#this was a deep dive whoops

[keydekyie]

Sorry if this was asked already, what inspired you to make TMATB?

ok so... this got a little long. No surprises there lmao.

TL;DR:

I was a messed up bitey little monster kid and I wanted to write a story about a monster and a human who start out as enemies but come to love each other and rescue each other and go on adventures and maybe just maybe change the world. ♥️

long version below:

this led me to go crack open my old sketchbooks from around early 2012 to 2013 to find my first drawings of Kanai, and the drawings of a bunch of sphinxlike monstery creatures I know precluded them, but it doesn't seem like I have those sketchbooks with me. :( I only have a couple here in Georgia, the rest are in my mom's basement in Colorado.

But really inspiration goes back further than that. Ever since I was little I've always been frustrated that the monsters in stories seemed to always be either scary and irredeemably evil, or misunderstood babus who wouldn't hurt a fly, with no in-between. It bothered me because I knew I was kind of a messed up little monster of a kid (in the throes of undiagnosed adhd, having emotional breakdowns, biting people, not having many friends, going to the principle's office a lot, etc) but I didn't want to be bad. I wanted to be good, I wanted to be gentle and nice and make friends and be understood the way the dopey-good monsters in the stories were. But I didn't relate to them. I bit people and dug in the dirt and talked to my cats.

So I'd always wanted a story where the monster was like that: nasty and scary and a little bad, the way any person could be, but ultimately just... a person. A person who craves tenderness and understanding and wants to do the right thing even if they don't really know what that means, but also maybe bites sometimes and digs in the dirt.

And I wanted a story about someone who could relate to and come to love that monster, despite that being the objectively dangerous and difficult thing to do. I wanted a love story, but I didn't want it to be easy, with a magic ending where the monster gets to be human. I wanted the stakes to be high, I wanted the climb to be steep, and I wanted the payoff to be satisfying.

So at the end of high school in 2012 (when I was mostly obsessing over another story of mine called Divergence, which is a whole other enormous can of worms) I was suddenly driven to draw out basically the whole kidnapping scene from book I in comic form:

I can't share the whole thing because it's, like... hideously bad and not canon anymore anyway, but it was the start of the whole thing. Kanai were more troll-like. It wasn't until a year later when I got into a sphinx kick that they turned into bear-sphinxes.

On top of what I said earlier, I just really loved the idea of putting the monster in a tricky ethical predicament, rather than the "hero." Why should the hero always get to be the one faced with moral dilemmas? So I made the monster have to choose: A) eat the human he's befriended and be accepted by society or B) spare the human and be rejected by society. Everything else followed from that. In book II I have Kaelin wrestle with having befriended a man-eating monster, in book III Ruyak is having to come to terms with being a man-eating monster, and in book IV they're going to have to face a world that they've both outgrown, and that doesn't have a place for them anymore.

So that'll be fun.

[shyvioletlife]

I think the thing that I'm still reeling the most over from the new episode is the reveal that rue is the reason why the marriage between Grebalba and Apollo was called off. Its been a rumor for ages - ever since the duel between wuvvy and hob - because of what hob implied in why the duel had happened. But rue really did have a hand in the engagement ending.

and it *makes sense*that they would do this, which is the most confounding part to me. Rue is the emissary of joy and fey titles are not something to be used lightly. They spoke against the Chorus about how their only goal has been to try and help people break out of the courtly airs and politicking and instead be moved by love and connection to one another. To dissolve the barriers between courts through their events. They've even spoken, perhaps a bit vaguely but wistfully, about dissolving the system of courts all together so that fey and magic are no longer contained. This ideology speaks to the wildness and chaos of joy, something that is never meant to be restrained if you are to feel the proper reaches of it.

They must have seen the engagement in the works and thought mainly of whether or not it actually brought any sense of joy and happiness to those involved. If its not what the heart wants, then why do it? Apollo was only involved for the politics of it all, so once they learned that they, presumably, stepped in and advocated for his happiness. They believed that what they did was right, even though since then they have learned what impacts this has made on the goblins through hob. But...just because it makes sense at first glance doesn't mean there isn't something rotten hiding underneath.

I think the missing puzzle piece in all of this is that, like many might suspect, the wedding between grebalba and apollo was going to be used by the court of wonder to consolidate even more magic. they get involved with courts, like the court of craft, call them sister, and steal every lick of magic that fuels the court from right under their noses. The court of wonder was planning on doing the same with the goblins, but therein lay the trouble. Goblins don't have magic. I think it highly likely that by the point this truth came to light, the court of wonder was already so deep into negotiations that they could not back out. They needed some excuse to break away but as we've seen the goblins can be wily and keen when the circumstances call for it, and there probably wasn't any wiggle room in the agreements already made.

Rue gave the court an excuse.

A part of me wants to think that this could be another example of rue having more power and influence than they themself realize, but that rings a little too false. Yes, they do have a lot of power and influence, but I highly doubt that them advocating for Apollo to follow his heart and break off the engagement would actually have held any weight if the Chorus or if Apollo himself had any other reason to go through with the marriage. Rue is very much a figurehead within the court and the Chorus and Apollo used that to their advantage. And its clear they want to continue to do so based on how the Chorus has invited them to become a member - not because they think rue inherently deserves to be one of them but because they want to use Rue's influence for their own gains.

Rue has expressed so many feelings of being an outsider, feeling rejected by their court and needing to put up mask after mask to be seen and accepted. Even if there is a discrepancy between how they perceive themself and their power vs how others are impacted by them...I just don't think the gulf would actually be so vast that they would have the power to annul an engagement on this scale entirely through their own influence.

[jahiera]

#which might change depending on the prior choices Tav makes (like how prior choices can influence Shadowheart to kill or not kill Aylin)

wrow i did not know this....about shadowheart and the aylin choice i mean, i would be interested to know what decisions influence her? if you know :3

As far as I know and have heard, doing "good" things and pushing her more toward the "right" choice (such as saving the tieflings, etc.) will encourage her to spare Aylin, whereas making "evil" choices will encourage her to fulfill being a dark justiciar! That's what I've heard about other playthroughs, I don't know of specifics though. This is all if you leave it up to her to decide what to do either way -- I have no idea how much that influences dialogue or text in terms of the persuasion checks, flavor, etc.

[mielmoto]

bird's brain mojo is running out for the night, so i'm gonna pop off for now— i've got a few more inboxes to hit come morning, but mwah mwah, kiss kiss and sweet dreams until then!

[lunaetis]

me who adopted eden / trailblazer & just started playing s.tar r.ail : she's such an adorable menace. i love her ! i'll write her ! she's such a meme & great personality. cute & menace only !

me after seeing what kind of shit eden is exposed to in the story missions & adventure missions : okay you know what. i'm gonna write her angsty af when situation calls for it. she's gonna be my lumine no.2 i'm gonna dive into the effect of these heavy truth & weight of reality she's going thru & what it does to her mind as things go on. the losses, the bloodshed & struggles and how that shapes her line of thinking, her principle, her core values and —

[victorinoxghoul]

next month I get to give Eric a new surname n flesh out his backstory more RAHHH

[endlesscacophony]

So... I bought a new computer 👀

[littlecornerinbrooklyn]

“Let people like things” is one of the most eye-rolly platitudes because of the situations it’s so often weaponized in but like, it really is endlessly possible to come up with apt comparisons of hobbies and who we “allow” to like things uncritically. Because it’s just misogyny on display to criticize the things that society has deemed “girlie” & I actually think we’re in the era of Girliepops Taking Their Power Back.

We are the granddaughters of the witches you allowed to open bank accounts babeeeeyyyy!!! We make our own money now and we have jobs and we seem to be managing it all just fine and I am no longer dating out of fear of being alone uh oh gotta bring something to the table other than passive male attention/validation because I actually don’t need those things or part of a paycheck!!

(Sure men literally invented scheduled breaks and stopped allowing fun at the office when women joined the workforce—because they would rather make everyone miserable than allow women to enjoy things—but women can’t be stopped and we just kept climbing that ladder and now we’re fighting a new battle of realizing that actually maybe the institutions are bad regardless of who’s in charge but hey at least studies are rollin’ on out showing how much happier single Mom’s are post-divorce!!)

