#the same points and the same angles over and over again

[kmesons]

I've been thinking a lot about misinterpretation in ENA: Dream BBQ recently, specifically the theory I've seen floating around that ENA believes her job is to kill the Boss, while it is, in reality, something different entirely.

there are a few lines that suggest ENA is in some way misconstruing Froggy's words at the beginning of the game ("work target," "aiming for the Boss's gut"), but I think the most striking are these:

ENA says the Boss will be "down the drain," which typically refers to something being destroyed, lost, or wasted. This seems to point fairly clearly to ENA believing her job is to get rid of the Boss (there are, of course, other possible interpretations of this line, but I'm going to lean into this one for the purposes of this post), but Froggy reacts to these words with confusion, which is not what you'd expect if they were both on the same page with regards to ENA's job.

another important point to make here is that, while ENA completes her job(s) to the best of her ability throughout the game, it is evident that she—at least, her Meanie side, which, considering the Salesperson side falls off like a mask within the first few seconds of her first dialogue in the game, seems to represent more genuinely her feelings on what's going on around her—does not like her job. She calls it "deplorable," and states that she "craves for freedom," even though she seems to be incapable of imagining a life for herself outside of work.

alright, stay with me here. I've ALSO been thinking about this shot in the beginning sequence, which for some reason has stuck with me since the first time I played Dream BBQ.

I've been trying to figure out why for a while, and, admittedly, I don't have a lot of experience in cinematography, so I ended up needing to do some research about it. the consensus seemed to be that, while they can be used in a variety of contexts to convey a variety of different things, low-angle shots like this generally put the subject in a perceived (by the audience, or self-perceived) position of power.

"understood: aim for the target." this is the moment at which the misinterpretation, if any (again, as a reminder, this is merely a theory and only one possible interpretation of what's going on here), would come into effect, so to speak. when ENA hears Froggy's words and makes the erroneous connection "aiming for the Boss's gut; work target -> assassination of the Boss."

so why this camera angle? what is giving ENA a sense of power here?

well, what if ENA is willfully misinterpreting Froggy's words? what if that fundamental disconnect in what she is supposed to do and what she plans to do—get rid of her boss—is purposeful? ENA—especially her Salesperson side, the one saying this line—can't outright express that she wants to leave her job, to have control over herself and her life, and it seems that she doesn't even have the option to. maybe this is the way out.

[claypigeonpottery]

ok so it’s like four minutes long but here’s a video of me sculpting a kiln god!

and here are my usual strategies, under the cut

the tools I used are rubber tipped blending tools, a paintbrush, a needle tool, a scoring tool, slip and a knife

first I sculpt a basic torso, with the beginnings of arms, legs and a neck. the torso doesn’t need to have any muscle or fat yet, I can add that later. but this allows me to choose the approximate size of the sculptural creature with the size of the torso

the armpits and hips are particularly prone to cracking, so having the beginning of limbs already part of the torso allows the attachment points to be at the mid-thigh or upper arm instead of at the hip or armpit

I find it easier to sculpt with a reference for the pose. (this pose is kind of anime girl-ish lol, because I knew the magpie tail would make a good sort of skirt behind her)

when making limbs, I make one super basic limb to check that the size is good. once I’m satisfied it’s the right size, I ball it up and make a matching ball. this helps me make them the same size

as I sculpt the limbs, I flatten the hands and feet into a basic shape, narrow the ankles and wrists, and bend them at the knee and elbow. sometimes I lay them the limbs on top of each other to check the shapes are similar.

when attaching limbs, I make an indent in the end of each limb and put slip inside to help keep the attachment strong

it’s easiest to add pecs and shoulder blades after the arms. after that I add fat or muscle as needed. this kiln god didn’t get much of either, but much of her body is behind the feathers or nest so *shrug*

when I’ve attached any part with slip, I flip the creature over and smooth the bottom too. I find I can have thicker attachment points and more slip on the bottom since they’re mostly hidden

I check the size/shape of the head before starting to sculpt. I like to use references for the animal head. I find it easier to sculpt the basic details before attaching it to the body

once it’s sculpted, I look at it from every angle I can. I take pictures and look at them again after a couple hours. in my experience, it’s easier to spot things that I want to fix after I’ve had a break from the sculpture

and that’s it, I’ve made a little creature!

[whimsicalpolitical]

i feel like you would write such a good moment of matty treating y/n like she’s dumb but in that condescending teasing way where he’s almost amused ya know? like mockingly pouting back at her when she whines 🤭🤭

thanks so much! 18+ mdni, thigh riding because i loveee

it started at dinner.

you knew you were fucked the second he stepped out of the bedroom. his hair still damp from the shower, a cigarette pinched between his teeth, fitted black trousers and a soft blue polo that clung in all the right places. he hadn’t even done the top button. just left it loose like he didn’t know what that would do to you.

he looked dangerous. smug and golden under the restaurant lights, rings catching on his glass of wine, eyes flicking to yours every time you shifted in your seat. his hand was on your thigh almost as soon as you sat down, warm and heavy under the tablecloth, sliding higher every time you spoke. he had the whole night to watch you squirm.

“you need to behave,” he murmured at one point, voice low enough that only you could hear it, thumb pressing just inside your inner thigh.

your legs were shaking and your panties were embarrassingly soaked and you’d stopped listening to anything the table was talking about.

matty had just smirked, leaned in close to kiss your cheek like he hadn’t just dragged his thumb across the dampest part of your knickers. “pathetic.”

—

and now you’re here.

straddling his thigh in the soft flicker of the living room lamp, skirt bunched around your waist, hands braced on his shoulders. he hasn’t touched you since you got home. not really. just sat down, legs spread, and nodded toward his thigh like it was a throne.

“as needy as you were, you only deserve this,” he’d said, lighting up a cigarette with the same casual air he wore at dinner. “if you’re good, i’ll think about fucking you.”

that was- god, that was ages ago now.

you’ve been grinding slow and steady, chasing it with every shaky roll of your hips. the friction of his trousers is maddening, firm beneath your soaked panties, and every time your clit brushes just right, you gasp like it’s the first time. but you still haven’t tipped over. still clenching and whining and panting through your teeth.

“not very efficient, are you?” he drawls, lips twitching into something cruel and fond as he takes another drag. “been at it how long now?”

you whimper, pressing down harder. “matty.”

he pouts at you. mocking. soft little frown like he’s devastated on your behalf. “what is it, darling? can’t get off without me?”

you shake your head, frustrated tears pricking at your eyes. “i can, it’s just- ugh.”

“i disagree with you. i think i spoil you too much.” his free hand lifts, lazy fingers brushing your flushed cheek. “i always give you what you want. always get you off and now you can’t do it yourself.”

your body jolts again, hips stuttering as you find a better angle- just right, almost perfect. it drags a breathy gasp from your throat and matty grins, all teeth and heat. he leans in closer, cigarette hovering behind your back now.

“there you go. clever girl. took you long enough.”

you can’t answer. you’re already too far gone. hips rolling fast now, small broken moans spilling out between your lips as you grind down hard, thighs trembling.

his voice is a quiet hum beneath you, “making such a mess on my trousers now, look at you.”

but it slips. it slips. just as your muscles start to seize, just as your breath catches in that perfect little inhale, it fades like smoke, like it was never really there. and you let out a noise that’s all frustration and disbelief, dropping your forehead to his shoulder.

“no, no no no-“

matty laughs.

you want to cry.

“oh, baby,” he coos, pulling back to look at you. “you really are pathetic tonight.”

“shut up,” you hiccup, still trying, still grinding, even though your rhythm’s broken now. messy and too fast. it’s not working. it’s never going to work.

“s’not very nice, that.” he blows smoke over your shoulder, tuts softly. “m’bein’ generous. lettin’ you use me like this. and all i get in return is whining?”

you make another little sound, high and broken. he hasn’t touched you properly in hours and you’re aching with it. cunt fluttering uselessly against his thigh, thighs shaking, eyes wet.

matty leans in close, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “gonna cry ‘cos you can’t come, darling? is that where we’re at?”

you nod. miserably.

he hums, hands finally finding your hips, holding you down firm as he shifts his leg just a little. enough to make you feel it again.

“tell me what you need.”

“you,” you gasp, falling forward, nose brushing the curve of his throat. “need you, matty, please, i can’t do it without you-“

“no, you can’t,” he says, “s’what i’ve been saying, love.“

you’re still panting against his throat, hips twitching like your body doesn’t know whether to keep going or give up entirely. your lip’s still caught between your teeth trembling now and matty’s got this look in his eye that makes your belly flip.

“please,” you whisper, barely there. “matty, please-“

he hums. not in a way that promises relief, but more like he’s mulling it over. maybe.

“please what, darling?” his thumb traces circles into your hipbone. “what exactly is it you want me to do?”

you whine. slump forward. it’s humiliating how little pride you’ve got left. “help me- just help me, i, please,” you huff the last beg.

matty clicks his tongue softly, and his hands tighten. one at your waist, the other sliding lower, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing into the crease of your thigh. “i’ll help you, then,” he says, “but you are gonna finish what you started.”

and then he shifts his leg, presses you down hard, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel, deep and blunt and perfect. you gasp out loud, hips jerking, the shock of it so good it almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

“there you go,” matty murmurs, lips dragging slow along your jaw as his hands guide you. “just like that. see? not so hard, is it?”

he’s barely moving you, really. just small pushes, coaxing your hips into that same rhythm again. but it’s enough. it’s better than enough. your thighs are shaking already and it’s barely been a minute.

you moan and his smile turns sharp against your cheek.

“keep goin’,” he says, and then his hands fall away.

just like that.

gone.

your body stutters. almost freezes up. like you don’t know how to move without him holding you there. but he doesn’t correct it, doesn’t reach back for you, just leans back into the couch, one arm thrown over the backrest like he’s settling in for a film.

“c’mon, love,” he tuts, watching you with a lazy grin. “don’t give up now.”

you try. you do. force your hips to keep rolling, fists curled in the fabric of his shirt. but it’s not right anymore. you can feel it slipping again, the angle too shallow, the pace off, the ache building without relief.

matty doesn’t miss a thing.

his eyes flicker down to your mouth, and then his thumb is brushing over your bottom lip.

“you’re so cute, baby,” he murmurs, half-laughing. “i absolutely ruined you.”

your breath hitches. you press your cheek into his palm.

“can’t just give you what you want though, can i?” he goes on, “cos that would prove my point.”

“i don’t fucking care about your point,” you snap or try to, but your voice cracks halfway through and it comes out choked. “just- please, please-”

matty laughs. full-body, delighted. you hate him.

“god, i love you like this,” he says, “you sound wrecked. so desperate to come.”

you glare at him, eyes glossy. your thighs are trembling from holding yourself up, and you don’t think you can take much more of the teasing. every nerve in your body is on fire, too close to the edge to even think straight.

matty sees it and finally, finally, he leans forward again.

his hand cups the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair as he pulls you in close. “alright,” he whispers, brushing his lips over your ear. “i’ve got you.”

and then his thigh shifts again, a sharp, perfect nudge, and his other hand finds your hips, pulling you down just right. you sob.

