to his elbows as he holds a stick in his hands. His hair looks a bit damp, curled a little at the ends, and his head is turned just slightly toward the light. It's soft. Unposed. He looks like he doesn't even know the photo's being taken.

Will stares. His eyes catch on the angle of Macklin's neck—long and pale, flushed just faintly. If you zoom in, you can see a small bruise just above his scent gland, where Will had mouthed over his skin a little too long the night before. He hadn't even tried to mark him, he just… couldn't help himself. The look on Macklin's face is hard to name—he's not smiling, not really, but he still looks soft and tender in that look that always makes Will feel a little bit breathless.

The text underneath the photo reads, Macklin Celebrini, 17, has tallied 49 points in 29 games for Boston University this season and is widely projected to be the No. 1 overall pick in the 2024 NHL Draft.

Will scrolls without thinking.

It’s just after 9 a.m. when I meet Macklin Celebrini on a bright, frigid morning in Allston. He’s already been on the ice for over an hour, running small drills with a few of his teammates and working with BU’s skating coach. From the stands, it looks like he’s barely trying. Up close, he’s all focus.

When he steps off the ice, he's flushed and smiling. He takes off his helmet and tosses his gloves onto the bench, says hello like we've met before. We haven't.

The 17-year-old is, without much debate, the most electrifying player in college hockey this season. With 49 points in 29 games, Celebrini has broken records and expectations in equal measure. NHL scouts praise his puck sense, his edge control, his ability to change the tempo of a game. He's already drawing comparisons to McDavid and Crosby—comparisons he pretends not to hear.

I ask him how it feels, all of it—the weight, the eyes, the fact that just about everyone assumes he'll go first overall in Vegas this June.

He shrugs. "It's a lot. But it's good. I'm lucky. I mean… I still have to write a paper tonight. And I forgot to buy groceries. So I don't have time to sit around thinking about being 'The Next Anything.'" He grins. "I'm just hungry."

He's joking, but there's something behind it too. A kind of exhaustion that doesn't quite touch his voice but lingers at the corners of his eyes.

Then we talk about last fall.

Celebrini presented as an Omega in late September—just after the first game of the season. The news was confirmed in early November, under complicated, high-profile circumstances still being addressed in court. When I bring it up, he doesn't flinch, but his posture shifts slightly.

"I didn't want it to be a headline," he says, adjusting the tape around his water bottle. "But it was. And that's not really something I could control."

He doesn't elaborate on the incident or the media storm that followed, and I don't press. Instead, I ask if he feels like the league has changed at all—become more open, more ready—for someone like him.

Celebrini thinks for a second. Then, he says: "Yeah. I think so. But people are still figuring out what to do with players who don't fit the old mold."

He lifts his left wrist as if by instinct. A slim gold band catches the light. It's a simple promise bracelet, the kind you can see many Omegas wearing around their wrists on the street. But fans were quick to notice it during the World Juniors in Gothenburg, where Celebrini wore it in every game.

He rubs his thumb over it once, almost absently. I ask, carefully, if he wants to talk about his Alpha.

He exhales, almost a laugh. "He'd love it if I did."

But then, more softly: "We're just private. But he's… He's good to me. He keeps me grounded."

There's a pause. Then, when I ask if his Alpha plays hockey too, Macklin smiles—narrow and wicked. "I didn't say that," he replies, voice lilting just enough to make it clear: he won't say more.

Later, we walk across campus to grab coffee. Students recognize him, but no one stops us. We talk about the draft, the potential lottery teams—San Jose, Columbus, Chicago. I ask if he's had conversations with any of them.

"Not officially," he says, sipping his latte. "But yeah, I've talked to some guys. A few of the Michigan boys. Will Smith a bit, from BC."

He doesn't say more, but it's pretty obvious that at 17, Macklin Celebrini is already carrying more than most grown men. He doesn't talk much about the future, but when he does, I can't help but notice that there's a glint in his voice like he already knows where he's going.

For now, he has practice. Film. Homework. A season to finish. And a game to play the way only he can.

He doesn't say anything as he reads. Doesn't let his face shift, even when half the locker room's stopped pretending not to watch him. There's a brief lull in the noise—just long enough for the buzz of the Zamboni to cut through—before Cutter loudly clears his throat like he's trying not to laugh.

Will scrolls to the end, then hands the phone back without a word.

The piece is good. Too god, maybe. Personal in a way that twists under his ribs a little. He can hear Macklin's voice in every answer, in the way he always dodges praise with a joke, how he always shrugs it off. He's still not sure how Macklin got away with it without Brisson biting his head off, but maybe he didn't have the nerve.