[taytjiefourie]

Showing when writing: Emotions [part 1]

Embarrassment

blushing

fidgeting

sweating

hiding their face in their hands

wide eyes

crossing their arms around their body

stutters

stammering

shifting their weight from side to side

exaggerated movements

nervous quirks appear such as picking at their nails, playing with their hair, and rocking on their heels.

avoiding eye contact

glancing or staring at random objects

stiff smiles

scratching the back of their head or neck.

subject changing

forced laughter

Anticipation

big smiles

wetting their lips

energized

constant movement

grinning

can't concentrate

clumsiness

fidgeting

questions

Awe

frozen

wide eyes

slack jaw

harsh or erratic breathing

grinning

staring

Surprise/shock

gasping

open mouth

slack jaw

wide eyes

covering their mouth with their hands

raised eyebrows

frozen

staring

stepping back

stutters or stammers

Triumph

Tilting back head and yelling out

fist pumping in the air

Jumping

Roaring

Whooping

laughter

bright smiles

grinning

Anger/Threatening

Shaking fist

Pointing

crossed arms

glares

frowning

scowling

Stabbing with finger

Slamming fist against something

Veins throbbing

Jutting out their chin

Clenched fist

Clenched jaw

flushed face

Eyebrows lowered or furrowed

squinting

Teeth bared

Wide stance

Tight-lipped smile

Rapid breathing

Sweating

aggressive stance

Flared nostrils

Puffed chest

loud voice

Nervous

lip biting

biting nails

blinking

tears

stepping back

awkward laughter

clumsiness

dry lips

dry mouth

fidgeting

darting eyes

wrapping their arms around themselves

repeatedly folding and unfolding their arms

clutching at themselves, their hip/shoulder/stomach

drawn in/furrowed brows

avoiding eye contact

jittery

pitched voice

no appetite or nervous eating so a bigger appetite

pacing

toying with things

restless

bouncing leg

rubbing at their face

scratching

sweating trembling

Hey there! I'm excited to share with you a new series I've created on Show Don't Tell. In this series, I dive deep into each emotion individually and provide a detailed list of ways to show it through body language, action, setting, and more. The first emotion we're exploring is Envy, and I promise you won't want to miss it! Check it out and let me know what you think. And if there's an emotion you'd like me to cover next, don't hesitate to leave a suggestion in the comments. Can't wait to hear from you!

[cordeliawhohung]

the way i want mafia!simon to stick his gloved fingers in my mouth 🫣

i, uhm, may have gotten a little carried away... shameless filthy smut ahead whoops [teasing, fingering, slight oral fixation... with gloves on. i don't wanna talk about it]

It's hard to hold back your whiny moans when Simon's fingers trace over your skin so languid and teasing. Maybe it's the look in his eyes that has you soft and malleable for him. Dark pools of umber seem to peer into the very fabric of your being as you lay on the bed before him, stark naked. Maybe it's the fact that you're so bare and he's still completely clothed, like he plans on focusing more on you than anything else; as if nothing else matters but you.

Or maybe it's the gloves.

The firm leather of his bike gloves feels slightly rough yet all too divine against you that you can't help but shudder as he explores your body. He takes his time with it, moving slow and carefully, as if he has to try extra hard to feel you through the barrier set between the two of you. It's torturous for him, you're sure of it. Simon always likes to be close to you. But judging by the way his eyes dilate when he hears yet another groan leave you without permission, he doesn't seem to mind too much.

"If I had known you would've been so needy like this, I would've shown you my gear sooner," he mumbles.

His fingers finally traverse across your stomach and dip into the slight curve where your thigh meets your hip. All it takes is a gentle brush against the inside of your thighs, dangerously close to your cunt, to have you trying to crush his hand between your legs.

"Ah, ah, c'mon," he coos, "I wanna see you."

It doesn't take much more coaxing than that to have your legs spread wide open for him, and your teeth dig into your lip at the odd embarrassment you feel from being so exposed. If Simon notices, he doesn't say anything. With his eyes so transfixed on your cunt it's hard for him to see anything besides the glistening between your folds.

"Fuck... so wet already," he says in awe.

As if he can feel your wetness, his gloved fingers gently prod at your hole, and even then you clench around nothing. But he doesn't push further than that; no, instead he swipes up over your clit, sending a jolt through your body that you can't hide. The roughness of the leather sends shakes and tremors throughout your body as he toys with you, and your legs begin to squirm for the desire for more.

"Needy thing, aren't you?" he teases.

"Simon."

Your whine falls from your lips quiet and pathetic, and instead of teasing you further, he seems to relent. But not without your help.

"Open," he instructs.

Your muddled mind is too discombobulated to make sense of the simple word, and you stare up at him with knitted eyebrows. "What?"

"Open your mouth, sweetheart," he orders.

Your lips hardly have time to part before Simon's fingers dive into your mouth. An earthy taste coats your tongue as the leather presses against the wet muscle, and you can't help but lay there and moan as your eyes flutter shut. Once Simon collects enough of your spit, he yanks his fingers free from your lips and has them prodding at your cunt once more. It's impossible to hold back the gasp that escapes you as he pushes deeper into you, and you nearly clasp your hand over your mouth to keep yourself from crying out.

"Simon, fuck that's- christ," you say, nearly in a sob.

It's difficult to discern if the burning stretch you feel is because you're so tight, or if his fingers feel thicker because of the gloves, but either way he's still reaching impossibly deep inside of you. Pressure builds up inside of you much too quickly, like an all consuming rush that has every nerve in your body fried. You can't stop the way your back arches off the bed or how your hips thrust into the air, but instead of fighting you Simon moves with you as his fingers begin to thrust in and out of your cunt.

"Not too much for you, is it?" he questions, half facetiously.

With his fingers ravaging your senses, your mouth can't even form the words to answer him. Instead, you nod your head, and silently pray that it's enough for him.

"Good, because I want you to come on my fingers before I give you more. That sound good?" he asks.

With as much strength as you can muster, your eyes flutter open to look up at Simon. Everything has a glassy sheen to it, and the only sounds you can focus on besides his voice is the blood gushing in your ears and the squelching of your cunt as he has his way with you.

"Y-Yes," you stutter out, your words catching on your tongue.

Simon smirks as he brings his free hand to rest on your hip. He's soft and caressing at first, but then you feel his grip tighten as he holds you in place, preparing to bring you to orgasm as quick and relentlessly as possible.

"Atta girl."

[rosesaints]

help wanted ! chapter three.

pairing: miguel o’hara / f!reader summary: your first week on the job. rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) warnings: oral (f! receiving) series masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

There’s no comprehensive and all-encompassing instruction manual for parenting. You could make a point about the parenting books that you could easily snag off the bookshelves of your local library, but they’re not always effective.

Every child is unique, and what works for one child might not work for another. Parenting manuals often provide general advice and strategies, but they don’t always address the specific needs, temperament, or circumstances of an individual child or family. Parenting is also a deeply personal experience, and different parents have different philosophies, values, and parenting styles. What one parent finds effective or important may differ from another. 

You took a quick glance from the comfort of your living room over to your next-door neighbor’s front yard and see that they’d progressed from soccer to softball and now… volleyball, it appeared, in the course of one Sunday morning. Little Gabi O’Hara seemed to have boundless energy and a penchant for the most active range of hobbies a five-year-old could possibly have, and it was only ten in the morning. 

She was receiving, diving, and scrawling around the grass frantically, happy as can be, as Miguel set the ball to her side of the yard, steadfastly coaching and guiding her through the motions. Faintly, you overhear him yelling words of encouragement, and when Gabi saves a particularly difficult ball, you watch as he runs excitedly over to her to pick her up about his shoulders and whooping in glee. “¡Qué orgullosa estoy de mi hija!” 

You fought the urge to celebrate along with them and tried to concentrate back on what you desperately needed to get done before Monday sneaks up on you. You’re not a parent, but if you were going to be in charge of watching, protecting, and caring for Miguel’s pride and joy, you had some reviewing to get done.

Miguel O’Hara probably didn’t need a manual or a guide to learn how to parent. It came naturally to him, took hold, and became second nature. It’s evident in the way Gabi hangs onto him like a lifeline.

Now, you know deep down that you wouldn’t be able to replicate what made him a good dad, wouldn’t even dare to try, but it was a good thing you only had one job: to babysit for a summer. And manuals and guides for babysitting happened to be a lot more useful and concise about what to expect in your new role.

Forty-five dollars later, you were signed up for an online Babysitting & Advanced Child Care Certification. You were well aware that this course was usually reserved and taken by eleven-year-olds, took it yourself almost ten years ago, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

You didn’t take it half as seriously back then as you did now. (It was really not that deep.) 

As four hours passed, you gradually checked off lessons in basic first aid and CPR (Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees was a very good point of reference ), developing age-appropriate activities (though you probably could’ve just looked out your window to see more of what Gabi was interested in), behavior management (she was also an avid fan of your mom’s blueberry muffins), and business and professionalism skills. 

Now where do you even begin with your last lesson?

Your mother had done the brunt of negotiating this job for you, overselling you and your skills heavily, so you were covered in the marketing aspect of the “business.” Everything else in the lesson were skills you learned early on in college and through common sense, so you felt confident in that aspect. The real struggle was under the bullet point: 

Professionalism. 

The memory of him was still fresh; red marks just beginning to turn purple on the flesh of your skin as you replay the way he told you he would wait for his decision with a patient and composed tone, but his hands betrayed him, drifting down low to your thigh, the downright inappropriate way in which he looked down at you, intense brown eyes that seemed to intensify in a reddish hue.

Uncertainty bloomed in your chest reluctantly, concerns beginning to fester like wildfire.

Now, unfortunately, since the course was designed for pre-pubescent individuals, you were a little bit at a loss. What exactly was the proper etiquette for working with what was meant to be a one-night stand? 

Googling “what to do if you slept with your boss/neighbor accidentally before you start the job,” ended up being fruitless since most of the searches came up with oversleeping and arriving late, attempting to salvage it with a quick, additional search through r/AITA: “what to do if job included taking care of one-night stand’s daughter,” and then frantically looking up: “how does someone become good at three different sports in one afternoon” in a panic-induced haze.

There was no right answer, it seemed, other than to wait it out and see. That last question was a long shot anyway. 