“there she is,” he breathes. “good girl. go on. take what you need.”

your hips fall back into it like they never stopped, rutting fast now, sloppier by the second. you’re so close it hurts, moaning into his throat, chasing every inch of pressure.

“fuck, fuck- matty, i’m-”

“you’re so easy. really? that’s all it takes for you?,” he murmurs, stroking down your spine, voice so low it’s almost a growl. “come on my thigh then. make a fucking scene about it.”

you do.

you come with a gasp that rips out of your chest, full-body and overwhelming, shaking and twitching through it while matty holds you down firm, coaxing every last pulse out of you.

when it’s over, you collapse in his lap like you’ve got nothing left. head on his shoulder, lips parted, body limp.

he kisses your temple, smiling.

“there we are,” he says. “finally stopped whining.”

[cvldbones]

from the sidelines (langdon x mel)

She gets this tingling in the back of her head, sometimes, when she can’t quite be sure what she knows, just that she knows something. She feels it as she watches Mel show Langdon the tablet; her hands are gesticulating wildly as she explains, pointing to the screen occasionally, but Langdon’s eyes never leave her face. It is a wonder, Dana thinks, the poor girl doesn’t just combust on the spot from the force of his gaze.

The emergency department is never quiet. There is always a patient somewhere screaming, or crying, or pounding their fist against the bulletproof glass at the front desk; the fluorescent lights carry their own subtle hum, and then there are the mutterings of the nurses as they gossip behind their hands, the soft creaking of the electronic doors opening and closing as doctors shuffle from room to room.

The lulls are rare, but Dana has long since learned to take advantage of them where they come. She’s far too experienced to accuse the floor of being quiet, even if she might think it. It’s only three o’clock – four hours left on this shift – so she sinks into her chair, leaning back with a huff to study the board.

For once, there are almost five rooms open, and only about a dozen lingerers in chairs, which she sees Cassie and Victoria are going to evaluate now. Dana never has been good at rest – a criticism, she thinks wryly, that her husband likes to level at her. Her eyes scan the floor impatiently, wondering if there’s something she’s missing.

In central 10, Santos is taking a history from a smiling elderly woman with a bruise above her eyebrow while their newest med student hovers in the corner uncertainly. Heather is seated at her computer under the pretense of inputting notes for the patient she just discharged, but her fingers aren’t even on the keyboard; Robby is leaning over the counter above her, grinning like he knows a secret, and he says something that makes Heather actually throw her head back on a laugh.

Dana smiles to herself, her gaze finally landing on Mel, propped against the wall outside of south 15 furiously typing information into her tablet. Her attention begins to shift away, but then Langdon sidles up beside Mel wearing an expression Dana has genuinely never seen on him before, an endearing boyishness in it. He’s pressing his lips together, arms clasped behind his back, and he bounces on his toes until Mel looks up in surprise.

Oh, Dana thinks, planting her feet firmly on the ground, fully fixated on the situation in front of her. She gets this tingling in the back of her head, sometimes, when she can’t quite be sure what she knows, just that she knows something. She feels it as she watches Mel show Langdon the tablet; her hands are gesticulating wildly as she explains, pointing to the screen occasionally, but Langdon’s eyes never leave her face. It is a wonder, Dana thinks, the poor girl doesn’t just combust on the spot from the force of his gaze.

They’re standing rather close together, too, if Dana considers it. She’s shifted to show Langdon what she’s talking about, her shoulder now angled so her back fits precisely in the curve of Langdon’s outstretched arm, his face hovering near her head as he finally studies the screen. Langdon nods toward the room, pausing once the doors open to let Mel pass through, first.

“Huh,” Dana says out loud, after the doctors have disappeared into south 15.

There’s a snort beside her, and she sees Princess watching the same vacated spot. When their eyes meet, Princess shakes her head incredulously, then says, “Yeah.”

“You got money on this?” Dana asks, leaning back again.

Princess raises her eyebrows and glances at Perlah, who has silently joined their conversation. “Should we?” Princess replies.

At the same time, the doors to south 15 slide back open. Mel and Langdon are pulling off gloves, heading towards the charge desk. Dana notices, without meaning to, that their steps fall into line together, as though Langdon is intentionally slowing his pace so Mel can keep up.

“Yeah,” Dana says, laughing. “Yeah, you fucking should.”

Read on AO3!

[umathurwin]

YES WE WANT SLIGHTLY EVIL KIE🙏🏼🙏🏼

i have never written something like this before. kiara x rafe, nsfw 18+, mild dubcon below the cut

kiara raps her knuckles against the bedroom door thrice and smirks at the muffled scrambling. he knows who it is. her cop knock precedes her. 

big blues hit her before anything else, like his panicked expression or slack jaw or tight body language. she’ll unwind those soon enough. 

“fuck, kie, how did you even get in—”

rafe always asks the wrong questions. it’s a bad habit of his that she tries to break by ignoring them. besides, he should know that answer more intimately than anything else at this point. the way he knows what’s about to come next. 

“we— we had a deal. you can’t just show up in broad daylight—”

she put an end to his babbling and whining with a big kiss that pushes him backwards into his own room. a rough slide where his lips part without thinking and spit collects too fast. anything to get him to shut up. 

he needs it, too. part of her worries about being a little too eager to talk about what they do. ever since finishing high school, the lines were drawn in the literal sand, and kiara closed her lease on the kook lifestyle for good. 

well… the lifestyle, save for one really greedy fuck who wouldn’t give her up if it literally meant his life. even if he knows it’s a terrible idea. she yanks his polo up from the waist and pulls it over his head. 

she’s only stopped by his grip on her biceps, stilling her and forcing her to look into his eyes. rafe holds back his strength, always—perhaps out of caution, or more likely revelry— so he finally had her attention. 

“please. i can’t. i… sofia—”

“who?” kiara blurts with a raised eyebrow. jealousy need not exist in her brain when the man would drop everything in the event of her distress. she’s simply lost. 

he deflates, shoulders dropping and just barely relaxing his grip on her. “you know. the girl i’ve been seeing?” blink blink. “she’s a pogue?”

“never seen her around. what’s her surname?”

“kiara.”

“sofia kiara. pretty name.” his face pinches and a sly grin creeps onto hers. “i’m just fucking with you. stop talking.”

and with that, rafe’s last chance at stopping her boards the helicopter and slaps the roof. sure, he could wrestle her off with no issue, but he knows damn well that won’t be the end of it.

kie is a demon. clothes are pulled from their bodies and thrown across the room so quickly that he’s stunned to look down and only see boxers. he’s walked back to fall onto his bed before he can think to protest again. not that he’d choose to, anyways.

they continue making out; she doesn’t even need to pause to yank down his shorts. kie came to his home with a mission and a wet cunt, and rafe’s head slams against the pillow when the head of his cock brushes against her entrance. 

she’s- she’s using him, just treating his body like a piece of meat as she shifts around, drops fully down onto his hips, rolls around to stimulate her clit. it’s all for her. she’d get the same effect with a fucking toy, yet she chooses to stroll into the neighborhoods that don’t like her and take what she wants. rafe thanks every deity above that she makes that choice. 

“ngh— oh fuck. you’re so fuckin’ prett—” his words are cleavered by her soft hand gripping his throat. she cares little for breath play, but enjoys the way she can make him stop talking by just pressing against his corded flesh enough to freeze his vocal cords. she lets go eventually, of course. his praise strokes her ego all the same.

veiny hands twitch and flex as he struggles to gain an ounce of control over himself. his brain knows he can’t touch, but his fingers don’t. god forbid he does something to upset her.

she leans back, resting her hands on his knees to give her a smoother angle to ride him but also to display her shiny cunt swallowing his cock down with every bounce. he’s pulsing inside her, stretching open her soft walls and twitching against the spots that have her head lulling to the side. the expanse of her neck has him drooling, literally pooling spit that slips out of the corners of his open mouth. 

kiara sits up, allowing his cock to slip out of her cunt and land on his stomach with a heavy drop. his cock twitches and bobs, begging to be sheathed inside her warm pussy again. she leans back on his thighs and digs her nails into the taut flesh of his abs. he needs a tan—rosy streaks bloom onto his skin in seconds, trailing after her fingers.

control. power. trust. you’d think the son of ward cameron would have a better grasp on these concepts. his little stunt before bit at her heels in a way she needed to take care of now.

“wait, what the fuck?” rafe blurts, lifting himself up on his elbows and scowling down at her pathetically. “don’t stop—”

she narrows her eyes at him. now, what a new tune from the little girlfriend he tried to bring up earlier. kie rears her hand back and slaps him— a whine. a spurt of precum leaking from the tip. black pupils swallowing his pretty irises. “mm. that’s what i thought,” she smirks, and picks his cock up again to line it up with her entrance. 

a tiny reward— she grabs his hands and brings them up to her hips. a little bit of agency he’s earned back. he sinks in his teeth, groaning at the sweet taste. 

kie leans down to whisper right in his ear, a voice too sultry for her bite. “you’ll never fool me into thinking you’re a good man.” one hand slides up his neck and around the back of his skull. “don’t even try. so when i call, you answer.”

he nods desperately, in fear of her thinking he isn’t paying attention. “right, right, always.”

she isn’t done. “when i knock, you open the door.” the hand slips around to where she’d struck him, soothing over the skin with the pads of her fingers. if he didn’t know any better, he’d mistake this for a nonverbal apology. “and when i say jump, what do you say?”

kiara’s hips had lifted as she spoke, leaving only the tip notched into her cunt, threatening to let him fall out again. the urge to buck his hips flashes across his mind, but the reminders of why that’s a bad idea wash over them so quickly he gets whiplash. 

fucking— too much going on. his chest heaves, squeezing his eyes shut and doing the same with his fists. “how high—fuck— i’d ask you how high.”

satisfied, she sinks back down onto his cock with a hand over his mouth. good thing, too, since he groans out so loud it threatens to escape from between her digits. it’s enough to make him cum, too, as her tight cunt engulfs him again and her words are still floating around his mind. 

his orgasm is loud, both from his mouth and the blood rushing in his ears as he paints her walls. if he could hear a damn thing, he’d catch her tutting at him and shaking her head. “now, now, i thought you knew by now. the golden rule.”

rafe’s face is flaming, because yeah, he fucking should know. she caught him on a bad day, is all. 

so he doesn’t protest a bit when she slips his cock out again and shifts her way up his body to align his mouth with her cunt. kiara stills her hips mere inches above his mouth, letting their combined slick drip out of her and onto his awaiting tongue. he’s so fucking desperate, he laps it up all the same. 

she’s back to using him, and rafe is on cloud nine. with her hips fully resting on his face, he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes—or restrain his moans. kiara wonders how they must taste mixed together and pulls off rafe’s suction. fuck, he’s good.

shifting back only enough for her to lean down and kiss him, kiara is pleased when rafe opens his mouth and presents his soft tongue. smart boy, always knowing what she’s thinking. 

satisfied with the tangy sugar that she kisses off his lips, kie moves back up to finish grinding on him. her hips roll back and forth, dropping down to rub her clit against his nose as he licks at her hole. she’s wet and rafe is salivating, so the noises coming from where they met were vile.

the brink of her orgasm is rafe’s favorite part—the tiny respite where she loses her need for control and he can hold her like he wants to. when he body tenses up and her clit throbs in his mouth, his hands slip up to thread their fingers together, giving her a little stability as she falls apart above him. she’ll pull her hands away when she comes to.

but maybe one day, she won’t.