Maybe he had, and Macklin just didn't care.

"So," Davey says, way too casual to be innocent, already grinning as he tucks his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie. "You have talked to Celebrini."

Will snorts, finally dragging his compression shirt the rest of the way over his head. "Might've spoken to him once or twice."

"And let him bite you up and down twice a day," Cutter adds, lounging against the stall wall.

"Romantic as fuck," Eamon says, appearing out of nowhere to ruffle Will's sweaty hair. "God, remember when he used to pretend he was a private guy?"

"I am a private guy," Will mutters, batting Eamon's hand away.

"You're literally not," Leno calls from two stalls down, towel slung low on his hips, one eyebrow up. "I've walked into the kitchen and seen you two fucking on the counter in broad daylight."

"Dude," Gabe says, not even looking up from his gear bag, "we share a fucking wall. I've heard the absolute filth that leaves your mouth at, like, 1:00 a.m. Don't talk to me about being private."

Will flips him off without looking and sits back, grabbing his toiletry bag from the cubby. He doesn't even try to argue anymore. There's just no point. They all know. They update the hickey count the second he walks into practice, chirp him the moment they catch a whiff of Macklin's scent on his hoodie, bitch when he walks in smiling like a dumbass.

"You keep him grounded, huh?" Davey says, doing these fucking annoying finger quotes across the room.

"Yeah," Cutter chimes in, grinning, ·grounded to the floor from how often they're fucking."

Will tries not to smile. He fails. He always fails.

"Eat shit," he says, tone flat.

"He's smiling," Cutter sings. "Smitty’s in loooooove."

Will lobs his water bottle at him without warning. It bounces off Cutter's shin and knocks Eamon's half-eaten protein bar to the floor.

"Fine him!" Fowler yells from the massage table.

"Ten bucks for being a sappy little shit," Gabe says, finally looking up. "Another fifty for emotional damage and littering."

Will sighs, pulls out his wallet, and peels off a crumpled twenty. Then another. Then another. "Sixty," he mutters. "That cover public indecency, or do I need to Venmo more for trauma counseling?"

Cutter whistles low. "Damn, Smitty! Mr. Big Spender over here."

"Yeah, well," Will says, stuffing his wallet back in his bag, "worth every damn cent."

Leno throws an empty tape roll straight at his head.

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Low key hesitated on posting this Riddle’s Dreaming of You snippet, because it’s such a significant moment. However, I showed my boyfriend, who agreed it would be a good segment to get people interested. Without further ado, here’s another section showcasing the depth of the story:

Riddle almost chokes from hyperventilation as he cries, “How could you say that, mom?!”

Since you got together with Riddle, you’ve met and interacted with his mother multiple times. They were never pleasant, but they hadn’t escalated to this level of emotional violence. You’ve always thought his mother was a monster. This sealed her deal with Hell. You have to get him out of here. It isn’t safe.

Your boyfriend’s shoulders curl in on themselves. He clutches his heart, clawing at it through his sweater. His chest rises and falls rapidly.

(I’ll be nice and reassure you that everything ends up being ok (originally I wasn’t, but I know some souls are sensitive. You’re welcome. Be grateful). Reader knows what they’re doing and prioritizes Riddle over everything else. Reader is cool and the person who you’d want to support you. Anyway, back to the regular commentary

(Originally, I was going to post a big update regarding the status of the fics. However, my adhd meds wore off, and I don’t like posting real content without reviewing the main post on my meds (This is section is just commentary. I get a pass on it). Therefore, you’re getting served today. I hope you enjoy the meal. My ultimate goal is to make you lose your minds and get you invested. Let me know if I achieved my goal.

(Also, interact with me! Even if it’s “can u tag me?” If u ask that, I’ll probably ask u questions about what u liked, and what/who you’re excited for regarding the Dreaming of You series)

[eoinmcgonigall]

Eoin just smiles at him, before getting up from the table.

He follows Eoin onto the dance floor, trying his best to ignore the way his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest as he does. He knows that he's got nothing to be nervous about. Like Eoin had said, they aren't the only two men dancing together, and he knows that Eoin won't make a big deal of it if his nerves get the better of him and he decides he doesn't want to do this.

The fact that it isn't a slow, romantic song playing does take a lot of the pressure off, and so he tries to make himself relax as he steps in close to Eoin. He puts his hand on Eoin's shoulder as Eoin puts his hand on his waist, taking his other hand in his. It's.. nice. God, it's so nice.

the girls are dancinggggg!!