You ended up passing your certification with flying colors with relative ease, sighing with relief as you finally shut your computer off for the day. By the time you finished, the sun had begun its descent, warm daylight receding quickly from the living room you had locked yourself into to try and get the exam done. At that point, Gabi and Miguel had concluded their front yard practice hours ago and you let your mind wander, thinking about how summer was going to go.

Last summer, you were barely home, too preoccupied with thoughts about your future and your engagement, and your internship. The world seemed impossibly vast, and everything was going so fast, way too fast for your liking but you made yourself push through it. 

Sitting cross-legged in your living room, listening in on your parents bickering over the right seasoning proportions as you thumbed through a babysitting certificate, you found this was a lot better. Peaceful.

Sleep came easily and softly, this time with no dreams of your next-door neighbor.

When you knocked on the door of the O’Hara house for the second time that week, you felt a bit more prepared, but your fingers still fiddled with the hem of your dress. Your room currently looked like a warzone, having spent a good chunk of your morning deliberating on what to wear, and you had settled on a well-worn and familiar dress, but you were starting to have doubts.

It was early–cars were only just beginning to pull out of their driveways, rushing off to work and you could still feel the mist lingering in the air. Miguel had texted you the night before and told you to pop in around 8 AM before he headed off to work an hour later. 

You considered knocking again before the door opened, and Miguel lit up at the sight of you. Compared to you, he looked relaxed, eyes crinkling softly around the edges as he invited you in. “Come on in, Gabi’s still asleep.”

Gingerly, you followed him through the house with padded footsteps, careful not to make any noise as he leads you into the living room. He gestured for you to sit as he walked back into the kitchen, and you were left to examine your surroundings. Once again, spotless—and was that a signed guitar by Llewyn Davis?

Miguel returned with two mugs of coffee and some cream and sugar, chuckling as he noticed what you were staring at. “I see you’ve noticed the infamous guitar. I don’t really play all that often anymore, because of work and Gabi, but it has good memories.”

“It’s gorgeous,” You sighed breathlessly. “How in the world did you get it signed?”

You spent a few minutes going back and forth with him about music, “you were in two punk bands in high school?,” to which he rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the small smile that lingered as he brought his mug of coffee back to his lips, “I had a lot of pent up tension back then.”

There were a few other things you went over with him, like Gabi’s bedtime (he usually tried to be home by the time she had to go to sleep but work sometimes prevented him the opportunity so he makes sure to stay until Gabi woke up in the morning), potential allergies or dietary restrictions, if she could go over to your house, visits with Abuela, and little lessons and habits that he had picked up in the five years as Gabi’s dad. 

One thing you learned was that he was very thorough; there were phone numbers stuck to the fridge in the event that anything went wrong, emergency contacts a mile long being added to your phone, a list of preferred hospitals and clinics in the area, and maybe excessively, a list of soccer parents to avoid at grocery stores, playgrounds, and practices.

You had raised an eyebrow at that last point. “What, did you have an argument with a mom at Bed, Bath, and Beyond or something?”

“I might get a little too competitive when Gabi’s playing soccer.”

“Miguel,” You tried to resist the laughter bubbling up your throat at the mental image of Miguel going wild at a little league soccer game. “They’re five. How competitive do you have to be?”

When the hour was getting close to done, and after making more fun of Miguel to your delight, he looked down at his watch, eyes lowering slightly in disappointment. “It’s about time for me to head to work, and I wanna go wake up Gabi before I have to go,” Miguel stood up, and you couldn’t help but stare as he stretched, lean muscles rippling underneath the fabric of his button-up, shirt riding up just right as you caught a glimpse of tan, sunkissed skin—

Focus.

If he noticed you staring, he didn’t mention it, but you could see the small traces of a smug smile as he turned away from you to head to Gabi’s room. On the way, he pointed out other rooms, his office, where to go do laundry, and a guest bedroom if you ever needed it, though you reminded him that you did only live a good ten feet away from his house. 

Before you went in, Miguel knocked softly, opening the door to a bright, blue bedroom. It’s a gorgeous room, filled with various posters of the sports and cartoons that Gabi loved, a bunch of toys that were still strung out on the floor, and there’s a picture of her and Miguel on the nightstand from Disneyland, with Gabi as a baby wearing lopsided Mickey ears as he beamed proudly at the camera.

He pushed in first, sitting down on Gabi’s bed then he leaned in closer, whispering a gentle “it’s time to wake up, Gabi.”  The sound, barely audible, wafted through the room as she slowly stirred, warm honey-brown eyes still drowsy.

“Well, good morning,” Miguel greeted. “¿Lista para empezar el día?” 

Gabi nodded as she sat up, still practically half-asleep, rubbing her sleepy eyes with tiny fists. When she noticed you standing by the doorway, she smiled, waving softly, but still focused her attention on her dad. “¿Vas a trabajar?" 

Miguel hummed in response, and then looked back at you. “Promise not to cause too much trouble to your babysitter today?”

“No promises,” Gabi grinned and you thought Miguel might as well explode on the spot with pride.

You and Gabi stood at the porch as Miguel pulled out of the driveway,  Gabi on your hip as she waved frantically, blowing kisses to the outline of his car as you waved too, laughing as Miguel blew his own kisses back to the two of you.

There was no trouble with getting Gabi settled with breakfast, having decided on a generous helping of eggs and toast. You got her meal ready as she started setting a volleyball back and forth, hands still clumsy and slippery with inexperience, but she asked you a series of rapid-fire questions as you flipped over her eggs.

“Do you play sports?”

“I used to, a long time ago, but I’m afraid I’m nowhere near as good as you are. I can set some volleyballs over to you later if you want,” You replied as you set the egg down on her plate. At that, Gabi cheered and made her way over to you, little hands reaching for her food.

“Last week, my dad hit his toe on one of my legos and he accidentally said a mean word. I don’t think he knew I heard him. Can you tell him that’s not appropriate?”

“I’ll relay the message,” You tried your best to stifle a laugh from her innocent, mindless questions. You’ll definitely bring that up with Miguel later.

“Can your mom make some more blueberry muffins?”

“You know what,” Your eyes lit up as a light bulb flickered above your head. “Why don’t we just show you?”

Gabi absolutely adored your mom—those two had latched on to each other more than you thought in your disappearance, and she was hanging off every one of your mom’s words as she explained how to prepare the muffin batter, as you took little pictures to send over to Miguel with flour on the tip of her nose and fingertips sticky with batter she was caught sneaking bites from. The last part was gross, but still, admittedly cute.

You had a mental checklist prepared (courtesy of your little certificate) of things you should prioritize when babysitting. The first one was responsibility: Babysitters must prioritize the safety and well-being of the children in their care. They should be reliable and trustworthy.  

Of course, you had to rein in a few of your mom’s liberties as she snuck some more bites of the batter to Gabi, sighing exasperatedly as you had to explain the risks of salmonella to your own mom. Not that it stopped you from taking small swipes at the batter either.

Your first day was a soaring success, the day well spent with baking and a trip to the park in the beautiful weather, letting Gabi run around and cause havoc for a few hours before the sun began to set. Lots of photos and updates were texted to Miguel, another bullet point in your checklist, namely communication: Effective communication with both children and parents is essential. Babysitters should be able to understand and engage with children, as well as provide clear updates and instructions to parents. 

Miguel responded to each of them in kind with personalized messages, watching with bated breath as he saved the one of you and Gabi grabbing ice cream by an ice cream truck. 

Gabi was knocked out and tucked in by the time Miguel got home from work, and you were waiting on the couch, watching intently as he walked through the door, loosening his tie with a relaxed sigh. He settled next to you on the couch, voice velvety and smooth as he greeted you. “Hey. Did you guys have fun?”

There was a natural ease to your conversation, and you took the opportunity to ask him more questions about music, and his work, and let him try the new muffins Gabi had made while he asked his own questions in kind, about what you liked to do, what made you decide to go back home.

You were both halfway through laughing and snortling as you had explained the one time you had attempted to sneak into your university library, to no avail as the near-hundred-year-old security guard had caught you almost immediately. 

Miguel’s eyes softened, the edges of a laugh softly settling into a smile as he gazed at you, the room feeling smaller, lighter. “I’m really glad you went back.”

“Me too,” You smiled in return, head leaning into the crook of your arm. “I mean, who else is going to make fun of you for getting way too passionate about five-year-olds playing soccer? Like come on, you did not have to get her minivan towed just because her kid sidestepped Gabi in a game.”

“Oh, I absolutely did.”

The rest of your week passed in a whirlwind. Gabi was a really easy kid to watch, you really couldn’t take that much credit. She took every activity you threw at her with the easygoing nature of a five-year-old with not many qualms, and it made things so much easier, but of course, you didn’t want to just barely do your job. Case in point, creativity: Great babysitters often come up with fun and engaging activities to keep children entertained. They can think on their feet and find creative solutions to challenges that may arise. 

On your second day, you spent the day with her running around the block, showing her various sights and spots you had frequented when you were a kid, answering her curious questions in stride, and ending your little adventure with some waffles at your hometown restaurant. You delighted in the way Gabi practically squealed at the amount of whipped cream.

Of course, your next priority was patience: Dealing with children requires patience, especially when they are upset. Babysitters remain calm and handle difficult situations with composure. Gabi had a sugar rush the moment the two of you left the restaurant, and you had to deal with the fallout.