[zrvllya]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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sparks, coldplay

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remus lupin x reader ! one shot ⏾

did i drive you away?

ᵎ!ᵎ blood mention, poisoning, self-destructive behavior, near death experience, illness, medical content, lycantrophy, codependency

word count [ 4,400 ]

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the shack groans under the weight of morning. not the cheerful kind of morning—the gray, reluctant kind that spills through splintered boards like watered-down milk. it smells of copper and sweat and something animal that never quite leaves these walls.

you've been awake for hours. your knees protest against the rough wooden floor, but you don't move. not while he's like this.

remus lies curled on his side, all angles and exposed ribs beneath a blanket too thin to offer real comfort. his breathing has finally steadied, no longer the ragged gasping of transformation but the heavy rhythm of exhaustion. dried blood crusts at the corner of his mouth. you resist the urge to wipe it away—he hates being touched immediately after.

instead, you wait. your fingertips trace patterns on the floorboards, ghosting over splinters and old stains. your heart beats sluggishly in your chest, a clock winding down.

"how long have you been there?" his voice cracks, desert-dry.

"since before dawn," you answer, and the truth feels inadequate. you've been here for years, really. in this same position, watching him emerge from the wolf like someone crawling from wreckage.

remus shifts, winces. his eyes remain closed. "you shouldn't."

"we've had this conversation."

"and we'll have it again," he murmurs. "until you listen."

you smile despite everything. "then we'll be having it forever."

he opens his eyes at that. amber in this light—more human than wolf but carrying echoes of both. they fix on your face with the intensity that always makes you feel translucent, like he can see straight through to the lies you've been telling.

"your hands," he says.

you tuck them under your thighs. "just cold."

"it's may."

"poor circulation."

he struggles to sit up, and you don't offer help because you know he'll refuse it. the blanket slides from his shoulders, revealing fresh scratches across his collarbone. not as bad as they used to be. not as bad as they should be.

"give me your hand," he says, and it's not a request.

you hesitate, then extend your right hand. his fingers wrap around your wrist, pressing against your pulse point. his thumb strokes once across your palm, and the touch sends electricity up your arm.

"your heart," he says, "is beating too slowly."

"must be all the running i do," you attempt a joke, but it falls flat between you.

remus says nothing, but his grip tightens. those eyes—professor eyes, you used to tease—cataloging, analyzing. you see the moment understanding breaks across his face like a fever.

"you've been taking it." not a question. horror coats each word. "the wolfsbane."

you don't deny it. can't, really, not with the evidence written in your slowing pulse and the constant chill in your fingers. three years of goodnight kisses after he's taken his potion. three years of letting the poison build in your system, molecule by molecule.

"just traces," you say, as if that makes it better. "just enough to—"

"to what? kill yourself slowly?" his voice rises, then breaks. "merlin's fucking beard, what were you thinking?"

"that i could help." the words sound small in the vastness of what you've done. "that i could share it. ease it."

"by poisoning yourself?" he releases your hand like it burns him. "this isn't—you can't just—"

"it works," you interrupt. "you've been having better transformations. less pain. the wolf is calmer."

"at what cost?" remus pushes himself further away, back hitting the wall. the distance between you feels oceanic. "do you have any idea what you've done? wolfsbane is toxic. even in small doses, over time—"

"i know what it does."

"and you did it anyway." disbelief colors his words. "why would you—how could you—"

"because i love you," you say simply. "and i was tired of watching you suffer alone."

he flinches like you've struck him. "that's not love. that's self-destruction."

"they look the same."

silence stretches between you, taut as a bowstring. outside, birds have begun their morning songs, oblivious to the storm brewing within these walls. remus runs trembling fingers through his hair—more gray than brown now, though he's still young by wizarding standards.

"how long?" he finally asks.

"since that night at the potter‘s house. when you collapsed even days later."

he remembers. you see it in the way his eyes darken. "three years."

you nod.

"three years of—" he can't finish the thought. "and what happens when it builds to toxic levels? when your heart stops? when your nervous system fails? did you think about that?"

"of course i did."

"and?"

you look down at your pale hands. "i decided you were worth it."

"don't you dare," he whispers, voice dangerous and low. "don't you dare make me the reason for your death."

"it's my choice, remus."

"it's not a choice i will allow!" he shouts, then immediately crumples, energy spent. "i already have enough blood on my hands. i won't add yours."

you crawl toward him, ignoring his attempt to retreat further into the wall. "you think i haven't considered everything? that i jumped into this without research? i've been working with an apothecary in knockturn alley. there's a cleansing potion—"

"an illegal potion, i assume."

"yes," you admit. "but it works. i take it every full moon after... after i've helped you."

he stares at you, incredulous. "so your solution to poisoning yourself is to use more illegal potions? brilliant. truly brilliant."

"it's kept me alive so far."

"and what about next month? or the month after? how long until your body builds resistance to the cleansing potion? did your knockturn alley friend mention that part?"

you hadn't considered that. the silence answers for you.

remus closes his eyes, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "you need to stop this. now. before it causes permanent damage."

"i can't."

"you must."

"would you?" you challenge. "if our positions were reversed, would you stop?"

a memory flashes between you—his body shielding yours during the a fight with slytherins, taking a curse meant for you. the weeks of recovery afterward. his insistence that he would do it again without hesitation.

"that's different," he says, but the argument sounds hollow even to him.

"it's exactly the same."

the sunlight has strengthened, cutting across his scarred face in golden bands. he looks both ancient and boyish in this light—the marauder, the man and the wolf.

"i never asked for this sacrifice," he whispers.

"you never had to."

three months earlier

"you're doing it again," sirius observed from the doorway of the library at grimmauld place, watching as you pored over ancient potion texts.

you didn't look up. "doing what?"

"that thing where you try to solve moony‘s furry little problem through sheer force of will." he crossed the room, peering over your shoulder at the yellowed pages. "thaddeus thornberry's advanced poison control? light reading, is it?"

"just curious," you said, closing the book casually—too casually.

sirius barked a laugh. "right. and i'm just curious about motorcycle maintenance. not planning to enchant one and fly it over london."

you sighed. "is there something you needed?"

"yeah, actually." he leaned against the table, arms crossed. "need you to stop whatever insane plan you're concocting before moony finds out and has a complete meltdown."

"i'm not—"

"save it." sirius cut you off with a wave of his hand. "i've known you both too long. he's getting better after full moons, but the wolfsbane isn't improving that drastically on its own. and you—" he gestured at your face, "—look worse every month."

your heart stuttered. "maybe i'm just tired."

"your lips were blue last moon." sirius's voice softened. "blue, love. like you were half-frozen from the inside out."

tears pricked behind your eyes. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"yes, you do." he sat beside you, suddenly serious in that way only sirius black could be—the gravity that lived beneath all his jokes and recklessness. "whatever you're doing to help him is killing you."

"it's not."

"it is. and when he figures it out—and he will—it'll destroy him more thoroughly than any transformation ever could."

you stared at the table, tracing wood grain patterns with your finger. "i found a way to share it. just a little. enough to make a difference."

sirius exhaled slowly. "the wolfsbane."

you nodded.

"bloody hell." he ran a hand through his hair. "that stuff is toxic enough that slughorn has to wear dragon-hide gloves to brew it. and you're what—ingesting it?"

"not directly," you mumbled. "just... residual traces. from when we..."

understanding dawned on his face. "after he takes it. when you kiss him."

you nodded again.

"does it hurt?" he asked, voice gentle.

"sometimes. mostly it just makes me cold. slows everything down." you forced a smile. "small price to pay."

sirius was quiet for so long that you finally looked up. his gray eyes were focused on some middle distance, his face a complex map of emotions.

"you remind me of james," he finally said.

that surprised you. "what? how?"

"that particular brand of self-sacrificing stupidity." a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "he'd do the same for any of us. does do the same, really,"

"it's not stupid if it works," you argued.

"it's stupid if it gets you killed." sirius took your cold hand between his warm ones.

"it won't."

"promise me you'll find another way," sirius insisted. "one that doesn't involve slow-motion suicide."

you'd promised, but some promises were made to be broken.

"how did you know?" you ask now, as remus stares at you across the dusty floor of the shrieking shack.

"i suspected something was wrong for months." his voice is steady now, professorial. "your symptoms match chronic wolfsbane toxicity. slower heart rate. decreased body temperature. the blue tinge to your fingernails during winter." he swallows hard. "i thought perhaps it was something else. an illness you were hiding. i never imagined you were deliberately poisoning yourself."

"not poisoning. sharing," you correct gently.

"semantics." he sighs, shoulders slumping. "when did sirius figure it out?"

you startle. "how did you—"

"he's been watching you like a hawk before every full moon. slipping you potions when he thinks i'm not looking."

of course he'd noticed. remus notices everything.

"about three months ago," you admit. "he caught me researching antidotes."

remus nods slowly. "and he didn't tell me."

"he promised not to. said it was my secret to tell."

"typical." there's no heat in the word—just weary resignation. "loyal to a fault, even when loyalty is the wrong choice."

you inch closer, until your knees nearly touch his. "i'm not going to stop."

"yes, you are."

"no," you reach for his hand, relieved when he doesn't pull away. "i'm not. but i will be more careful. better antidotes. proper monitoring."

"there's no safe way to do this." frustration edges his words.

"there's no safe way to love you either," you say softly. "i chose this life—chose you—knowing what it meant."

he looks at you then, really looks, and something inside him seems to crack open. "i am not worth this."

"you don't get to decide what you're worth to me."

his fingers tighten around yours. "i can't watch you die by inches."

"then help me find a better way. but don't ask me to stop trying."

the transformation has left him raw, defenses stripped away. tears gather in his eyes but don't fall. "why?" he whispers. "why would you do this?"

you could answer with platitudes. with grand declarations. instead, you give him the simple, terrible truth.

"because the night you first transformed in front of me, i saw your bones break and reform. i heard you scream until your voice gave out. i watched you tear at your own skin." your voice doesn't waver. "and i decided then that if i couldn't stop your pain, i would share it. even a fraction. even if it killed me."

remus makes a sound—half sob, half bitter laugh. "merlin help me, but i don't deserve you."

"probably not," you agree with the ghost of a smile. "but you're stuck with me anyway."

he pulls you against him then, arms wrapping around you with desperate strength. his body is warm against your perpetually cold one. you fit your head beneath his chin, listening to his heartbeat—too fast, while yours is too slow. somehow perfect counterpoints.