[fabbyf1]

happy saturday, besties!

i hope you're having a great day wherever you are in the world.

as you all know, i've been really going through it the past week. first the hurricane, then the multi-day power outage, then trying to get my life and house back to normal afterward. i had to throw away hundreds of dollars of food that spoiled (RIP money i luv u) but at least it was a great opportunity to deep clean the fridge. and, like i mentioned before, i am very very very thankful to have no physical damage to my life or property.

ANYWAY... thank you all for your patience while i get my life together. i know a lot of you are looking forward to the next chapter of the mastermind fic, and i promise i've been slowly working on it when i have time! not that anybody is rushing me; you all have been very kind and patient with me.

i'm hoping to have this chapter finished within the next couple of days as a reward to myself for doing all the not-so-fun things around the house.

in the meantime...

snippet under the cut!

After Singapore, Max flew home to Monaco. 

They had almost a month off before the next race, which gave him plenty of time to get a fucking grip. He needed to find a way to move on with his life and stop thinking about what happened, or he might actually lose his mind. He had received plenty of blow jobs over the years that he never thought twice about; why couldn’t this have been one of them?! 

It wasn’t even supposed to be a real blow job! 

Charles didn’t suck his dick because he was attracted to him; he was just trying to prove he wasn’t bad at it. Max was just a prop in his learning experience. It wasn’t like they had this irresistible chemistry between them that they finally acted on. They had never flirted, teased, or even gotten close to anything resembling a potential hook-up! 

Max was just someone with a dick that Charles felt comfortable enough with to ask for a favor. 

And, like, sure... he let him come... 

And... seemed to really enjoy swallowing his come... 

But that was because he had manners! 

Of course he let him come. It would have been rude of him to leave Max hanging after he had gone out of his way to do him a very awkward favor, and Charles Leclerc was not rude. He was kind, and polite, and funny, and hot—no! Not hot! 

He was... 

Fuck. 

Okay. 

He was hot. 

But Max knew plenty of hot people! 

Most of the people in his friend group, both men and women, were objectively very hot. The entire city of Monaco was full of people he would consider attractive. It didn’t have to mean anything. 

Just because a really hot person sucked his dick didn’t mean that he had to think about it for the rest of his life. 

He just needed a few weeks off to reset his brain, and everything would be fine. 

There were plenty of things to do that didn’t involve his cock in Charles’ mouth. He could play with the cats, or sleep until noon, or finally watch that TV series his sister had been bugging him about for months. He could play video games, or do some iRacing with Team Redline, or learn how to fucking cross-stitch or something. 

He was young, rich, and successful; the world was his oyster! 

He just needed a few weeks of uninterrupted me time, and everything would be fine!!!

[pfhwrittes]

so i lied about getting a whole fic posted (i'm re-writing it) but i blew some cobwebs off the leather daddy price thought i had back in april and i thought i'd share a snippet chunk in honour of it being wip wednesday today.

cw/tw: alcohol mention, transmasc reader, public sex/semi-public sex, reader is wearing a packer, reader's genitals are referred to as both clit and cock in this snippet.

“w-wait, i, uh - hah - need to tell you something.” you manage to pant out into a sweat slick neck, tilting your hips away from his insistent exploration. 

glittering blue eyes pin you in place from under the brim of his hat and your head spins with a heady mix of tequila and desire that not even your sudden nervousness can extinguish.

“yeah? what’s that then sweetheart?” the stranger’s low rumble is nearly lost to the pounding bassline you can hear through the locked bathroom door. he lowers his face to suck a mark onto your neck, evidently wanting to leave a claim for all to see when you eventually stagger out of here.

“i’m - fucking hell -” you break off to moan loudly as he nips at your earlobe. jesus, you’re really learning things about yourself tonight. you’d never thought of your ears as an erogenous zone, clearly an oversight on your part. 

“go on, i’m listening.” he murmurs. the prickle of his moustache against the side of your neck makes you pant desperately and your hips jerk forward searching for friction. your packer catches against your swollen clit and you feel his fingers tug at the zipper of your borrowed jeans and pop the button of the fly one-handed. thick fingers slide into your underwear, over the neatly trimmed patch of hair on your mons, to lightly pinch at your clit – completely ignoring the flaccid cock you had painstakingly tucked into the pouch in your boxer briefs. 

your breath catches in your throat. oh god. 

he groans and you feel the vibration against your chest.

“it’s my lucky fucking night.” you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or to the universe at large but before you can question him further he lifts his head to slot his lips over yours. 

you’re not ashamed to admit that you whimper into the kiss. it’s absolutely filthy, his whiskey flavoured tongue slides against yours, his facial hair sending little pinpricks of pleasure when he tilts his head so that he can deepen the kiss further. everything fades away except the feeling of his lips on yours and his fingers rubbing small circles on your cock.