“Oh my god, Gabi, look both ways before you cross the street!” You didn’t think you could handle a lawsuit from her father.

The next couple of days were a lot more relaxed; as rambunctious and active she was, sometimes she could just use a day of lounging around the couch, binging various movies and asking you your favorite parts about them, eyes twinkling in curiosity as you explained the mechanics of some of the animation in the cartoons you watched.

Miguel would occasionally come back for lunch or return with some takeout after work, and you were able to cycle through various restaurants that had opened up in your time away from college, eager to talk through a lot of them and give him your opinions. 

The whole time, he remained warm and welcoming, innocent glances across the dining table, a far cry from the man you had hooked up with a week ago.

At one point, your hands gestured wildly and your mouth ran on fire as you tried some spicy pozole that Miguel and Gabi urged you to try. You hadn’t noticed the simultaneous way their heads had tilted to the side, flashing equally mischievous smiles.

Guzzling milk as you glared at the both of them (at Miguel, more than Gabi), as Miguel struggled to contain his laughs, breathlessly wheezing as he wiped some stray tears that had gathered in his eyes. “Did we not tell you there were some ghost peppers in there?”

“No!”

Friday came around much sooner than you expected, and at that point, you had settled into a routine. 

The sun was starting to set, casting a warm glow through the windows as both of you plopped down on the couch. You were both exhausted from a day of running around and kicking a soccer ball in the front yard, and you had endured your fair share of kicking the ball and missing the goal by several feet for Gabi’s sake. With messy hair and rosy cheeks, you had tucked Gabi in under a cozy blanket, flipping through the channels until you eventually landed on something that you had started just a couple of days before. 

Before long, Gabi had fallen asleep, and you had moved her to her bedroom without much fuss, ready to go settle in the living room and wait for Miguel to arrive. On your way down, you noticed his office door was slightly ajar, and you went to close it until something caught your eye.

Against your better judgment, you pushed your way in, surveying the state of the room. There were books scattered everywhere, old files and papers haphazardly set around his desk. A few articles of his old works were framed on the wall, and in photos, he seemed more constricted. Less free, more serious, dark brown piercing eyes judging you as you walked around his office.

What caught your eye, in particular, was a photo of Miguel with two other individuals, one of them you could only assume was his brother, due to their similar eyes and smile, and in between them was a woman with blue eyes and brown hair, a similar shade to Gabi’s. 

Before you could ponder on the similarities further, you heard the door to the office crack open, and spinning around wildly to see Miguel standing at the doorway.

In your concentration, you missed the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and Miguel stood, blanketed by the light of the hallway, in sharp contrast to the dark that shrouded the room. You felt guilty, small like a child caught dipping their hand into a jar of cookies. To your surprise, Miguel merely flickered the light switch on, eyes carrying the weight of fatigue. “Is Gabi asleep?”

You sheepishly nodded, folding your hands behind your back as you struggled to come up with an explanation. “Listen—”

“Come with me,” Miguel’s voice was calm, carrying none of the backlash you were expecting. “Let’s talk.”

In the kitchen, Miguel poured a couple of glasses of wine, offering one to you as you accepted. He let out an exhausted sigh before composing himself, back to the easygoing and light smile you had begun getting accustomed to that week. “How was she today?”

And just like that, the tense air in the room lifted as easily as it came in, as you went through the motions of the day, watching as he gradually lost the slump in his shoulders and the lines on his face that told the story of a demanding day. 

Whatever it was, you didn’t want to pry, especially after having been caught looking through his belongings.

“You’re a natural, you know that?” Miguel’s eyes shined with admiration. “She adores you, tells me all about your days when you’re gone.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that bloomed across your face, chest constricting at the praise. “Well, I really couldn’t take that much credit. She's a really easy kid to watch, she practically lost it when I took her to go get some waffles the other day.”

He smiles, full and unrestrained this time, and you share a few more stories about your week, ignoring the flush in your cheeks when he would quip in with his own stories from when Gabi was younger. Gabi was his whole life and he adored her wholeheartedly; in pictures, before she was born, you could tell that something was lacking, something missing when his smiles wouldn’t reach his eyes.

“So, what’s your secret?” Miguel cocked an eyebrow. “How’d you get the hang of it the way you did? It took a while for Gabi’s old babysitter to get used to how active she is. I’ve never seen her latch on to someone so quickly.”

“I… I did a babysitting certificate online that was meant for middle schoolers.” Thank you, Babysitting and Advanced Child Care Certification. Your laughter spilled on in bursts without even thinking about it, and you gasped for breath about the absurdity of learning more things by completing a small babysitting certificate over your college diploma. “If you need a better manual for parenting, look no further. Those eleven-year-olds have it cracked.”

“Is that so?” Your laughter was contagious, and before long, Miguel had joined in.

You nodded, still proud of your little achievement. “ Mhm. There’s four,” pausing to hold up four fingers. “Four key values.”

“Well, shoot, now I have to know. What are they?” Miguel leaned forward just slightly, and you ignored the way your heart swelled at the small motion, his proximity rapidly unthreading the small resolve you had left.

“There’s responsibility, then communication, creativity—that’s an underrated one—-and patience,” Listing them off felt a little bit silly, now that you looked back, but you continued. “It’s like, the four commandments of babysitting.”

“So which one do you think is the most important?” He looked down at you, and everything seemed heightened, more focused. Dark brown lashes fanned his cheekbones, skin warm and dusky against the contours of his face as he stared back at you. “Responsibility, communication, creativity, or… patience ?”

You knew the implications behind his words, this line that you were dangerously close to crossing over. “Patience.”

Miguel’s pupils dilated then, humming his approval at your words. At that point, the sun had fully set and you had lost track of the time. Without thinking, the words came tumbling out before you could even stop and consider the weight of them. Recklessly and impulsively, you took the leap. “Do you remember what happened a week ago?”

“Of course, I do. You think I’ve forgotten about you?” Miguel’s eyes darkened, voice dropping an octave as you suddenly felt very, very hot. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head, cariño.”

He stood before you, all broad expanse of shoulders and muscle, and you’re reminded of the events of last week all over again, remembering how strong he felt underneath your fingertips. “What do you want?”

You didn’t need to answer, just leaned in and took his lips in yours, long wait finally over and you were falling apart like honey in his arms as you felt him push you against the cool marble of the counter, his warmth in sharp contrast to the cold pressing against your back. He tasted exactly the same, bergamot and crisp green leaves, patchouli, and vetiver. Fuck, you were addicted to it.

Your moans filled the quiet of the kitchen as his mouth moved lower, light and feathery kisses peppering the side of your neck, going over the bruises mapped on your skin left just a week before, sucking and kissing new ones in his wake.

“I wanna see you fall apart,” Miguel murmured, hot breaths fanning your neck as if in a trance. “Wanna watch you cum on my fingers again, wanna taste you.” All you could do was nod. Yes, yes, please—do whatever you want.

He returned to your lips, needy and unconstrained. You let your hands wander, disappearing into his neat, put-together curls just as Miguel bit down on your bottom lip, the sudden pain making you twist your fingers into his hair and tug. A low, rumbly sound vibrates against your mouth, his fingers pressing harder into your hips and then he’s hoisting you up on the counter.

One of his hands makes its way underneath your skirt, fingers skirting along the edges of your underwear as you whined, pleading for him to touch you where you needed him. You could feel his mouth nip at your skin and you clammed up like putty, as he pushes your complaints back down. “Patience,” he chastised, going even slower than before. 

Minutes feel like hours as he held you there, hand cupping your face as if you were his salvation, proof that he wanted, no, needed this just as much as you did, had been crippled with thoughts of each other since the moment you had walked into his house. “Good girl. That’s it. You going to keep being good for me?”

Shaking your head yes, unable to formulate words at the way he gazed at you, definitive and ready to take the pleasure he had just begun if you stepped out of line.

Slowly, he knelt in front of you, slithering down your body and you feel exposed, goosebumps rousing in your skin as he kissed up the length of your thigh, grabbing onto your underwear and tugging it down with an easy confidence. 

Miguel’s breathing adoration into your cunt and you felt like you were on fire, going crazy with his greedy back and forth, not quite reaching you where you needed him. His voice was clear and definitive, a stark difference to yours. "Tell me what you want."

You’re babbling, words merging and rolling off your lips with an uncontrolled force, and you’re not even sure if you’re making any sense, not entirely sure if you even cared. “Please. Please, Miguel, I’m begging you, do something—”

His thumb started to draw slow circles as he slowly stroked the lips surrounding your mound. You were sure that you were positively dripping, going slick around him as you keened under his touch. His mouth watered and Miguel decided quickly that using only his fingers simply will not do, nowhere near enough.

Something in your brain snapped as he pushed your skirt up, looking ravenous as he inspected you, still teasing, not quite playing with you just yet. And then, you felt his hot mouth exactly where you needed him, licking one strip, from base to top of your cunt, just to taste.

Oh my god. 

You were leaning back on your shoulders, struggling to hold your body weight as he continued to explore you, and you just allowed yourself to feel it, really feel it,  and let him do whatever he wanted to you with his tongue—letting him lazily slide it over your clit, tracing the soft skin of your inner thigh with his canines, occasionally allowing you the pleasure of letting it migrate inside your cunt, tasting, feeling, wandering around until you were dizzy and delirious.