"we're going to find another way," he murmurs into your hair. "a way that doesn't hurt you."

you don't argue, though you both know there might not be another way. the wolfsbane is the only modern advancement in lycanthropy treatment. everything else is medieval torture or folk remedy.

"i love you," you say instead, because it's the only truth that matters.

his arms tighten around you. "enough to poison yourself."

"enough to do whatever it takes."

remus sighs, his breath warm against your scalp. "that's what terrifies me."

outside, the morning has fully arrived. sunlight streams through the cracks, illuminating dust motes that dance between you like tiny stars. the wolf has retreated for another month, but its shadow remains—in his scars, in your slowing heart, in the space between kisses that tastes of bitterness and aconite.

"come home," you whisper against his chest. "let me take care of you."

"only if you let me take care of you too," he counters.

you nod, knowing neither of you will keep that promise completely. love between broken people is never neat or simple. it's messy and desperate and sometimes dangerous—a constant negotiation between what you're willing to give and what you can bear to take.

remus stands slowly, muscles protesting the movement. you rise with him, supporting his weight without making it obvious that's what you're doing. he's too proud for open help, even now.

"sirius will be waiting," he says.

"with tea and chocolate and a lecture for both of us," you agree.

remus almost smiles. "and several illegal potions, apparently."

"those too."

as you help him toward the hidden passage, he pauses, framed in weak sunlight. "promise me something."

"anything."

"no more secrets." his eyes search yours. "not between us. not anymore."

you hesitate, then nod. "no more secrets."

it's a promise you intend to keep this time, though you both know there will always be things left unsaid—the way he sometimes wakes growling in the night, the way your fingers sometimes turn blue when you're tired, the fear that lives in both your hearts that one day the wolf will win or the poison will.

but for now, in the fragile morning light, it's enough to walk together through the tunnel, toward whatever comes next. the wolf sleeps. the poison ebbs. and love—fierce, foolish love—carries you forward through another dawn.

the journey back to hogwarts is always the worst part. the tunnel seems longer after full moons, stretching endlessly beneath the whomping willow, damp earth pressing in from all sides. remus leans heavily against you, his breathing labored. you support him without comment, knowing his pride is as fragile as his post-transformation body.

"we should rest," you suggest when his steps falter.

"no," he says, determined. "almost there."

you don't argue. the sooner you reach the castle, the sooner you can both collapse somewhere warm and safe. but with each step, the cold spreads through your limbs, a familiar numbness creeping from fingertips up your arms. you've learned to hide it well—the tremors, the dizziness that follows every full moon now—but today feels different. worse.

by the time you emerge from beneath the willow, pale morning light making both of you squint, you're not sure who's supporting whom anymore. the castle looms ahead, a stone sentinel against the dawn sky. gryffindor tower has never seemed so far away.

"we should go to pomfrey," remus murmurs, noticing your pallor.

"and tell her what?" you manage a weak smile. "that i've been voluntarily ingesting traces of a controlled substance? i'm sure that will go over well."

he frowns but doesn't press the issue. not yet.

the castle corridors are mercifully empty this early on a saturday. your footsteps echo against stone floors, a stumbling rhythm that carries you up staircases and through passageways until you reach the fat lady's portrait.

"phoenix tears," remus whispers.

the portrait swings open, revealing the warm glow of the gryffindor common room. sirius is there, as expected, pacing before the fireplace. he looks up at your entrance, relief washing over his features before quickly transforming into alarm.

"bloody hell," he breathes, rushing forward to help. "what happened?"

"i know," remus says simply.

understanding floods sirius's face. "shit." he takes remus's other side, guiding you both to the sofa nearest the fire. "sit. both of you."

you sink into the cushions gratefully, the room swaying slightly around you. the fire's warmth doesn't penetrate the chill that's settled into your bones. your fingers are distinctly blue at the tips now, no matter how close to the flames you hold them.

"where is it?" sirius demands, rifling through his pockets.

"where's what?" remus asks, confused.

sirius ignores him, producing a small vial of pearlescent liquid. "here. drink this. now."

you take the vial with trembling hands, uncorking it with difficulty. the liquid burns going down, but it's a welcome heat—something to fight the ice forming in your veins.

"what the hell is that?" remus demands, watching as color slowly returns to your face.

"cleansing potion," sirius answers tersely. "more potent than the one our friend here has been using."

remus's eyes narrow. "and you've been providing it?"

"someone had to." sirius runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "since neither of you would listen to reason."

"you knew." remus's voice is dangerously quiet. "all this time."

"not all this time," you interject weakly. "only a few months."

"and you didn't think to tell me?" hurt bleeds into remus's anger.

sirius meets his gaze unflinchingly. "it wasn't my secret to tell."

"so you enabled this instead?"

"i kept them alive," sirius snaps. "which is more than they were managing on their own. merlin's beard, moony, what would you have done? let them collapse in some corridor alone because you didn't know what was happening?"

remus falls silent, the truth of sirius's words hanging heavy between them.

your vision blurs suddenly, darkness creeping at the edges. you try to focus on the flames, on the familiar tapestries adorning the walls, but everything swims in and out of focus. your heart stutters in your chest—too slow, then racing, then slow again.

"something's wrong," you whisper, voice sounding distant to your own ears.

both men turn to you sharply. remus's hand finds your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse point.

"her heart's racing," he says, alarm edging his words. "sirius—"

"shit," sirius mutters, digging in his pockets again. "this hasn't happened before."

the room tilts suddenly. your limbs feel leaden, disconnected from your body. distantly, you're aware of falling forward, of remus catching you before you hit the floor, of his voice calling your name with increasing desperation.

"what's happening?" remus demands, voice cracking. "what's wrong with her?"

sirius kneels beside you, face grim. "the cleansing potion. she's building a tolerance."

just as you'd feared but refused to acknowledge. just as remus had warned mere hours ago.

"do something," remus pleads, cradling you against his chest.

"i'm trying!" sirius's voice rises. "i don't—i don't have anything stronger here."

your fingers clutch weakly at remus's shirt. his face swims above you, features blurred but beautiful—always so beautiful, even ravaged by transformation and fear.

"i'm sorry," you manage to whisper.

"don't," he says fiercely. "don't you dare apologize."

"should have told you."

"yes, you bloody well should have," he agrees, but there's no anger in it now, only terror. "stay with me. please."

sirius reappears in your narrowing field of vision, another vial in hand. "this is all i have left. it might help. might not."

"might make it worse?" remus asks.

sirius hesitates, then nods. "possibly."

"her choice," remus says, though it clearly costs him. "always her choice."

through the fog wrapping around your mind, you appreciate this small concession—that even now, terrified as he is, he respects your agency. your right to choose the manner of your loving him, even when that love might destroy you both.

you nod weakly, and sirius tips the contents of the vial between your lips. it tastes of ash and metal and something ancient. your body convulses once, violently, and then everything goes perfectly, blessedly still.

for a moment, you float in darkness. not unpleasant—just nothing. no pain. no cold. no weight of choices made or unmade.

then sound filters back. remus's voice, raw with emotion.

"—can't leave me. not like this. not because of me."

your eyes flutter open. the ceiling of the common room comes into focus gradually—rich red fabric draped between wooden beams. remus's face hovers above you, tear-streaked and desperate.

"there you are," he whispers when your eyes meet his. "there you are."

you try to speak but can only manage a weak cough. sirius appears with water, helping you sit up enough to sip from the glass.

"how do you feel?" he asks cautiously.

the honest answer is: shattered. like something inside you has broken irreparably. but the blue has receded from your fingertips, and your heart beats with something approaching a normal rhythm.

"better," you lie, because the relief on their faces is worth the deception.

remus helps you sit up fully, arranging cushions behind your back. his hands linger, as if afraid you'll disappear if he stops touching you. sirius collapses into a nearby armchair, suddenly looking every one of his years and more.

"that was too close," he says quietly.

no one disagrees.

morning sunlight streams through the tower windows now, painting golden rectangles across the worn carpet. somewhere in the castle, students will be waking, preparing for weekend activities with ordinary concerns. the simplicity of that existence feels alien to you now.

"it's over," remus says after a long silence. "this experiment. these potions. all of it."

you want to argue, to insist you can find another way, but your body's betrayal is too fresh to deny. your mouth tastes of copper and aconite and fear.

"i can't lose you," he continues, voice breaking. "not for this. not so i can have marginally less pain once a month."

"it was more than marginal," you protest weakly.

"nothing is worth this," he insists. "nothing is worth your life."

sirius clears his throat. "there might be... alternatives."

you both look at him.

"not wolfsbane," he clarifies quickly. "something else entirely. something i've been researching."

"your mysterious correspondence," remus says with sudden understanding. "the letters from abroad."

sirius nods. "there's someone in eastern europe. working on a different approach to lycanthropy. less about controlling the wolf, more about... integration."

"that sounds like dark magic," remus says warily.

"not dark. just... old. predating the divisions we've created between acceptable and unacceptable magic." sirius leans forward. "it might not work. but it also won't kill either of you."

hope flickers, fragile but persistent. you reach for remus's hand, finding it already reaching for yours.

"we can talk about it," you concede. "after."

"after what?" remus asks.

"after i sleep for about forty-eight hours." your attempt at humor falls flat, but remus's lips twitch nonetheless.

"i'll carry you upstairs," he offers.

"to the boys' dormitory? scandal," you murmur.

"everyone's at hogsmeade," sirius points out, and remus continues, "and frankly, i don't give a damn about school rules right now."

remus lifts you carefully, as if you might shatter in his arms. perhaps you might. your body feels different now—fundamentally altered by months of poison and today's near collapse. whether the damage is permanent remains to be seen.

as he carries you toward the spiral staircase, you rest your head against his shoulder. despite everything—the fear, the pain, the uncertainty—there's a strange peace in surrender. in knowing you've reached a limit, that something must change.

"this doesn't mean i love you any less," you murmur against his neck.

his arms tighten around you. "i know."

"just that i love you differently now."

he pauses on the stairs, looking down at you with those amber eyes that have seen too much suffering. "how?"

you consider this as he resumes climbing. "before, i thought love meant sharing your burden. taking some of your pain as my own."

"and now?"

you reach the dormitory. he pushes the door open with his shoulder and carries you to his bed, laying you gently on sheets that smell of parchment and tea and him.

"now i think..." you search for words as he pulls a blanket over you. "now i think maybe love is learning how to carry our separate burdens side by side. not trying to take what isn't mine to bear."

remus sits beside you on the bed, brushing hair from your forehead. "wisdom through near-death experience?"

"something like that." you catch his hand, press a kiss to his palm. "still not leaving you, though."

"i wouldn't let you if you tried," he admits, the possessiveness of the wolf bleeding into his voice.

you smile, eyelids growing heavy. "good."

he stretches out beside you, careful not to jostle the bed. even exhausted and hurting from his own transformation, his first concern is for your comfort. you shift to rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"sleep," he murmurs, fingers combing gently through your hair. "i'll be here when you wake up."

you believe him. it's one promise neither of you will break.

as consciousness fades, you feel his lips press against your forehead. "thank you," he whispers, "for loving me enough to stay. even when staying means letting go."

you don't have the strength to answer, but he understands anyway. he always does. the wolf in him senses what words cannot express—that your love hasn't diminished, only transformed. like him, it contains multitudes. like him, it survives.

the last thing you register before sleep claims you is remus's heartbeat against your ear and sirius's voice from the doorway, uncharacteristically gentle:

"they'll be alright, moony. as long as you are."

[mask131]

I am re-reading the Silmarillion, and something strikes me. The women of Tolkien's world have been talked about TO DEATH especially with all the recurring debates surrounding the Rings of Power series.

As we all know, Tolkien was not a "feminist" in the modern sense of the word. He had a very male-centric point of view and appreciation of the world, he had male-driven and male-centered stories, and actual women characters were sparse and rare. There are only five really big female characters in "The Lord of the Rings" - the quintet of Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. [No, don't talk to me about Arwen, she only really was a character in the movies, in the book she's just there in the appendix and she was literaly an afterthought of Tolkien to act as Eowyn's romantic double...]

Consider this. Galadriel, Eowyn, Goldberry, Lobelia and Shelob. This tells you everything you need to know about Tolkien's women, in good and bad.

The Silmarillion has the same motif of having a lot of female characters, only for most of them to be just footnotes, secondary characters with no lines, under-developped one-liners... with in a contrast a handful of super-cool, super-badass, complex and developed heroines at the center of the plot.

Aka, on the bad side, when listing the Valar, while Tolkien gives an interesting personality, great domains and cool attributes to all the male ones, half of the female ones are just... there. And do one stuff. And never appear again. I mean come on... Vana and Nessa? Estë and Vairë were done dirty... That's the actual type of "non-feminism" Tolkien has. It isn't about him hating women or trying to be offensive in his depictions - it is about him just, not putting as much thought, effort and care into his female characters as his male ones, a bit the same way he creates the vast expanses of the East and South of Middle-Earth and then never bothers actually developing more of it or seeking to tell tales of it - but that's for another discussion about Tolkien's "racism". Here we talk about women.

But here's the thing, aka the good side... When Tolkien does find the time and care to develop and flesh out a female character, by Iluvatar he goes all out! Again, we are back on what I said earlier: the women of Lord of the Rings can be counted on one hand... but these fingers are Galadriel, Eowyn and Shelob, so you can't claim he isnt writing powerful, important or uninterestng female characters. Which leads me to my original remark - as usual I get driven away in digressions of all sorts and kinds.

Have you ever noticed that Melkor's greatest enemies, the ones he fears the most, and his most effective foes... are women? Tolkien might not like to put them front and center of his tales, and he might have been a man of the early 20th century England in culture and mind, but boy does he has something to say about how women are actually the first enemies of the literal embodiment of evil and destruction! I mean think about it. Varda of the Stars, and Yavanna of the trees. Nienna has her ambiguous relationship to him - her tears work against him, and yet without her plea for him he likely would not have been released from the dungeons of Mandos. You have Melian with her Girdle, and Luthien with her Hound. And of course most of all Arien, guardian of the Sun, not only one of the rare fire spirits that Melkor couldn't corrupt (despite him basically ruling over all fire), but that frightens him so much he keeps hiding away and doesn't even dare to attack her... [I also reblogged some times ago a post praising the brilliance of Tolkien keeping the old European sun-moon motifs but switching the genders. The weaker, inconsistant, lustful, whimsical, disorderly, untrustworthy Moon is now a male principle, while the steady, dangerous, strong, powerful and beautiful Sun is a woman.]

It is actually REALLY easy to do a feminist retelling of Tolkien's work. Melkor doesn't fear Manwë as much as Varda. Aulë's works and servants get corrupted by Melkor, while Yavanna's do not. Melian and Luthien actively works against him. He friggin' pisses himself when the Woman of the Sun shows up. Sure, there are some evil female characters that serve him down the line and are relegated to the "obscure footnotes and undescribed secondary characters" zone - Thuringwethil the vampire or queen Beruthiel. I coul also dropped deleted characters from early drafts, like the ogress Fluithuin. But among them stands Ungoliant... THE only true female big bad on the dark side of Arda. THE badass, nightmarish, creepy eldritch abomination. And who ends up double-crossing Melkor, almost KILLING him, and again making him basically shit in his pants - as Varda and Arien do.

The first enemies of Morgoth are not the Valar, or the Maiar, or the Elves... It's women.

[the-oracle-of-the-lost]

Severance has really got me thinking about the ethics of sentient holograms in Star Trek. it's not quite the same thing as splitting someone's memories and treating one version of them as "not real" but it's still essentially creating aperson and expecting their entire existence to revolve around work and serving others. like The Measure of a Man was entirely about establishing that if a being is sentient then they have the right to consent and make choices about their own life and the Federation seemed to eventually agree that androids fell under that category. but then they turned around and immediately invented a new category of non-person to force to work without granting them free will and no one seems to acknowledge that this could maybe be a little ethically dubious.

[rabbithaver]

why is this loser so hyperfixated on trying to ruin the literal one thing that brings me any amount of joy. get a hobby that isnt harassing an unemployed and disabled 27 year old about a fucking comic book

[sysig]

He’s my little meow meow, my darling, my bbygirl (Patreon)

[kutepik]

Eyes on you

(nsfw 18+) Caleb has hidden cameras all over his house, and you've decided to put on a show for him.

2k words. posted also on ao3!

stalking, obsessive behavior, voyeurism, fem!reader.

PART 2 IS HERE!

Cameras. There were hidden cameras all over his house. There wasn't a bookcase or a mirror that didn’t have a little dot on it, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. You only knew they were there by accident: when you took the elevator to Caleb's apartment, you bumped into an excited boy wearing a cap and uniform of a security company. 

"Are you Mr. Caleb's girlfriend? What a pleasure, I only saw you in pictures!" The boy waved, taking you by surprise. 

"No... I'm just a friend." You said a little confused, and the energetic boy explained himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I saw so many photos of Mr. Caleb with you the day I went to install those cameras that I thought you were dating. He also said he was installing the cameras to protect someone he liked." Cameras? What cameras? You thought, but before you could say anything, the elevator door opened and the boy jumped out. "Let me know if any of them stop working, I've installed so many I've almost lost count! Bye!" And so he disappeared down the hall.

Now you were in the living room, standing there in the middle, feeling the weight of your body and your movements, self-conscious about yourself and alert to the fact that you were being watched. Was he watching you? Now? Right now? That’s fucked up. Jail worthy. Caleb was obsessed with you and if your recent reunion hadn't already proved it, the dozen or hundreds of hidden cameras scattered around that room were proof that Caleb was sick. 

But we know the saying: When you point one finger, there are three fingers pointing back to you. More sickening than knowing that you were being watched, from every angle and probably in every room, was the fact that you were aroused. The spot between your legs throbbed, excited by the situation, by the fact that Caleb had probably seen you naked, had seen you sleeping, had seen you showering... It was so fucking wrong that, despite being against everything he had done in Skyhaven right after the reunion, you still delighted in remembering the possessiveness and obsession that melted at the words of your friend, oh, dear friend. 

In addition to the burning sensation between your legs, there was this tingle in your stomach at the thought of a man - not just any man, we're talking about Caleb - being so concerned, so devoted to you that he would kill and die for your happiness. In fact, a man who returned from the ashes and survived for you and you alone. He was no longer your sweet childhood friend... But that wasn't a bad thing. Now he became a man who had eyes (many, it seems, all over the house), only and exclusively for you. Caleb was crazy about you, and, oh shit, you loved it, which made you as crazy as he was. 

So you had two options: the first was to confront Caleb about why the fuck he had installed so many cameras in the apartment if the only person who spent time there apart from him was you; the second was to pretend you didn't know anything and carry on with your life as if everything was normal. 

You always chose the second option when it came to Caleb, ever since you were a teenager and in college. Whether it was sneaking around his room and finding your panties secretly hidden in the back of his closet, or listening to him masturbate while calling your name when he thought he was alone, you always pretended everything was normal. But ever since, and even more so now that you've found each other again, there was nothing normal about it, and no reason to carry on in the same way. After all, if he had changed, there was no reason for you to remain the same or pretend you didn't know anything. 

Then there was a third and new option: pretending not to know anything, but taking advantage of the situation to play with Caleb. Basically, make him taste his own medicine. If he wanted to see you, well, he would.

Pretending to be normal, you sat down on the sofa and took off your coat, throwing it on the coffee table. You took out your cell phone and called his number. 

"Is my favorite guest home yet?" Caleb answered in his usual animated voice. 

"Yeah. I'm bored. Still working? Is it break time?" You remembered that around this time he was most active on social media, so it should be the best time to put into action what you had in mind.

"Ah…You've always been very clever. Yes, I'm on break. I'll be home in two hours and we can do whatever you want. Don't get bored, you can turn on the TV or play a game on the console I have." Caleb was always like that, attentive to you, always wanting to please you. He wasn't much of a gamer, but because you liked games, he had bought a console with the excuse that he was getting interested in games. But now you weren't going to play with the console. You were going to play with something else. 

"Oh, no..." You put the phone on speaker and placed it on the arm of the sofa. You lifted your shirt and brought your fingers up to your bra, massaging your nipples. "I want to relax, not play." You said, holding your right breast while spreading your legs, slipping anxious fingers into your pants, brushing the fingertips against the wet panties. 

The call went silent. Bingo. He was indeed watching you, like the pervert he was. 

"Caleb?" You asked innocently, keeping your voice steady as you started moving your hand in circles, making it obvious what you were doing inside those tight pants. 

"A-ah, yes. Relax..." His breathing was heavy on the other end of the line, and suddenly you heard the sound of a zipper being opened. You had to stop yourself from moaning just then. He was starting to touch himself while watching you. "Why don't you, uh, take a shower in my bathroom?" His voice was a little choked. He was probably pumping himself slowly, staring at your live image through the screen in his office. Your pussy throbbed and suddenly your pants were too tight and too hot. You stopped stroking your own breasts and took both hands to the waistband of your trousers, sliding them down your legs. Then you took off your shirt, leaving only your panties and bra on. You positioned yourself again, this time with your legs spread wider and your heels resting on the table in front of the sofa. Your fingers returned to the soaked fabric of your panties, touching the sensitive clit through the wet cloth. 

"Yeah, I'll have a shower, I'm just finishing something up." With your middle finger, you moved your panties to one side to touch yourself directly. You bit your lip, holding back a moan, and squeezed your breast with your other hand. 

"Fuck..." he swore. 

"All right?" You replied innocently, holding back your unsteady voice as you carried on stimulating your clit at a steady pace. You wanted him to think you didn't know about the cameras, so you had to stay as normal as possible on the phone.

"Yup... I- I just hit my finger," he lied, slurring his words. 

"Caleb-" You said, catching your breath. "I miss you,"

"I miss you too." He sounded almost breathless. "I can come over now."