The kitchen sounded absolutely filthy, filled with the sound of the slick of your pussy and the criminal way that he ate you out, moaning and groaning when he knew he found a spot that just wrecked you. Praises fell from him in short, Spanish increments, taken with the way you begged and leaned your cunt closer to his face as if you even had any remote say in his demonstrations.

His hands snaked around your hips, pressuring you to move even closer to him, leaving you with no room to escape, not that you would ever even want to, no. Not with the way he was fucking you on his tongue, not with the way the rough skin of his five o’clock shadow stimulated you further, forcing you to feel everything so much more. 

There was nothing innocent about the way he growled into your cunt, then, “Cum for me, baby, please. I wanna taste you. ‘M starving. Just look at you.”

And then you were crooning, gasping as he went faster with his ministrations, wondering how in the world he had so much vigor, so much stamina, and then you gave him what he wanted, legs shaking and tightening around his face as he only held you harder, working you through it.

“Oh my god,” You let out another breath, head still spinning. “Miguel—”

His tongue was still hungry when it slipped back into your pussy, still desperate and needy for the taste of you as if you didn’t just cum mere seconds ago.

"I can't— I can't—"

Everything was so heightened, so close in such a short time to the pinnacle that he had you pinned under for what had felt like hours. This time, he was rougher, more impatient as he plunged two fingers inside of you. You resisted the urge to scream, biting down on your palm as tears well in your eyes, too taken with the pleasure he was lost in.

"You can't? Oh, I think you can. Give me another one, dulzura.”

And then you were rolling your hips, frantic as you sobbed, practically riding his face and you whimpered in ragged and staggered breaths. But once he pressed his rough thumb to your puffy clit, your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came apart for the second time that night.

Slowly, you regained your bearings, pushing yourself up from the counter as you looked down to see Miguel still licking, cleaning you off. To your surprise, he was grinning, satisfied with only giving you a brief reprieve. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

This was not in your post-grad plan, but honestly? You were starting to warm up to it.

[libraryofgage]

SpiderPool Steddie Part One

So, this is definitely gonna have multiple parts lmao

It's been bouncing around my brain for a while like the Addams Family Steddie AU lol

Anyway, lemme know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts ^_^

----

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls is, at best, a dive bar. At worst, it's a cesspit in which the scummiest people in the city gather to bask in each other's scumminess. To Steve, however, it's the perfect place to collapse after a long patrol, splayed out like a starfish on the roof as the music playing inside vibrates the building itself.

Steve takes a deep breath, setting his bat down next to him before pushing his mask to the bridge of his nose. He then lies down on the roof, wishing not for the first time that the city's light pollution wasn't so bad. Seeing the stars and hunting for constellations would really help him ignore the cracked ribs screaming inside his chest and threatening to break if he even breathes wrong.

All things considered, though, it could be worse. Steve doesn't have any morning classes, Vecna didn't beat him up nearly as bad as he usually does during their fight earlier, and his accelerated healing means Steve will be able to breathe normally by morning. Robin would tell him he has a very low bar when it comes to judging how shitty his life currently is, but she isn't here, so her opinion doesn't matter. Dustin would tell him he should try not getting his ass whooped in the future. Thankfully, he also isn't here, making his opinion as meaningful as Robin's.

Steve closes his eyes, letting his shoulders relax and trying not to think about anything. It sort of works until his entire body suddenly tenses, every nerve on edge and goosebumps shooting across his arms. He shoots up, ignoring the harsh twinge in his ribs as he turns in a crouch and grabs his bat. Steve clenches his jaw, breathing harshly through his nose to keep from groaning in pain, and feels relieved he didn't completely remove his mask completely.

Over by the door leading to a staircase is a guy with ripped jeans, a worn-out shirt with "HELLFIRE CLUB" across the chest, a jean vest covered in patches and pins, and hair pulled back out of his face with a few wavy strands stubbornly escaping his hair tie. He's breathing a little heavily, his face flushed like he's just climbed a few flights of stairs. Actually, he probably has.

"Woah," the guy says, his voice soft enough that Steve would have missed it if not for the enhanced hearing. The guy clears his throat and holds up both hands, showing off a bottle of Jack Daniels in one and a bag with a grease-stained bottom in the other. "Uh, I come in peace. I didn't realize the rooftop was taken."

Steve has no clue what possesses him, but he forces himself to relax and set the bat down. "No, it's okay. I can head out," he says, staying seated despite his words. He's really hoping the guy will insist he doesn't need to; his ribs are still aching like a bitch.

Thankfully, the guy flashes a grin and slowly lowers his hands. "Nah, you're all good. Not every day I get to eat next to a hero. Want some fries?" he asks, walking over and sitting a good two feet away so there's plenty of room between them.

He tears open the bag to create an impromptu plate and puts it between them, the smell of greasy and undoubtedly delicious fries tempting enough that Steve picks up a smaller one and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks. Where are these from?" Steve asks, glancing over as the guy twists the cap of his bottle and takes a swig.

"A burger joint two streets down and one street over. On the corner."

Steve nods, making a mental note of the directions so he can get a burger before swinging home. He's got just enough in his pocket to afford one. "So, got a name?" Steve asks, figuring he's already eating the guy's fries and they're about to spend some time together on this roof. He should know the guy's name.

The guy's grin returns, and he sets the bottle down between them as well. It's tempting, but Steve doesn't trust his alcohol tolerance to hold up while his body is busy fixing his ribs. "Eddie. Do I get to know your name, too?"

Steve snorts and leans away slightly, putting a bit more distance between Eddie and his entirely too-grabbable mask. "Nice try," he says.

"Worth a shot," Eddie says, shrugging as he picks up a few fries. "So, Spider-Man, what brings you to Sister Margaret's? You enjoy the gay metal scene?"

"What's the difference between gay and regular metal?"

"Our hair is better," Eddie explains, dramatically flipping the few strands of hair escaping his tie.

Steve has to hold back a second snort, taking another fry and chewing on it before saying, "I like resting here after patrol. The whole building shakes with the music."

Eddie lights up, his eyes brightening and his back straightening some. "So, you're a fan of Corroded Coffin," he says, taking another swig of the Jack Daniels. It's only now that Steve realizes it's already a quarter of the way gone, and he wonders if Eddie's liver can handle that much alcohol all at once.

"Is that the name of the band?"

"Yep. They play here almost every night."

"I'm guessing you like them, too, then?"

Eddie hums, amusement dancing across his expression now, giving Steve the distinct feeling that there's some secret he simply isn't in on. "They're the best band I've ever heard. Their music is incredible. They really push the boundaries of the genre. And their lyrics? Amazingly layered with at least three meanings per line. I highly recommend actually coming in for a listen one of these days," Eddie says, leaning a little closer to Steve.

A beat of silence passes in which Steve holds Eddie's gaze. Or, he holds the gaze on his end; he's sure Eddie can't actually tell with the mask covering his eyes. "You're in the band," Steve says.

"Lead guitarist and singer, yes. I also write the songs."

"You're incredibly critical of yourself, really grounded in reality."

Eddie barks out a laugh. "I just happen to know my worth incredibly well."

"You have all the confidence of a mediocre white man on a job hunt."

Eddie gasps, placing a hand on his chest as he looks at Steve. "How dare you call me mediocre. I am revolutionary at worst and the second coming at best."

"You know the second coming involves, like, an apocalypse or something, right?"

"I'm Jewish, why would I bother with the fine details?" Well, Steve will give him that. "By the way," Eddie says, gesturing to Steve's bat as he continues, "do those nails actually see any use? Or are they just there to act as a threat?"

Steve looks down at his bat, considering it for a moment before carefully holding the middle and offering the handle to Eddie. Now that he's giving them a few moments of attention, he's realizing the nails embedded in the end are a little rusty and definitely need cleaning. "I try not to be deadly with it, but Vecna's got these lab-grown demon dogs and bats that always manage to break through my webs," Steve explains.

He watches as Eddie takes the bat, weighing it in his hands before shoving his palm into the nails. Steve jerks, a wordless shout escaping his throat as he launches himself over the fries and in front of Eddie. "Are you okay?!" he asks, grabbing Eddie's hand and shakily inspecting the nails sticking through it. Fuck, those are going to be a bitch to get out, and he'll probably have to swing Eddie to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

Being angry doesn't even register in his brain as Eddie laughs. "Don't worry about it, Spidey," he says, pulling his hand off the nails with a slight wince. He wiggles his fingers, letting Steve have a front-row seat to the injuries closing. "See, good as new."

And he's right. The injuries are good as new. In fact, there isn't even any scarring, and Steve almost rips his mask off to take a closer look but stops himself at the last minute. Instead, he grabs Eddie's hand and yanks it closer, turning it over to check his palm, too. "What the fuck?" he asks, looking up at Eddie, still gripping his hand tight.

"Super healing," Eddie explains. "Like, super duper. If I ever get decapitated, just hold my head to my neck, and I'll be right as rain."

"I'd rather not put that claim to the test," Steve says, frowning slightly as he runs his fingers over Eddie's palms, just to make sure the injuries aren't somehow hidden from sight.

"You know, I kissed the last guy who touched my palm like that," Eddie says, leaning in again with that grin.

Suddenly all Steve can think about is how Eddie's lips do look soft. And it has been a while since Steve actually kissed anyone. And he does think Eddie is funny. And he does find himself wondering if his smile will taste like the Jack Daniels and fries. And...and...

And Steve needs to go before he does anything he shouldn't be doing as Spider-Man.

He jerks back, dropping Eddie's hand like it burns, and ignores the ache in his ribs as he grabs his bat and stands. "I, uh, I need to get going. Thanks for the fries, Eddie," he says, hurrying over to the edge of the roof.

"Woah, just gonna eat and run on me, big boy?" Eddie asks, scrambling to his feet and over to where Steve is climbing onto the edge of the roof. "That's not very hero-like of you. You haven't even left me your name or number. How are you gonna pay me back $2.50 for the fries?"

"I had five," Steve says, turning to look at Eddie as he webs his bat to his back and pulls his mask down over his chin.

"The economy sucks, man."

Okay, he's got Steve there. Again. "Nice try, Eddie."

"Can you blame a guy? Your ass looks great in that spandex."

Steve is suddenly relieved his mask is back down, covering the furious blush spreading across his cheeks. He'd think it was just a joke, but the sincere and somewhat goofy smile tugging at Eddie's lips tells him it's more genuine than anything else. "Thanks," Steve says, giving Eddie a two-finger salute before taking a step back off the roof.

He shoots a web at the edge of the building, using the momentum to swing around the corner. His ribs are killing him with the movement, but he still manages to throw a, "See you later, Eds!" over his shoulder before he's completely out of earshot.

Later, Steve will wonder how Eddie got his super healing, if he's that flirtatious with every guy he meets on the roof of Sister Margaret's, and if he'll be there the next time Steve swings by. But that's for later. For now, he's just enjoying the breeze rushing over him and thinking about Eddie's eyes and his smile and his long fingers.

[hearts-4-vicky]

hi my loves 😛 back with wony this time!!!🫶🏼

warnings: g!p reader, dom reader, 7th member of ive reader, established relationship, pet names, sub wony, sensitive wony, unnie kink, unprotected sex, squirting, nipple sucking, creampie, masturbation, praise🤫🧏, yujin comes outta no where😭

🙏 not proofread so😝

i feel like wony would DEFINITELY masturbate to her gfs fancams when you’re gone cuz babygirl so needy🥺 but she’d be so loud??? like sweetheart, lets calm it down a bit🥺🙏

While your ‘LOVE DIVE’ fancam was playing in the background, wony had two of her long fingers in her cunt, trying to mimic your rough thrusts but nothing could ever compare to you😔 Before she could add a third, her door opened “Wony? Princess, I’m bac- Oh!” there stood the woman plaguing her mind, you. “You jerking off to me baby? miss me that much huh?“ you smirked, slamming her door shut and walkin toward her, stripping with every step you took, “unnie…. help your princess? please?” wony whined, looking at you with her big, innocent eyes🥺 how could you say no to your babygirl when she was looking at you like that? Not wanting to waste a second, you get between her spread legs and get your cock out of your boxers, resting your tip on her folds. gripping her hips for balance, you look at her flushed face, waiting for approval😘 “tell me what you want baby” she didn’t realize you were even speaking, so focused on your features🥺 like a siren luring a sailor into her trap with her song, you had wonyoung memorized. from your head to your feet, wony loved every bit of it, every bit of you🥺🙏🙏🙏🙏 (me when ME WHEN)

“Baby? you listening?” giving a hip a lil tap, “huh? oh! sorry unnie, you’re just… really pretty” wonyoung whispers with the cutest smile🥺🥺🥺🥺 (i want her) “but, please hurry and fuck me” 😛 leaning forward to whisper in her ear “anything for you, wonyoung.” you hear wony’s breath hitch once you push your hips forward to be deep inside her. grunting at her tightness, you start to move, causing wonyoung to moan with occasional whimpers of pleasure. “takin unnie so good my gorgeous girl, doing so well” you groan into her neck, placing kisses on her every part 🥺with every thrust, you went deeper into wonyoung’s cunt. you move her legs to rest on your shoulders and to be deeper in her. with this new position wonyoungs moans turned into squeals and cries of your name!!!🥺🥺🥺🥺

"a-ah! keep going unnie! stretching me s-soo good!!” her hands found the back of your head, pulling you down to her chest ❤️ circling her hard nipple with your tongue and rubbing the other, never slowing down your pace❤️❤️❤️ it seemed too much for wonys sensitive body as she felt a familiar knot in her stomach🥺🥺🥺🥺

“gah— unnie! s’too much…! s’too m-much for wony!” “c’mon baby, give- ugh, unnie one more? sound so fucking pretty, my girl”

resuming your pounding, wonyoung’s moans get louder, anticipating her release for a second time “unnie! FUCK!” wony had never came that hard ever in her life, tightening with every second passing by “shit, wony! gonna cum in you baby, fill you up with unnie’s cum, doll” with one last slam into wonyoung’s cunt, your cock exploded in her, fucking your load deeper and deeper into her warmth🤫🧏 wonyoungs vision started to get blurry, nearly passing out with every thrust into her sensitive pussy “s’too m-much unnie… s’too much…” she sobbed out, nails digging into your back, drifting off to sleep as your thrust came to a stop🥺 “My gorgeous girl, I love you with all my heart” (ME WHEN ME WHENNNNN) placing soft kisses on her face🥺🥺🥺🥺 pulling her into your arms, you turned so wonyoung was laying on you

“Yo, can I bor- WHAT THE FUCK.” Ive’s leader had walked into quite the sight, a naked, sleeping wonyoung and your cock still in her. “hi yujinnie! what’d you nee— why are you naked-“ “me next right”

hehe silly! me after texting my ex!!! whoops!!!! hahaha😂😂😂😂 (i miss you sm come back pls)

love you guys, stay safe, and dont text ur ex💋

-Vicky

[fullsunrise]

Into a Dream (M)

Word count: 1.1k

Pairing: Mark x Original female character

Genre: Fluff, Smut

Warnings: Descriptive sex, CNC elements (Characters are both consenting adults!), somnophilia, basically no plot whoops

As Mark enters the door to their apartment, he catches a figure curled up on the couch from the corner of his eye. At first he doesn't think much of it, but as he gets closer he can hear her low breathing. Did she really try to stay up waiting for him? His heart warms at the idea of her fighting off sleep in order to stay awake. How adorable, he thinks as he reaches an arm out to trace her cheek. Her nose scrunches up at the sudden contact and Mark thinks his heart might burst.

“Mark?” she calls out in the dark, unaware that he's crouched down right beside her.

“Right here, baby,” he replies, quick to comfort her worries.

“What time is it?” she asks as she slowly sits up in a dazed state.

“Time to go to bed,” Mark chuckles softly.

Normally she would let out a dramatic sigh at his comedic attempt, but Mark could tell she was too tired. Instead she wordlessly grabs his hand, letting him guide her towards their bedroom.

As they tuck themselves under a pile of blankets, a wave of tiredness finally hits him. She cuddles into his side naturally as the warmth of her body radiates. Mark waits for sleep to pull him under, but all he can think about is her breathing that matches his own. It's almost overwhelming how quickly his peaceful thoughts are infiltrated with desire. He loves when her breath hitches, when she's no longer in control of her reactions. She melts so easliy in his touch, taking everything he offers. Without thinking, he starts running circles on her lower back. He waits for her response, and although it's soft, he still feels the vibrations of her satisfied hum in the crook of his neck.

“Can I spoon you?” He asks, his voice only a whisper.

“Mhm,” she replies. He could tell she was in a half-asleep state now, no longer having the energy to form words but awake enough to respond.

With his body perfectly curled around her small frame, Mark takes the opportunity to take it a step further. His hand snakes around to caress her abdomen under her big t-shirt. Her skin is so, so soft that he can't help but skate his fingertips across her waistband every so often. Everytime his hand grazes slightly underneath her waistband, he wants to chase every little sound she makes. As he begins to leave a trail of small kisses against her neck, he feels her thighs slowly rub together.

“Let's go to sleep, hm?”

She lets out another hum, but this time more delayed than the last as her own sleepiness washes over her. He listens to her slow and steady breathing, confirming she has finally fallen asleep. Mark doesn't waste a moment, his hand now fully reaching underneath her shorts. As he gets closer to her warmth, the more she subconsciously rubs her ass against his cock in slow motions that drive him crazy. It takes everything in him not to push her underwear to the side and take her right then and there. But not yet, he wouldn't dare interrupt her sleep. When he finally reaches her clit, he lets out a deep breath as a million curses fly around in his head. How could she possibly be this wet? His patience hangs on a thread with each stroke along her folds.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he says under his breath.

Everything about her was perfect. Diving his fingers into her without hesitation, she lets out a small whimper. The way she squeezes around him makes his head spin, and fuck, he wishes it was his dick.

“Shit,” he mutters a little too loud.

“Mark?” she questions, and Mark can tell she was awake now. He silently curses at himself for waking her up, but he doesn't stop his movements. She moans softly as he fucks her with his fingers, feeling every inch of her.

“Shhh, I’ve got you baby. Go back to sleep,” Mark quietly says, laying kisses on the back of her nape.