"No, you can't. There's work. Or is there something urgent you need to do here?" You quickly pulled down your panties, leaving them between your thighs. Then, out of the blue, you heard the unmistakable sound of a camera zooming in. He must have been eating you with his eyes, and now he wanted a closer look. You opened your folds, circling your fingers around the soaked entrance, like a pervert. You slowly moved the fingers up to your clit, stimulating yourself obscenely again. The other end of the line was completely silent, only a few low sounds and grunts were audible. "Caleb, is there something urgent you need to do here?" 

"Uh-" He stammered, and you raised your hips a little, grinding against your hand. "Fuck, fuck," he said. He didn't bother with sentences anymore. 

"What’s up with you? I'm feeling lonely and bored here. Can't you entertain me?" You teased innocently, but your legs were already shaking. 

"I can entertain you. Ah-" For a second, you heard the wet, rhythmic sound of his thrusts against his own hand. Oh my. Caleb had his pants down, sat somewhere in the FAA, and was touching himself like a teenager while he watched you. And you fucking loved it. "I can entertain you... I can be so, so good for you, if you let me." His voice was raspy and breathless. If you weren't so close to your orgasm, you might've asked him if everything was alright and put him in a tough spot again, but you couldn't even think about that. You were too caught up in your own pleasure. One hand was on your nipple under your bra, the other was all over your clit, and you arched your back on the sofa.

"I- I know you know how to entertain me. You're so good to me, always." You gasped, no longer caring that he was probably listening to the sound of your quick fingers against the wet flesh of your vagina. 

Suddenly, you heard a muffled cry on the other end of the line and several "Fuck, fuck, fuck" being whispered like a mantra at a low volume, as if he had his hand against his own mouth. He was coming. And that was all it took for the tingling at the base of your belly to explode and flow out of your pussy in an obscene and intense orgasm. 

You had just squirted all over the living room table and carpet, and had probably wet the sofa as well. The two of you were silent, only the audible gasp of your breaths as you caught your breath. 

"Caleb? Are you still there? It seems the connection was cut." You lied, still pretending you didn't know anything. He coughed and the sound of things being adjusted or stirred could be heard in the background. 

"Yeah, yeah… Probably disconnected or something." 

You got up and stood next to the sofa, looking at the mess you had left there. 

"Caleb I think I spilled...something on your sofa and carpet. Is there any cleaning cloth so I can clean it up?" You looked around. 

"NO!" Caleb almost shouted from the other side. "I mean, it's no problem, pipsqueak. You don't have to clean up. You must be tired from all this, right?" He cleared his throat. "From the trip, and everything. Just rest more, like I said, you can use my bathroom and take a shower if you want."

"Hm, where's that cleaning freak from before? Who are you and what have you done with my Caleb?" You heard a laugh on the other end of the line. 

"That's why. I'll take care of it. Please" The last word sounded as if he was begging. "I'll be home soon, and I'll be able to...entertain you, as you wish. We can, huh, relax together, too."

You laughed and picked up your cell phone, walking to the bathroom while dropping your bra in the hallway, knowing that he was watching here too. You picked up your wet panties and placed them on the bathroom door handle. In an instant, you could see a small dot hidden next to a painting, pointing directly at where you were standing. You stared directly at it, smiled and winked. 

"I'm waiting for you then, Caleb."

Part 2 is here

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC "Pick Me Up"

The stream goes live on the first day of the school year. It's the usual song and dance - mad laughing, threats, poor jokes, terror, and about thirty kids huddled together in a classroom behind Joker's back. Tim recognizes it as one of the Gotham Academy classrooms. Dick can't imagine the horror those kids' parents must be feeling right now. Jason jokes about middle school traumatic experiences. Damian is feeling very justified for skipping classes today.

Bruce, all suited up in his Batman garb, is making his way to the Academy as fast as he possibly can. Those are kids.

Gotham is once again anxiously kept on the edge of their seats, watching as Joker decides to interview the kids on their learning experience so far. Something about leaving a good first impression on the new generation or some other bullshit. Most kids stutter over their words - it's true that Gothamites are way more composed when facing life-threatening events, but those kids are only fourteen or fifteen for the most part. They are not old enough to keep their cool in the face of a murder clown.

That is, until Joker points his camera at one of the girls. Black hair in a high ponytail, blue eyes without a trace of fear, a slightly displeased, even bored expression on her face. She looks straight into the camera, not even waiting for the laughing madman to finish his question, and deadpans:

"I don't think I like school. Pick me up, please."

Joker sputters.

"Not so scared, I see," he sneers, and, in the next moment, a comically large gun painted in purples and greens is pointed to the girl's forehead, "How about now?"

The girl scrunches her nose and makes a so-so gesture.

"It's kinda meh," she admits, "Like, yeah, points for style, but you know, size doesn't matter. It's all in the technique."

Dick snorts over the comms. It's a bad time for laughing, sure, but the phrase caught him off-guard. This is not what you'd expect to hear from a teen, and definitely not something you'd expect anyone to say to the Joker. Jason's comms are muted, but Barbara knows he also laughed a little.

"Technique, you say?" Joker hisses, pressing the gun closer to the girl's head, and she winces, leaning away from it, almost as if she is disgusted by the touch.

"Yeah, I mean, guns are not that scary anyway. What are you gonna do with them, blast my brains all over the floor? Been there, done that," the girl shrugs, "Kinda nasty, but overall, it's just like slime, only sticky." She pauses and looks to the side, seemingly lost in thought, "Huh, maybe we should have added Borax to it. Or was it baking soda?.."

"Listen here, you little brat," Joker's fingers catch the girl's chin, and his voice becomes sickeningly menacing. Bruce is almost there, just two more minutes. Tim is already grappling onto the wall.

But none of them get to finish.

"Put your dirty fingers away from my sister," a low, cold, and even in a way that speaks of barely contained fury, voice comes from out of the screen.

The camera spins, like whoever is holding it turned really fast, and everyone watching the stream sees a fairly normal guy standing by the window - a turtleneck and ripped jeans, same black hair as the girl, same blue eyes... Wait, they are not blue.

And that's not a guy.

The camera falls down to the floor, and there are a lot of panicked screams coming from the broadcast now, but none of them sound like children's voices. It's the screams of adults, of grown-ass men, and later, someone even claimed they heard Joker's scream among them, too. The picture on camera glitches a few times, and the angle is awkward, but everyone still gets to see how shadows in the room morph into eyes, wide open and green, and how the darkness grows sharp teeth, countless grinning mouths that don't belong to any faces.

Screams turn into gargling and then to quiet whispers, filling the ears of all those listening with countless words in languages they don't know.

Red Robin turns off the recording and looks to that same guy from the levestream, sitting across him on the couch. The guy - Daniel, or Danny, as he introduced himself - looks him in the eyes and raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, and?"

"How did you do it?" Tim asks for the third time this evening. Danny blinks.

"Did what?" He asks, completely incomprehending. Tim groans. He's been trying to get his answers, any answers at this point, from the guy for thirty fucking minutes already. So far, he's got nothing. Danny, whoever the fuck he is, proves to be the most annoying human being on Earth.

"Seven people in a coma, including Joker himself, with no physical injuries and none of the children remember a thing! How?!" He demands, and a girl's face peeks from around the corner:

"I remember!"

Tim snaps his head at her, "What do you remember?"

The girl pauses, blinks, and looks to Danny. Then shrugs, "My brother picked me up from school."

Tim drops his head down and breathes out in frustration. He can't force the information out of civilians, he is a vigilante, not a mafia.

"Would it make you feel better if I promise not to do it again?" Danny asks, and his voice is way too innocent for Tim to believe him. He raises his head to look the guy in his shameless, amused eyes.

"I hate you."

"Thanks," Danny grins.

[nereidprinc3ss]

fixation

in which you love spencer reid's hands so much you could... well, you could practically eat them. or at least let him put his fingers in your mouth.

18+ (fluff, suggestive) warnings/tags: finger sucking...lol....., established relationship, ummmm d/s adjacent dynamics, like softdom spencer but there's no sex, pet names, teasing a/n: this was inspired by @gublersg1rl who said 2 nights ago she would suck spencer's fingers as he was reading a book. my beautiful angel with so many great ideas in her beautiful head. anyway this will not be my magnum opus in terms of quality but its just a fun short little thing I hope u like :D

Spencer is reading. 

He got home forty five minutes ago, and he’d hugged you and he’d kissed you—and they were good hugs and kisses, but as you sit curled on the opposite end of the couch from him, watching him read, it doesn’t feel like enough. Three days isn’t the longest he’s been gone, but you missed him like he was gone longer. And now, he’s not truly ignoring you—but he’s not giving you enough attention. It’s unintentional, but it’s making you feel all kinds of needy and overly-affectionate anyway. 

Especially when he’s so gorgeous. Ankle crossed over knee, lithe fingers skimming over the page to keep track of his place. Those hands are truly distracting. It’s unlike you to be struck by such wildly inappropriate thoughts so out of context, but here you are, having been without him for days, practically feverish on the couch as you imagine all the things they could do. All the things they have done. The way they've traced down your bare spine, up your side, so lovingly in the middle of the night... how they've touched you elsewhere...

And... that's enough.

Despite the whole committed relationship thing, you still feel a bit scandalized picturing him like that. And you know from experience these thoughts will only get worse if you stay over here, staring at him, wanting him, so you crawl across the couch and under his arm, settling your head in his lap and looking up at him expectantly. He chuckles—a quiet, dry thing, that says he’s only partially surprised by your behavior. 

“Well hello,” Spencer says, taking one hand off the book to settle on your leg. 

“Hi.”

For a moment he just studies you, affection seeping into his eyes along with the humor already there. “Can I help you?”

“Mhm.”

His brow darts up. 

“With what, baby?”

Baby. Your whole body tingles. He only calls you that when he’s feeling especially soft toward you and your whims. In turn you soften, and you both become rather mushy. 

Unfortunately your brain is not excluded from melting, and you look up at him helplessly. 

“Um…”

Spencer’s hand falls from your knee, taking an unnecessary but appreciated route down your thigh and up your stomach before settling on your cheek. He brushes away a few baby hairs before two knuckles begin drawing soft lines from the corner of your mouth up toward your ear and back again, and your stomach becomes a hail of butterflies. He’s got this soft smile on his face and you love him so much and he’s so sweet and perfect, you could just—

You’re not thinking very clearly when you tilt your head, angling your chin up until you catch his fingers against your lips. His eyes remain on yours as he traces the shape of your mouth with those same two knuckles—until you’re slowly parting, obstructing his path and offering a very different kind of invitation. Spencer’s eyes narrow fractionally and you watch the way his focus changes, the way he only tests the waters at first, letting the tips of his fingers trace the length of your bottom lip, before barely tugging down just enough to feel the soft warmth of the border of it. They skate over the ridge of your teeth and find the tip of your tongue, at which point you can’t help from closing your lips around his fingers, eyes fluttering contentedly as you draw them deeper into your mouth. His brows draw together, and those pretty pink lips part soundlessly like you’re the eighth wonder of the world in a way that has your thighs clenching. You hear the book shut and fall carelessly to the side table. He doesn’t even bother saving his place—too busy bringing that newly freed hand to your hair and combing gently against your scalp. 

It’s strangely calming to have him like this—he’s undeniably with you, undeniably close, against your lips and tongue. All your worries about his distance dissolve and you feel incredibly comforted. With his other hand, his thumb begins stroking a line from the bridge of your nose up your forehead, and you could pass out. 

“Comfy?” He asks after a long moment, slowly withdrawing his fingers from the heat of your mouth. You pout. 

“I was.”

Spencer hums, eyes soft on you. “I don’t think I should be nurturing your oral fixation, angel.”

“You didn’t like it?” You challenge, turning your head inward to nose at his stomach. He  cups your cheek with damp fingers and pointedly turns your head outward again. If he wasn’t so blushy and flustered and cute you might’ve cared more about the feeling of your own spit on your skin. 

“Don’t make it about me.”

You allow a minute to pass in silence. 

Fine.

“I liked it,” you say shyly. 

Spencer’s response is deeply fond as he smiles down at you. “Did you?”

Like he couldn’t tell. 

“Mhm. You should let me do it all the time.”

His smile flickers wider the way it does when he’s about to tease you. 

“I don’t know if you deserve it. I don’t know if you can be good all the time.”

You make a face. “Shut up.”

“Is that what we say when we want something?” Before he can pull his hand away, you nip at his fingers. He laughs. “You’re off to a terrible start. I think you need to work on your manners. Not bite the hand that… goes in your mouth.”

“Is that the saying?”

“I’m pretty sure,” he nods sarcastically, helping you up until you’re sitting across his lap. He lovingly tucks hair behind your ear, eyes warm as they flit across your face up close. “You know, that was incredibly unhygienic. So much bacteria it boggles the mind.”

“Yeah? That kinda turns me on.”

Spencer leans in to kiss you sweetly, choosing your mouth over his worry about bacterial transmission. “You are so psychologically concerning,” he whispers against your lips. You sling your arms around his neck. 

“Because of the bacteria thing or the oral fixation thing?”

His hands settle on your hips. “Both, lovely. For so many reasons.”

It’s only another tease, but you pull back anyway so he can see the full force of your pout. “Don’t say that. It’s mean.”

“I was kidding! It was a joke. I was joking.”

“It was mean.”

“Okay,” Spencer begins, patient and happy to untangle this ridiculous snag if that’s what it takes to make you content again, “Freud’s psychosexual stages of development are contentious at best. I’m not worried about your oral fixation because I don’t really believe in such a thing. I was just teasing you, but I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“So you’ll let me do it again?”

Spencer pulls you back into another kiss. 

“You’re kind of insatiable, you know that?” 

When you don’t answer, only wait for him to respond, he sighs goodnaturedly. 

“You know you can have any part of me whenever you want it.”

You give him a winning smile and kiss his cheek in reward. 

“You’re so nice, Spence.”

“I thought I was mean.” 

“Now you’re nice.”

“Because you got what you wanted?” You nod enthusiastically. He seems not quite as thrilled, though perhaps distantly amused by his own helplessness when it comes to you. “Yeah, I feel like that happens a lot, doesn’t it?”

But it clearly doesn’t bother him that much. He’s still smiling when you kiss him again. 

[venuslut]

FANTASIZING ABOUT a needy Choso Kamo ♡︎.

He can’t help it. Ever since you first introduced him to sex, he just can’t get enough. It’s not his fault that your cunt is so addicting, so much so that he’s often begging you to let him fuck you on his cock. It’s not his fault that you moan so beautifully that he can’t help but thrust into you harder so you’ll make more of those pretty sounds for him. It’s not his fault that you taste so good and he has to have you on his tongue, drinking your juices until you’re shaking and crying. He doesn’t mean to be so needy, but you bring out this side of him he can’t control.

How is he supposed to control himself when you walk around in those skimpy clothes, showing off your plump ass and perfect tits? It’s impossible. He’ll try to resist, have some self-control. But it isn’t long before he’s hugging you from behind, dotting wet kisses along your neck and pushing his hard-on into your ass. All while he’s begging you let him feel your wet cunt. And of course you’ll let him, how could you say no to your cute desperate boyfriend.

The minute you agree he has you laid out under him as he fucks his big cock into your tight cunt. Moaning and whimpering about how good it feels to be inside you again, his face red as he pushes every last inch of himself into you. He uses his weight to thrust into you, which only made your head go dizzy. He has you in a lazy mating press and your plush thighs slap against his hips every time he comes down, the sound of Choso’s deep thrusts is so musical, his tip abusing your womb to the point your eyes roll back. His mouth is so filthy too, and the worst part is, is that he doesn’t even realize it. “Fuck, baby... you’re sucking me in... your pussy’s so tight.” He groans into your ear, sucking onto your skin and leaving purple marks behind, intent on marking you as his. Although there was no point since you still had the hickeys from your last encounter, but it was never enough for Choso.

The poor curse is so in love with your body that he’ll go on for hours and hours just playing with your body. If it was up to him, you both would never leave the bed. Who needs to eat when he can just eat your cunt and you can suck his cock? Who needs to sleep when there’s a new position he wants to try? This man will not stop because that’s how addicted he is to your cunt. You curse the curse’s stamina and sometimes wish you had a normal boyfriend, but he usually fucks those thoughts right out of your head before you can try and act on them. “Choso… ngh!— h-hold on, my body…” you mumbled, unable to fully say your sentence. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you let out a strangled cry, bucking your hips wildly to try and get that same pleasure again. Choso eyed your reaction, angling his hips to continue hitting that spot over and over again til you’re seeing stars and screaming out his name. You had no thoughts about shame, or how you should lower your voice, not when your handsome boy was fucking you within an inch of your life.

“Right there? ‘s that the spot, dove?” He pants, voice hoarse from his overwhelming desire for you. You’ve lost track of time, to obsessed with the way Choso has you creaming around his cock for the nth time. Everything was too much, but you loved it, in an addictive way. The overstimulation was addicting. His words were addicting. The sound of the bed hitting the wall was addicting. His cock was addicting. He was addicting. You always tease Choso about his neediness when in reality, you’re just as needy and obsessed as he is. You can tell Choso is close by the way his cock twitched inside you and how he speeds up his movements, rutting into you with wild abandon and chasing his orgasm.

You throw your head back into a pillow, your vision almost going black as you were consumed with ecstasy. The air was knocked out of your lungs with every snap of his hips, your senses filled with just the pressure of Choso. It felt like you were gonna throw up, but not in a bad way. “Baby… babybabybabybaby! A-ah! Mgn…” you cried out in pleasure, clawing at the sheets below you. Choso’s hands tightened around your hips, his careful grip growing into a bruising hold as he was solely focused on reaching his climax. “Hah— you feel sososososo good, dove. I love you, I love you so much,” he whimpered. It was right there, he could feel it, just a couple more thrusts and he’ll finally have his release. He wants to cum so bad, he needs to cum.

“Hey dove? C-can I fill your pretty pussy with my cum? Wanna cum inside you,” he begged, his voice broken as he pleads with you. “Please, my love… I want to stuff your pussy with my cum, wanna fill you up…” he continues, kissing your ankle and calf to convince you further. You didn’t need much convincing though, you were already to dumb and out-of-it to deny the poor curse. Frantically, you nodded your head, just wanting to feel his hot semen inside you. And you finally got your wish after a few more sloppy thrusts, before Choso goes still and empties his balls into your awaiting cavern. He lets out a guttural moan as ropes of cum spurt out. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock coated in a translucent white, his thighs and pelvis sticky from a mix of sweat and cum.

You both lay there in silence, the sounds of your labored breathing being the only noise echoing through the room. While coming down from your high, you remember that the reason you even got dressed today was because you had work. Annoyed, you lightly smack the upside of Choso’s head, complaining about how he made you late while you go to get out of bed and put your clothes back on. Choso rubs the area where you hit him as he watched you struggle to move and get out of bed, he looks at you like a kicked puppy and he knows he should be sorry for making you late but he can’t find it in him to feel guilty. Instead, Choso reaches out and wraps his arms around you, pulling you back further onto the bed and flushed against his sweaty chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and he lines soft kisses to your nape.

“I’m sorry, dove… Why don’t you call out and let me eat your pussy as an apology?”

[appocalipse]

the same thing ・❥・b. barnes

summary: during a mission, you put yourself in harm's way to protect bucky. back at the avengers compound, he wants to know why. | 1.4k words, angst with a happy ending

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"You should be resting."

You don't turn your head as the familiar voice comes from behind you, too focused on the delicate art of making the perfect sandwich to look away. You are a woman on a mission. "I was hungry."

A few seconds later, he's standing next to you, leaning back against the countertop with arms folded across his broad chest. "It's been less than twelve hours since they patched you up."

He's not going to stop hovering, you realize, because that's what Bucky does when he's worried.

"Want half?" Maybe you can distract him with food.

He regards the towering monstrosity on the cutting board and the chaotic layers of meat, cheese, and veggies sticking out at all angles.

You can't help but grin as you slap another slice of bread on top. "A quarter, then?"

Bucky has the audacity to look offended. "I'm not eating that thing."

You cradle the plate in your left hand, holding the sandwich with your right, and give him a pointed look. "Your loss."

Bucky just watches, arms still crossed, as you take a huge bite. His blue eyes remain narrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He's like a one-man intervention waiting to happen. You shrug and wander over to the kitchen table.

Sitting down is a bit of an effort. The wound on your side pulls as you slowly lower yourself onto the chair, but if you can keep from grimacing too hard, Bucky won't be able to tell, will he?

Your smile probably gives you away. He narrows his eyes further. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm hungry?"

"No." Bucky takes a step forward. "I meant why did you get between me and that shot?"

Good question. The answer is embarrassing and you'd sooner walk barefoot over hot coals than tell him the truth.

"Hm?"

Another step. "I have superhuman healing powers."

"I'll live."

"It was stupid."

"You're ruining my—ow," you mutter, dropping the sandwich as you instinctively put your hand over your bandage. There goes the carefully maintained poker face. You force yourself to remove your hand and look up at Bucky with what you hope is an innocent expression, even as your side throbs in protest. "My sandwich. You're ruining my sandwich. Are you sure you don't want a bite?"

Bucky is too smart to take the bait. He moves around the table, coming to stand in front of you. The whole 'arms-crossed-stern-glare' thing again. It would be intimidating if you didn't know him so well.

"You could've been killed," he's like a dog with a bone, you swear.

"But I wasn't," you say pointedly. "I'm fine."

"Fine? You were shot."

"Will you just let it go? It doesn't even...hurt...that much," you lie.

It will take a while for the super-soldier serum in your blood — a weaker variation of the same stuff that runs through Bucky's veins — to kick in and accelerate your healing.

Bucky exhales. He looks about ready to give you an earful, but then his gaze shifts and he notices the way you're holding your side, how stiffly you're sitting.