His words seem to work as she lets out a breathless “okay” as she nuzzles her head into her pillow. Mark almost misses the way she absentmindedly spreads her legs apart more for him, and if he wasn't gone before, surely he's a goner now. His fingers push deeper inside her wet cunt, only to take them out and push them back in again. Each time he pulls out, he can feel her hips chase his hand. How needy even when she’s asleep, Mark thinks. His thumb reaches to play with her clit simultaneously, and it takes a few minutes before she releases all over his fingers, followed by a deep moan.

As she comes down from her high and her regulated breathing returns, Mark can no longer ignore how hard he is. Surely if he slides his cock inside of her now, she would wake up again. But it was a risk he was willing to take. It would just be so easy to fill her up with his cum without her knowing.

Mark shifts his body back slightly to push his underwear down, and gives his cock a few strokes before pushing her underwear to the side. The moment he slips inside of her, he swears he sees stars. He moans at her tightness, and fuck, she always takes him in so well. Her soft mewls fuel his thrusts, and it doesn't take long until he feels his orgasm approaching.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, no longer worried if she was asleep or not.

His thrusts were sporadic now as he chased his high, too far gone to notice that she woke up. Her moans echo throughout their room as her second high quickly washes over her entire body. It's a domino effect, and Mark suddenly cums inside of her without warning. He rides his high out, fucking his cum deeper. It takes a moment for him to come back to his senses, but as he opens his eyes he's met with her beaming smile. A sense of guilt engulfs him as he smiles back at her. He knows she wanted this, but why did he feel like he got caught red handed?

“Were you awake the whole time?” he asks curiously.

“No,” she replies as she rests her head on his bare chest.

“Sorry that I woke you up,” he says sheepishly, knowing very well that he wasn't sorry in the slightest.

This earns him a chuckle, and once more his heart fills with warmth. His soft and lazy touches return, no longer rushed by aching desire. Instead they’re laced with nothing but comfort and love. Mark feels his fatigue finally catch up to him as he pulls her in tightly against his chest.

“Goodnight, my love.”

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.00 ~ ♆

“ Let the Reaping of the 67th annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ prologue || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, etc.

{{ word count }} 2.6 k

{{ prompt }} Panem is cruel - bloodthirsty even. Every year twenty-four children must fight to the death as a sick form of entertainment. Today is the 67th annual reaping in the seaside District 4 - may the odds be ever in your favor.

{{ a/n }} Warning there’s a lot of exposition for what i think life in District 4 would be like though it may not sound 100% accurate to the canon ideation! I did way too much research on District 4’s presumed location and the general pacific northwest seafaring system for accuracy. This chapter is a lot of scene setting to reference later on top of the reaping occurring - please enjoy !

The Pacific-Northwestern region of Panem was home to District 4. Otherwise known as the “Fishing District”.

Most of its citizens are concentrated directly on or near the salty coast of the sea, working the many sailboats or on the bustling ports that harbored them. Children of the district learn to help from an early age, shucking oysters and various mussels or helping their mothers weave and repair nets for the local fishermen. Everyone smelled of the sea - fresh air, sea salt, and a damp pine, with sand clinging to their shoes and linen clothes.

Though a majority of the year brought overcast skies and rainy weather, the better parts of mid-July through late August were filled with warm, sticky sunshine and cloudless skies. Come autumn and winter, cold snaps and heavier rain storms were regular visitors, with many homes donning rain barrels to collect the excess liquid to be boiled down for drinking or bathing. The northernmost edge of the District sometimes saw snow, bringing ice fishing and skating to measured popularity amongst locals.

The port towns were anything but sleepy. Community in a constant hustle and bustle while watching out for one another in tandem with the intense seafaring labor. Days spent on the beach were filled with tugboat horns, captain's orders, and elated shrieks of children wading in the spray of the ocean. There was always a game of who could find the best cliff to dive from, or conch shell to hear the distant whispers of waves inside and whatnot. A group of older kids developed a make-believe currency of sand dollar bits to trade wooden beads, small clusters of natural quartz, seashells, rope bracelets, and more to entertain the younglings on an outcropping speckled in tide pools on the rocky shore.

More often than not, a walk down the boardwalk as dusk neared brought warm golden lights flooding from old taverns with deep, joyous shanties of the past and banter amongst hardworking sailors merging with joyous whoops and hollers of young women and barmaids. Everyone knew one another like family, and the seaside town practically breathed on its own with the rolling push and pull of the tide.

However, the Fishing District was silent today.

Waves crashed on the beach as boats creaked in their ports. Scarred wooden tavern signs wailed in the eerie breeze on salt-rusted chains. The absence of sound in the sand swept cobble streets was almost unsettling. There’s only one day a year that invokes such an abrupt halt in District 4’s beating heart.

The annual Reaping of one female and male Tribute set to compete in a fight to the death against twenty two other children from the districts all for the Capital’s sick reminder of what rebellion once cost the “great nation” of Panem.

The Hunger Games.

You knew the odds were never in anyone's 'favor'.

“It’s fine. Everything - everything is going to be fine…”

The repeated mantra is barely a whisper under your breath as you make a futile attempt the smooth the front of your lightweight, sage colored ensemble. There was a tremor in your fingertips. The idea of getting cleaned up like this just to attend your own prospective funeral made your stomach twist painfully. Tucking a few stray hairs behind your ears and a deep sigh through your nose, you take one last look in the foggy mirror on your dresser before making your way out to the main room of your home.

Although the Fourth District was deemed wealthy among the remaining 12, your seaside cottage was quaint - and quite a ways from the beach, in all honesty. The home was small, if not cozy. The outside wooden panels were worn with smears of grey from age due to the weather, paired with a tin slabbed roof that allowed every raindrop to be heard throughout the house when it rained. The inside wasn't much better. Little furniture adorned the household and appeared washed out in the summer light. Ivory walls were marked with the mayhem of childhood and clumsy hands. The large main room held a mantle and hearth with a makeshift stove built in and a rickety dark stained wood table with four chairs connecting to a barebones bathroom and two bedrooms. There were fixtures and switches for lights but no electricity. Candles were placed where lightbulbs would be for nights when the hearth wasn't keeping the house warm.

"Come on, we've got to get moving, or we'll be late."

You groaned as the younglings, twin boys with hair like your father's, sat on the oval roving rug you had finished braiding two springs prior. "You were supposed to get them washed up." You quip towards the older man seated at the worn-out table. His only reply is a gruff rumble as you scoff, stooping to rub soot off the boy's cheeks with your thumbs. They burst into giggles, and you can't help the tight-lipped smile that crosses your lips.

You tried to be patient with your father. There had been too much loss in recent years, but it wasn't an excuse to neglect his boys. You had enough trouble picking up the slack as it was, from taking extra hours on the shipyard and staying up late mending sails like your mother used to. She passed away some years ago. There had been complications delivering the twins, and there wasn't anything the midwife you'd called could have done. It left your father resigned to himself, taking up more time at the nearby tavern than on the shipyard hauling crates due for the Capital. A foolish miscalculation and one too many drinks ended up costing him his dominant hand and forearm in a freak accident at the port.

To say you had fallen on hard times would be an understatement. It was more akin to plummeting down one of the tall cliffsides bordering the port and smacking face-first into the water like concrete.

Eventually, you managed to wrangle the little rascals into their shoes and straighten the collars of their matching olive-green tunics. Hoisting one onto your back with a huff, you tried to calm the drumming of your racing heart. Your father stood with another grunt and shrugged on a deep brown leather coat to cover what was left of his arm. Allowing the other half of the youngling pair to weave their fingers through his, your father offered a firm nod in your direction, and the four of you set out toward town.

Looking back on that moment, you regret not taking in that quaint little cottage one last time.

The trek to town was about a mile or two. The beat down from the summer sun brought sweat to your brow and the nape of your neck, forcing you to set down the toddler on your back halfway. "I know it's hot, but we have to keep going," You cooed when the pair began complaining about the lengthy trip. This would be the first Reaping they might remember, not to mention the first they weren't in diapers for. You'd done your best to keep them healthy, sometimes at the expense of yourself, but it was worth all the risk in the world.

With a little more commentary from the twins, the tall brick clock tower above the judicial complex at the center of town came into view above the pine trees, and you let out a shuddering breath that made your chest squeeze. "Almost there," You muttered. Averting your gaze to the dirt path under your feet. The sun was almost at its peak when you converged with the lines of other citizens. Many reeked of sweat and body order, having traveled through most of yesterday and this morning to get to the Reaping on time.

You didn't allow your fear to show more than a tightness in your jaw as you gripped your siblings tight in an almost bone-crushing hug. You refused to say goodbye as it felt like admitting defeat before the duel with death had even begun. After a few long moments, you heard the automated voices of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms and government-ordered guns slung across their chests, and you had to let go. "I'll come back in just a few minutes," You promised, though your voice felt meek and caught in your throat. Ruffling their hair and sparking a fit of spritely laughter, you lifted your gaze to the hardened eyes of your father. "See you soon."

"See you soon."