You move your traitorous hand away like you've been burned.

"How bad is it?"

"Huh?" you sound deliberately casual. Too casual. "It's...totally fine. Not bad, really. Don't worry. I don't even feel it."

There's the reason why you've never been a spy. You can't lie to save your life, apparently.

Or maybe just not to Bucky.

"Okay. It hurts, like, just a little bit...like—like not even hurts hurts, just..." you trail off with a grimace as he comes closer. "More of an itch?"

"An itch?" Bucky sounds dubious.

"More of a burn," you concede. "A...mildly annoying but totally manageable sort of a burn."

"You are a terrible liar."

"Okay, so it hurts," you snap, the last vestiges of your patience vanishing. "I have an extensive hole in my side, I get it. It's not—I don't want you to feel bad about it. It's really not terrible, I can take it."

Bucky shakes his head. "What if it had been worse? What if they'd shot you somewhere vital?"

"They didn't."

"But what if they had?"

"Then I would have died!"

Bucky looks at you like you just kicked him. "Yeah. That's what I'm trying to say."

You open your mouth, then close it.

"You think I want that?" he asks softly.

"No." You suddenly feel very small. "Of course not, I just...just..."

"Just what?"

"I don't know," you admit with a sigh. "It's just that you are...people need you, you know? And you have a life, people who care about you, but I'm just..."

A nobody. A girl with no past, who can barely make sense of her present.

"...it would be better if it was me. That's all."

"It would never be better if you were hurt."

"Bucky—"

"You don't get it, do you?" he asks in a low voice. "People need you too."

You roll your eyes. "Please. You mean the team?"

"Me," Bucky says pointedly. "You think it's easy for me? When you get hurt? It kills me."

The sandwich lays forgotten on the table, squashed flat under your clasped hands. "It...kills you?"

He just looks at you for a long moment.

Your heart flutters in your chest. You have a sudden, intense urge to break the silence with a terrible joke, a quip, something light and witty to dispel the heaviness in the air and make this moment go away. But before you can open your mouth, Bucky shakes his head.

"You kill me."

Okay, that's not where you thought this was going. "What?"

"When you say stuff like that. When you make it sound like you don't matter, like it's okay for you to get hurt. Or worse. It's not."

Oh.

"Bucky," you try again, with a more serious tone. "I don't—"

"Stop saying that," he cuts you off.

You realize your mouth is still hanging open and snap it shut.

"You want to know what I think?" Bucky is so close now you could reach out and touch him, if you were brave enough. "I think that you got this...thing in your head, that you're not good enough, or strong enough, or that you're broken somehow. I think that you forget that it's okay to want things. I think that maybe you think nobody needs you. That no one wants you."

You swallow. You're afraid to say anything, to move, because your heart is hammering against your ribs and Bucky is looking at you like he can see straight into your soul.

"But I do."

"Do...what?" you whisper.

"Want you."

It's the last thing you expect to hear. "Bucky, you don't mean that."

His voice drops an octave. "Don't tell me what I mean."

Your cheeks are burning. You feel pinned under his gaze. Your side is throbbing again and you have a mouthful of butterflies and it's all just too much.

You move to get up but only make it halfway before the wound pulls again and you wince. "Shit."

"Where do you think you're going?" Bucky reaches out to help you, one hand braced against your shoulder as you sink back down into the chair. His expression has softened. "You need to rest."

You really want to kiss him right now.

It's the closest he's ever been to you, perhaps. You can feel his breath on your face.

"I need to...? You really confuse me, Barnes."

"How so?"

"Well, first you tell me that I kill you, and then you say you want me. It's kind of a mixed message—"

"I'm not interested in being just friends with you," Bucky cuts you off abruptly. "Is that clear enough?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. There's a warm, tingling sensation in your chest and you suddenly can't breathe properly. "That's—you—"

Bucky smirks, just a little. He looks almost...proud of himself? Like he's happy he's rendered you speechless for once.

You decide to take a page from his book and put him on the spot. "And what do you think I want?"

"I don't know," he murmurs, leaning even closer. "But I hope it's the same thing."

His lips brush against yours, soft and gentle. He pulls away and you want to chase after him but then he's back again and kissing you harder this time, all teeth and tongue and ragged breathing and heat.

You close your eyes. Your head is spinning and you can't get enough air but you're kissing him back now, both hands coming up to fist in his shirt, holding on for dear life.

His mouth trails down your neck, leaving hot kisses along your jawline. You let out a breathy sigh.

"Is that...supposed to help me heal faster, mhm?"

Bucky just smiles against your skin.

[syluspeach]

Using their evol to please you

Pairings: Sylus, Caleb, Zayne, and Rafayel x reader

Note: I couldn’t think of a way to integrate Xavier’s evol into this piece :( don’t think i forgot him. If you have any suggestions, let me know! Also, I kind of lost steam with Rafayel’s part, that’s why it’s shorter than the rest.

Sylus

Cries and whines filled the grand room. Your limbs were shaking from the amount of times you had cum in the last hour. The vibrating wand held against your battered cunt was soaked with your juices.

You tried shifting your hips to cause it to roll off, but the red and black tendrils holding it in place wouldn’t allow it. Your wrist were bound above your head and your legs were held apart by the same mist. It was feather light, the grip it hand on you was neither too tight nor too loose.

Lifting your head off the bed, you watched as Sylus sat on the leather couch that he brought over, paying you no mind. He was calmly looking through some files, his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose.

You don’t know how he did it, but he could have his evol work on autopilot.

“Sylus, please.”

Your words came out as a mewl, the syllables getting caught in your throat as your thighs trembled, your tummy flexing as you came once again.

“No-no more, Sylus.” You said in between breaths. “I can’t take it…can’t take it anymore. Please-please I’ll be good.”

With a stoicism that irritated you, he closed the folder he had been reading and made his way over to you.

Standing above you, he took in your tear stained face. He brushed away the strands of hair that stuck to your sweaty forehead, his cool skin offering some reprieve to your heated skin. As he pulled away, you tried to lift yourself off of the bed to follow his fingers, wanting to feel them on your skin again, but his evol tugged you back into place. A wail left your teeth bitten lips.

Flicking the wand to a higher setting, he settled himself beside you as you turned away from him, his fingers caressing the skin of your thigh before slipping over your drippy pussy. With ease, his fingers slid into your empty hole.

“Oh fuck. Please, Sylus.” You could feel his nose trailing along the column of your throat. “S’too much.”

His digits curled upward, hitting the spongy spot that had you seeing stars and gasping for air.

“Once more, sweetie. Just give me one more. I know you can do it.”

Caleb

While the aircraft was on autopilot, Caleb had you in his lap, completely undressed. His face was smushed against your bouncing breasts as you fucked yourself on his fat cock. The sound of the running engine couldn’t be heard over your moans as his tip caught at your opening.

Your thoughts were clouded with lust.

What started as a nice trip through the clouds, turned to you pressing your thighs together, searching for some relief. Caleb just looked too damn good in his colonel suit, aviators shielding his eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. One second you were trying to calm your ragging thoughts, the next you had untucked Caleb from his slacks, greedily mouthing at his length.

Tearing himself away from your chest, he angled your head, catching your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue made its way into your mouth, tasting himself besides your strawberry lip balm.

After a while, your knees were hurting and your legs were straining from the repetitive moment that came with riding him.

“Caleb…can’t…feels so good.” You spoke through battered breaths, words pushing out of you each time his mushroom tip nudged your cervix. “M’tired…can’t hold on…”

He shushed you, pressing open-mouth kisses along your neck.

“Relax, I’ve got you.”

His hands maneuvered you so that your back was pressed against his chest. His hands brushed over your curves, trailing up your sides until they settled on your tits. He played with them, pinching and pulling at the harden points.

Once you had become putty in his hands, he settled his plan into action.

Slowly, his evol lifted you off of his lap, a hand coming down to hold himself at your entrance. Looking down, you were met with blue and red stripes around your waist.

“What are you-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the ride.”

His evol always amazed you. He used it throughout your daily lives, lowering dishes off of high shelves for you to holding you in place when you tried to run away from him, but never during moments like this.

The motions were smooth and controlled, his dick sliding into you with practiced thrusts.

Your fingernails dug into the leather of the pilot’s seat and your head fell back against his shoulder. The use of his evol allowed for him to place his hands all over your body.

With one hand squeezing the fat of your tit, his other was splayed across your tummy, his thumb strumming your puffy clit. Feeling the way your body trembled, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he had your cum dripping down his cock.

Zayne

Looking at the little creatures Zayne had crafted for you with the use of his evol, your mind wandered.

What else could he make with it?

Through heated cheeks and stuttering words, you asked him if he could create something you could use while he was away at those health conventions he always had to attend. The look of shock on his face had you backtracking, sputtering apologies for asking for such a thing.

You never believed sweet, serious Zayne would be one to indulge your dirty fantasies, but then again, he was full of surprises.

After a nice hot bath that left your skin warm to the touch, he had you laying beside him, head resting against his arm as he trailed the tip of the icy dildo, a replica of his own cock, in between your breasts.

It was cool to the touch, like glass, but it didn't heat up nor leave that stinging feeling against your skin when ice touched it for too long.

The sensation of it circling your nipples had them pebbling, catching the attention of the man beside you. He made sure to take the hardened buds into his mouth, the warmth overtaking them shocking your body to the temperature change.

“Open.” He commanded, nudging the tip against your lips.

Hallowing your cheeks, you looked up at him with wide eyes, lips stretching to accommodate the stretch of the fake cock. Once you knew you had left it covered in your saliva, he pulled it out with a pop before moving to the apex of your thighs.

He trailed it from your clit down to your awaiting hole. Knowing the intrusion would have you keening, he made sure to swallow your sounds with a kiss.

It was a new sensation. Smooth and cold along your gummy, warm walls, but it felt good. Didn’t exactly feel like him, too polished, but it was just as thick and big as him.

Yes, it would do just nicely for the days he was gone.

Rafayel

With Rafayel’s skin being unnaturally cold, his evol came as a shock to you. Ice and fire came together, creating the beautiful being that was in between your spread legs. Filled to the brim with his cock, he refused to move. Instead, he was taking his time breaking you down.

Playing with you more like it.

He needed you whiny and desperate before giving you what you craved.

The flames that once danced along Rafayel’s fingertips fluttered over your nude form. With your hands tied to the headboard and a blindfold around your eyes, the temperature change was heightened. He was hot and cold, perfect for temperature play.

Each time the small pieces of inferno got near your breasts, goosebumps erupted on your skin, nipples tightened at the sensation.

The flames acted as dripping wax, but somehow, they didn’t burn you to an aggressive extent. Your lover wouldn’t allow it. He followed their paths with his lips, pressing kisses against your skin as if to soothe the pretend burn.

When he got close to your navel, your fingers flexed, nails digging into your palms. He must have felt your whole body tense.

“Relax, I won’t let you burn, cutie.” He mouthed at your jaw, his icy chest pressing against your heated skin. “Not unless you want me to.”