Another brief, tight-lipped smile, and you forced yourself to turn away and join the other prospective tributes for check-in. Families were forced to remain in a balcony above the judicial complex due to such a large population and past "complications" from reaped children's family members. Anxiety and anticipation brought a tension thick enough to be cut by a knife through the courtyard of people. Wetting your lips following a thick swallow, you tried not to focus too much on the looming Peacekeepers overseeing the procession. When it was your turn to check in, you didn't stutter when asked for your name but scrunched your nose as they pricked your finger, squeezing to pool the blood before pressing it into the paper list and scanning with a device that flashed green. "Next!" The peacekeeper barked, shooing you away with a wave of their hand. Your gaze danced around the all too familiar formation of children as you fell in line with the older Tributes.

You were led in groups through a few back hallways before being brought into a widely open auditorium. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the back wall with long Red capital banners hung on the dividing stone pillars. Clenching your trembling hands into fists, your fingernails digging into your palms, you tried again to steady your racing heart as it pounded against your ribcage.

Things were going to be fine.

Another thick swallow forced its way down your throat, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. The anxious habit often left your bottom lip puffy, if not bleeding from the repetitive action, but you couldn't help it. Shuffling into place to stand in rows and columns with the other prospective Tributes, you had to will yourself not to look anywhere but ahead. You couldn't break till this was all over. It was a long process to get everyone inside. But once the large wooden doors behind you slammed shut with a contagious shudder shifting through the crowd, you knew this was it.

The deafening cry of an unfocused microphone wails through the room, causing your nose to scrunch and your head to lean into your shoulder in discomfort. A stocky, overdressed Capital escort appears on the short stage made of stone to match the rest of the auditorium. They release a small gasp at the noise and allow a brief dismissal before tapping the microphone twice, the poor device exerting two loud "thumps" for good measure. Clearing their throat with a phlegmy cough, the escort begins a crawl of lines that were evidently rehearsed and regurgitated the same way every year to every district.

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games!"

The escort's tone is elated, making you feel sick at the pride they seem to take in their position. Your jaw set in place as they continued their spiel.

"Before we begin, I'd like to share this wonderful message from our dear President and our beloved Capital!" They exclaim while gesturing to a letter they seem to pull from thin air. A small "shink" whispers through the mic as the letter is opened. The escort pulls a sheet of parchment out, discarding the envelope in a dramatic toss behind themselves and another phlegmy cough before reading the page.

"Dear Prospective Tributes,"

"It is an honor as the President of Panem to welcome you all to the annual Reaping for this year's Hunger Games. As you all have learned from birth. War, destruction, and rebellion have brought great shame to our nation. A shame that runs so deep that our Districts must be reminded of the consequences and retribution that rebellion costs. War brings death. War brings dead children, dead mothers, dead sisters, and dead brothers. To raise war against your Capital, which has provided you all you've ever needed, is treacherous. To bring war against your home is treason. These Games preserve our past. And these Games protect our future."

Signed, President Coriolanus Snow."

There isn't a single round of applause that rolls through the crowd once the escort finishes reciting the letter. The letter has been identical at every Reaping you've attended since you were twelve. The silence in the auditorium is loud enough to hear a pin drop. Your palms grow warm as blood slowly seeps from where your nails dig in, but you don't bother to take notice.

"Well then, if all is said and done, we shall now move on to selecting our two wonderful tributes who will hold the greatest honor of representing District 4 in the 67th annual Hunger Games. As always, ladies shall go first." The escort exclaims once more, accompanying animated waves of their gloved hands towards the pristine crystal fishbowls on either side of the stage. Both bowls are brimming with slips of paper. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears now.

Everything is going to be fine.

The escort all but skips their way to the crystal mouth of death on the right side of the stage. Your heart feels like it might as well burst out of your chest and splatter against the backs of those in front of you. Your eyes are glued ahead as the escort makes a show of sifting their gloved fingers through the name slips for what feels like an eternity. At last, a slip is chosen in a dramatic swipe up into the air to be displayed to the crowd.

The anticipation is suffocating.

The escort comes back to center stage, coughing into the microphone again as they peel away the black seal of the name.

As the chosen name booms through the auditorium, it's as if you're suddenly underwater. But you can't be underwater because you're standing still, and nothing's wet.

The name booms through the open room again.

This time, you're shocked out of your thoughts at the recognition.

It's your name.

You have been chosen as the female Tribute for the 67th annual Hunger Games.

You barely register the prod of a gun at your back or the jab to your side to force you out of line towards the stage.

This really was going to be your funeral, and you couldn't stop it.

A wail rips apart the blanket of silence as one of the twin younglings cries out for you. On instinct, your head whips towards the cry, but your temple connects with the butt of a gun, and you're knocked to the concrete below. Somehow, a sound akin to a growl emits itself from your throat on your hands and knees as you force yourself to stand back up. Your head throbs with white hot pain from the contact point, but a bitter, spiteful decision solidifies itself in your mind as you're led towards the jaws of certain death on that stage.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy

[iamthecomet]

oooh i need to know how rainy reacts to seeing swiss or mountain next to aurora

You could not have sent this ask on a better day, Anon.

Kinktober - Day 13 - Size Difference

Almost 900 words of Rain pining over Mountain and Aurora in a very public place.

Rain can’t stand it anymore. Dew, Aeon, and Swiss are talking about something–guitars maybe. Beer? Rain doesn’t know. He shifts, feet sticking to the floor of the dive bar just enough to make him cringe. If he was more clear-headed he might just leave. This place is gross. Swiss always has terrible taste in bars. They’re always dirty, sticky, smelling of stale cigarettes and old beer. They remind him of the little music venues Dew will sometimes drag him to. The ones where they stand at the back the room and watch some hardcore or black metal band. Sipping watered down beer and watching Humans try to kill each other in the pit.

At least then, there’s entertainment. He doesn’t get this though. The appeal of coming somewhere like this just to drink?

Swiss says it’s because the drinks are cheap, but that doesn’t really matter anymore. And honestly, Rain would have gone back to the hotel a while ago if it wasn’t for the scene unfolding in front of him.

Mountain’s teaching Aurora how to play pool. His big body tucking around hers as he teaches her how to hold the cue. How to aim. Bending her down over the table with a hand flat on her back.

And Rain is hard. Straining against his jeans. If he moves away from the cover of the bar he’ll be in trouble. He angles his body to try to make sure no one sees. 

He doesn’t feel like making a scene tonight. 

Mountain bends, spine curving down to whisper something Aurora’s ear. She laughs. Cumulus and Cirrus stand at the other end of the pool table watching. Cirrus leans against the wall, cue in hand, eyes narrowed as she takes in the spectacle. Rain can’t decide if the look on her face is because she wants to win at pool, or she’s hungry for the same thing Rain is. 

Mountain’s fingers cover Aurora’s completely when he adjusts her grip. She smiles up at him, cheeks pinking with a blush that makes Rain’s cock kick in his pants. His mouth is dry. He takes a sip of beer to fix it. The bitter end of it doesn’t help. He wants to wash it down with the sweat beading on Mountain’s neck. He can see it, glistening against his throat. 

Aurora looks over her shoulder with bright eyes. She presses back against Mountain as he adjusts her stance and Rain feels like he might blow it right here. 

Mountain’s hand comes to rest on her belly. Rain can see the span of his hand. Thumb slipping below the hem of her cropped shirt. Palm flat to her skin. That hand covers all of her, from hip to hip. 

Rain watches as Mountain’s fingers flex and he pulls her back just a little. A noise builds deep in his throat, a growl or a whine he doesn’t know. 

“Take the shot. You can fuck later,” Cirrus says, rolling her eyes. Aurora’s blush deepens. The outburst does nothing to pull Rain from his reverie. He can’t stop watching as Mountain holds Aurora close, guides her to pull back the cute, to shoot. 

She makes the shot, a ball dropping into the corner pocket. Aurora whoops. Jumping, throwing her arms around Mountain’s neck. Pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Rain watches him blush too, grinning down at Aurora as she celebrates. 

“You get to go again,” he says to her, still holding her a little to close to be just instructional.  Rain reaches down to adjust himself in his pants. He wonders if he can hide it long enough to walk to the bathroom. To jack off into a dingy toilet to this image.

Aurora grins up at Mountain, there’s something strangely predatory about it. It makes Rain’s stomach hurt. 

“Will you help me again?” 

From her spot against the wall, Cirrus groans. Cumulus hits her softly on the arm, as if to tell her to be nice. Rain can’t help but feel the same sentiment. He’d love for Aurora’s turn to be over so he can breathe properly again. 

Instead, Mountain folds himself around her again. Presses her hips tight to the pool table. Clearly grinding his own against the swell of her ass.  He engulfs her. Rain feels like he’s about to catch on fire. His cock leaks in his pants. He can feel the wetspot against his palm as he touches himself. He can’t pretend to be adjusting anymore, he’s grinding into his own palm, hissing through his teeth at the pressure. He’s just lucky Dew, Swiss, and Aeon are engaged in a heated debate about guitar strings or some other asinine thing.  Aurora makes the next shot too and Mountain stays glued to her as they shift around the table. Rain grinds his palm down harder into his cock and gives himself a tight squeeze. Hips rolling up against his hand. He’s probably going to cum right here, in his pants in a dirty bar just from this, from them.  He should feel bad about it, maybe, getting himself off in public like this. To a pool game of all things. But there’s no blood left in his brain for shame to use. He huffs out a sigh in lieu of the moan he wants to and prepares to make a mess of himself.